3
EVERYONE IS STARING at us,” Brigid whispered as they entered the Hall a short while later.
Margaret had noticed the sudden silence in the bustling room and felt the eyes turned on them as well, but her reaction was the opposite of her friend’s. Used to presiding over many tables at Garthland as hostess, she did not shy from attention. Actually, she rather liked it. Entertaining—being entertaining—was part of her duties as chatelaine, and she made sure no one left the castle without enjoying themselves. It helped that it came naturally to her.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said of her friend. Brigid was shy and reserved. Two words that weren’t likely ever to be applied to her, Margaret thought with amusement.
After the initial pause, conversation had returned, so Margaret was able to reply to her friend in a normal tone as they wound their way through the crowd in search of her father and two eldest brothers, Dougal and Duncan. Given her clan’s importance, she knew their seats would be near the dais.
Taking her friend’s arm, she drew her tightly against her side. “Of course they are! Isn’t it wonderful? We have made an impression already. We are going to have such fun, Brige.”
Brigid, however, did not share Margaret’s ease at being the center of attention, and her friend’s expression suggested that fun was definitely not something she was having.
Margaret gave Brigid’s arm an encouraging squeeze. “Oh come now, Brige, smile. It’s nothing to worry about. We are newcomers. It’s only natural that they are curious.”
Brigid didn’t look like she believed her. “Perhaps we should have worn veils as Beth suggested?”
The serving girl who’d been assigned to help them dress for the feast had been shocked when Margaret had said they would just be wearing circlets.
Margaret hadn’t paid her much mind. She only wore a veil to church, and even then she didn’t like it. But gazing around the room, she saw what Brigid had: they were the only women who were bareheaded.
“So we can blend in with all the others?” Margaret gave her friend a cheeky grin. “What fun would it be if we were all the same? This way we shall stand out.”
“I think we are doing that anyway with our gowns,” Brigid said glumly.
Margaret had to admit, the finery of the ladies at court far exceeded her expectations. She’d never seen such an array of luxurious fabrics and fine embroidery. But they were just gowns. Pretty ornament was still just that: ornament.
“You look beautiful, Brige. You could be wearing a sackcloth and you would still outshine everyone in this room. Whether garbed in velvet and jewels or in a woolen kirtle and plaid, it’s what’s inside that matters.” Brigid gave her a look as if she didn’t know where she got her strange ideas. “You will have your pick of suitors. Have you seen anyone that interests you yet?”
As soon as her father had told her of his plan to bring her to Stirling to secure an alliance with John Comyn, Margaret had begged him to let her bring Brigid along with her as her companion. Lord knew there were precious few men to choose from as potential husbands near their home. Except for Margaret’s brothers, of course, but they didn’t count. This was the perfect opportunity to find someone for Brigid, and Margaret wasn’t going to waste it.
Heat rose to her friend’s cheeks, and her gaze lowered. “We’ve only just arrived, Maggie.”
“Yet we’ve met a dozen young men already.” The image of a tall, dirty-blond-haired warrior rose to her mind, but she quickly pushed it aside. He might have attracted her attention, but her interest must be fixed elsewhere. “Although I hope you have not set your sights on the Earl of Carrick, as he is already wed.”
Brigid let out a sharp laugh, which had been Margaret’s intent. “You are horrible, Maggie. Can you imagine what Father and Tristan would say?”
Brigid’s family was just as staunchly loyal to King John Balliol as Margaret’s, meaning that none of the men they’d met today, assuming they were with Bruce, were suitable suitors.
“I imagine exactly what my father and brothers would say. ‘Are you out of your wee mind, lass? I’d sooner see you marching down the fiery aisle of Hell to wed Lucifer himself,’ ” she said in a mock imitation of her father’s voice.
As they neared the dais, she could see that she’d been right: her family was seated at the table just below to the left.
The girls were still laughing as the men rose to greet them. When her eldest brother, Dougal, asked what was so funny, Brigid couldn’t seem to meet his gaze, but Margaret, knowing her humorless brother wouldn’t understand, replied that it was nothing. She imagined her family would hear of their earlier encounter soon enough.
It was then that she noticed the young man standing next to her father. Fair of hair and coloring, he was gazing at her with an expression that could only be described as dazed. Slightly taller than her father, who stood a few inches under six feet, he was only a fraction of his width, with the long-limbed coltishness of youth. From the lack of significant stubble on his jaw, she guessed he was a year or two younger than her own eight and ten.
His identity dawned as her father was making the introductions. John Comyn. This was the Lord of Badenoch’s son and heir, and the man to whom her father would see her betrothed. She’d known he was young, but . . .
Quickly covering any disappointment she might be feeling—so what if he didn’t look much older than her sixteen-year-old brother, Uchtred? He was a fine-looking young man, and more important, the son of one of Scotland’s greatest lords!—she took the seat that had been set out for her between the young lordling and her father, and spent most of the first course of the meal trying to make him relax.
He was shy, and seemed perhaps a little in awe of her, but Margaret was good at drawing people out. She asked him about his family. He had two sisters, Elizabeth and Joan, both of whom were here, and he’d served as a squire for his great-uncle King John Balliol before he’d been exiled to France, but now was with his father at Dalswinton Castle. She discovered that they shared a love of horses, and when he described the prized jennet that’d been his eighteenth saint’s day gift (she hid her surprise at that), she found herself genuinely interested and enjoying herself.
It wasn’t until the platters of roasted fowl were brought out for the second course that she felt the weight of a gaze upon her. Turning to the table directly opposite theirs—just below the dais to the right—she found herself looking into the penetrating blue-eyed gaze of Eoin MacLean.
She felt a jolt as if something had just taken hold of her. It raced up her spine and spread over her skin in a prickling heat.
It wasn’t the first time Margaret had caught a man staring at her, but it was the first time she’d found herself flushing in response.
It wasn’t embarrassment for what had happened earlier . . . exactly. At Garthland there was nothing wrong with a woman asking a man to teach her how to play a game. Lud, it wasn’t as if she’d asked him to teach her how to swim naked! Yet that’s how every man in the room had looked at her.
Although maybe naked wasn’t something she should be thinking about when she was looking at Eoin MacLean, because she couldn’t help wondering what his chest would look like when it wasn’t covered in velvet and linen. He had such broad shoulders and his arms were very large. He must be exceedingly muscular.
The warmth in her cheeks intensified. She suspected it was wicked thoughts like that that had made her blush in the first place. It wasn’t embarrassment, it was something more akin to awareness. Aye, definitely awareness.
And if the intensity of his gaze was any indication, he felt it, too.
The connection was so strong it seemed they did not need to talk to communicate. She smiled cheekily, lifted her brow, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say she didn’t understand it either.
Unfortunately, Margaret had forgotten they were not the only two people in the room.
Eoin noticed her the moment she entered the Hall. He wasn’t alone. It seemed as if the entire room held its collective breath as the two young women appeared at the entrance. But it was the indecently sensual redhead to whom all eyes were turned. The pretty, pale blonde beside her seemed to fade into the background; she was just like every other woman in the Hall.
But Margaret MacDowell was different. Like a wildflower in a rose garden, she did not belong. And it wasn’t just because of the soft tumble of hair that was streaming down her back rather than being covered by a veil, or because in a room full of ladies dressed in velvets and jewels she managed to look more regal in a simple wool gown and brightly colored plaid. Nay, it was far more elemental. She was carefree and unabashedly happy in a room of modesty and reserve. She was wild and untamed in a sea of constraint and conformity.
But either she was unaware of the attention or she did not care about it. She met the silence—half of which was admiring and half of which was condemning—not with a dropped gaze and maidenly blush of shyness at being the focus of so many, but with the confident, take-no-prisoners grin of a pirate captain seizing a ship, and the jaunty walk to match.
But if the comments he’d overheard so far were any indication, winning over this crew—at least the female half of it—wasn’t going to be easy. Gossip about what had happened earlier already had made it’s way through the Hall, and it was clearly disapproving. He’d had to fend off a half-dozen questions from his sister Marjory before the first tray of food arrived. Even his reserved and above-gossip mother had listened intently to his replies.
But he made it clear that the matter was over. He wasn’t going to teach the lass to play anything. Although Eoin couldn’t help admiring Lady Margaret’s brash confidence, and undeniably her bold beauty held some appeal—all right, a lot of appeal—a lass like that spelled trouble. The kind of trouble he had no interest in pursuing, no matter how hard certain parts of him stirred.
That had been a surprise. His reaction to the lass was as fierce, primitive, and physical as it was unexpected. He usually had better control. He frowned. Actually, he always had better control. No lass he’d ever met had stirred his blood with a look and a smile that made him wonder whether she was as naughty as she looked.
But even if she weren’t the daughter of a man who would likely be his enemy soon—which was reason enough to look the other way—Margaret MacDowell with her smile that promised mischief and devil-may-care attitude was undoubtedly a demanding handful, and Eoin’s hands were firmly wrapped around his battle-axe.
Still, as the meal progressed he found his gaze sliding in her direction more than once. God, that hair was incredible. And her skin was flawless—so powdery soft and creamy it looked unreal. But it was those knowing, slanted eyes and sensual mouth that taunted him.
He’d been mildly surprised to see her seated beside young Comyn. It soon became apparent why, however, as the lass went out of her way to charm and dazzle the clearly uncomfortable and out-of-his element youth. Not that Eoin could blame the lad. Eoin was four and twenty—definitely not a stripling lad where lasses were concerned—and his bollocks tightened every time he heard that husky laugh all the way across the aisle.
But if her barbarian of a father thought the Lord of Badenoch, the most powerful man in Scotland, would tie his precious heir to a MacDowell, he was even more out of his mind than Eoin thought. Badenoch might hold the ancient clan in high regard on the battlefield, and value them as allies, but he would look for a bride for his heir among the highest nobility of Scotland—hell, probably of England.
If the half-in-love look on young Comyn’s face was any indication, however, the son might be having other ideas. From the deepening frown on Badenoch’s face as he looked down on his son from the dais, he appeared to have noticed it as well.
Eoin couldn’t help wondering what they were talking about. The lass was speaking so animatedly, and that laugh was . . . damned distracting.
He didn’t realize he was staring until their eyes met. He should have turned away. She should have turned away. And she sure as hell shouldn’t have drawn attention to the exchange by giving him that adorable but too-intimate little shrug.
He knew exactly what she meant because he felt it, too, but others might misinterpret it.
Which they did.
“Did she just wink at you?”
Eoin looked harshly away from Lady Margaret to his younger sister, whose eyes had widened to extraordinary proportions.
“Of course not,” he said. It was more of a lift of the brow and shrug.
“She did!” Marjory said with an odd mix of horror and glee. “That brazen creature is flirting with you from across the room! After she propositioned you. She must be every bit as wicked as they say.”
“Keep your voice down, Marjory,” Eoin said sternly. “I said it was nothing.”
But it was too late, his mother had heard. She looked with barely veiled distaste at Lady Margaret, and then back to him with a hard look that he didn’t need interpreted for him. Watch it, it said. There is much riding on this. A shift of her gaze to Lady Barbara, who was seated a few seats away next to his father, and who had thankfully missed the exchange, told him what she meant.
But he didn’t need the reminder. Eoin’s gaze didn’t stray across the aisle again. Although with the growing crowd of men around Lady Margaret, he probably wouldn’t have been able to see her anyway.
“Who in Hades are you looking at, daughter?”
Caught in the private exchange with Eoin MacLean by her father, Margaret was forced to explain how she’d come to meet him. Her description of how she’d accidentally disturbed the hotly contested, two-day-long chess match between the Earl of Carrick and his kinsman had her father and brothers laughing uproariously. They found it hilarious that men could put so much store in a child’s game.
“God’s breath, I should have liked to see their faces. It should be a lesson for Bruce in how easy it is to be defeated by a MacDowell.”
John Comyn, who played the game but claimed to have little patience for it (which Margaret took to mean he wasn’t very good at it), chuckled as well, especially when she mentioned how they’d moved the pieces into the shape of a flower and then a heart.
Her father called over some of his friends—many of whom were new to her—and she was forced to repeat the tale a number of times during the meal. She didn’t mind though, as entertaining was what she was used to, and it made the formal, foreign atmosphere of Stirling feel a little more like home. She was finding her footing.
At least with the men.
She was aware of the disapproving stares being directed her way by more than a few of the women, but it didn’t bother her. They would take more time to win over, that was all.
In her retelling of the story, she left out the part about asking Eoin MacLean to teach her how to play, but she did take the opportunity while the servants cleared the trestle tables for dancing to ask her father about him.
Apparently, although Eoin was young and only the third son of the chief, he’d already made a name for himself as a brilliant tactician, leading a series of bold raids against the English in Carrick. He’d been educated in the lowlands, and despite his clan’s Western Isles Norse background, he was reputed to be as learned as a monk. Margaret couldn’t help but think that she hoped that was the only monk-like comparison.
A sharp look by her father made her wonder if her thoughts had been too transparent. He wasn’t chiding her for her wickedness or her irreverence—neither of which he cared about—but for her interest.
The MacLeans were formidable warriors, he continued, and despite their ties of kinship with the Bruces, they were still giving signs of indecision on whether they would fight for him if war came.
Her gaze might have turned too speculative. For although her father might not have much schooling and he had as much idea on how to play chess as she did, he was shrewd, and the look he subsequently directed to John Comyn reminded her of what was expected of her.
He need not have worried. Margaret knew her part. She liked the young nobleman well enough, and when the dancing began, she was surprised to discover that he was a good—if slightly stiff—dancer. When another man claimed her for the next dance, he was clearly reluctant to let her go, which Margaret took as a good sign.
Swept up in the dancing and three cups of wernage—the sweetened wine having gone to her head—it took her awhile to realize that Brigid was trying to get her attention.
When she could finally break free, her friend dragged her outside of the Hall into a small corridor.
Brigid looked like she was about to cry. “What is it?” Margaret asked.
“I heard them,” Brigid answered, twisting her hands anxiously.
“Heard who?”
“All of them,” her voice broke. “The ladies.”
Margaret pursed her mouth. She might have thickened skin when it came to gossip, but Brigid did not. If someone had hurt her feelings, Margaret would see them regret it. “What did they say?”
“They called us heathens,” she said in a hushed voice.
“Is that all?” Margaret laughed and shook her head. “That’s ridiculous, Brige. You can’t let people like that upset you.”
Brigid shook her head. “That’s not all. They are saying . . . horrible things.”
Margaret frowned. Clearly those horrible things must be about her, as Brigid seemed reluctant to say more. “It’s all right. You will not hurt my feelings.”
Brigid chewed nervously on her bottom lip. “It isn’t you . . . exactly. It’s more your clan. The MacDowells do not have the, er, best reputation.”
Margaret’s frown turned sharper. Fiercely proud, she had been raised to think of the MacDowells as akin to royalty. They’d ruled over Galloway like kings—and queens—for hundreds of years. “What do you mean?”
“The MacDowells are thought to be . . . uh . . . a little uncivilized. A little wild.”
Margaret was indignant. “Because we do not act like Englishmen? Because we hold true to our ancient Gàidheal culture and Brehon laws more than the feudal yoke of English kings?”
“They see it as backward.”
“You mean us as backward.”
Brigid shrugged indifferently, but Margaret knew it mattered to her. As much as she just wanted to dismiss it, she knew it wasn’t so easy for Brigid to do so. “They have their ways and we have ours. Just because we do things differently doesn’t make them wrong.”
“I know that,” Brigid said, her eyes swimming with tears. “It’s just not as easy for me to ignore them as it is for you.”
A wry smile turned her mouth. “It isn’t always easy.”
Brigid appeared shocked by her admission. “It isn’t? But you always appear so confident. You never take anything from anyone—even your father.”
Margaret had always thought her friend intimidated by her father, but at that moment her voice held something more like fear.
“I am the only girl in a home of nine overbearing—or on their way to overbearing—men,” she said. “How long do you think I would have survived if I’d shown any weakness? Appearing confident was a matter of survival. I learned early that if I didn’t assert myself, I would be lost. I had to shout pretty loudly to be heard over all those male voices,” she said with a smile. “But eventually I learned to make myself heard without raising my voice.” She paused and said gently, “You can’t let them intimidate you, Brige. People like those women, if they sense blood, they’ll dive in for the kill. The trick is to not let them see that their words have wounded you.”
Brigid eyed her skeptically. “And how might I do that? I’m not like you. I don’t have a rebellious nature.”
Did she? Margaret had never thought of it that way, but maybe Brigid was right. She was a MacDowell, and the MacDowells were always ready to fight. “By smiling in the face of their rudeness and remembering who you are,” she replied. “A MacCan. A proud member of an old and respected clan. You are not ashamed of your family, are you?”
For the first time since they’d arrived, her friend showed a flash of the spirit Margaret knew was lurking underneath. She looked outraged by the mere suggestion.
Brigid straightened her spine and gave Margaret a long, proud look down the length of her nose. “Of course not.”
Margaret grinned. “Hold that look, Brige, and smile. It’s perfect. They won’t stand a chance. And once we’ve shown them they can not intimidate us with their gossip, we’ll slay them with our most powerful weapon.”
A slow smile crept up her friend’s delicate features, as she realized she’d been tricked. “What’s that?”
Margaret linked her arm in hers. “Why friendliness, of course. Once they get to know us, they’ll see we aren’t all that different. We might not dress the same, and our customs might not be the same, but inside, where it counts, we are all alike.”
Brigid shook her head and laughed. “All alike? You have the oddest ideas, Maggie. I don’t know where you get them.”
Margaret didn’t know either. But her certainty must have convinced her friend. A moment later when they re-entered the Hall, Brigid was smiling every bit as broadly as Margaret.