A BALL AND A DISCUSSION
It was night, the sky sapphire blue beyond the screens. Gylas drew the linen screens across and lit the lamp. Marguerite looked at herself in the long mirror as the light touched it.
“Rubina?” she said.
“Mm?” Rubina was behind her. In a dress of ocher velvet, her long red hair covered with a fine gauzy veil, she looked regal. She should do. They were going to a ball.
“Do I look good?”
Rubina sighed. “Marguerite, must you ask?” she indicated the mirror. “Of course you do!”
Marguerite sighed and smoothed a hand down the soft blue-green velvet of her dress. She looked beautiful – even she could see that the color suited her – but she looked sad.
“You look beautiful and everyone will think so, and this ball will change everything. Thank Heavens we're back.”
Marguerite reached out and took Rubina's hands. Her friend's hands were warm, the skin soft and full of vitality. She smiled. “Rubina. What would I do without you?”
“Probably dance and sing more,” Rubina grinned. “And listen to a lot less bad spinet practice.”
They both giggled. Marguerite impulsively hugged her friend. They were like sisters. The gesture eased the nauseous churning in her stomach. This was, as Rubina said, a night where a lot could change.
They were back at Buccleigh and somewhere, Sean was too.
“You look lovely, my lady,” Gylas commented as they passed her.
“Thank you, Gylas,” Marguerite smiled. “I think I owe much of that to your skilled hands.”
Gylas blushed and curtseyed. “Oh, lass.”
Rubina linked arms with Marguerite and they drifted downstairs.
Marguerite tried to find calm. She looked about her, walking slowly down the vast, shallow staircase to the entrance hall. She had forgotten how grand Buccleigh Castle was. With its black-and-white tiled forecourt and the vast colonnade, the place was a fortress and a statement piece of note. She leaned back, looked up at the soaring arches overhead, and wondered at how long her friend's family must have held this place.
“Ah, McGuinness. We're here,” Rubina said easily to a young footman. “Is Papa down?”
“His lordship is in, yes.”
“Well, then,” Rubina smiled. “Let's join the ball.”
With her arm protectively linked through Marguerite's, the two of them walked into the room. Marguerite swallowed hard. Somewhere in this vast, imposing hall was Sean.
The place was lit with a vast bonfire and torches bracketed in the walls. Even so, the roof was lost in the darkness and many of the corners were blended away in shadow. She looked about the benches where the guests would sit, the long trestles set up and laden with refreshments. Somewhere at the end of the hall a fiddle played. Guests stood about in finery, waiting for the dancing to begin. The most fashionable guests at court seemed to have come up for the evening – Buccleigh was a few hours' ride from Edinburgh – and it seemed everyone was determined to forget the war.
“Daughter!” a cheerful voice broke through Marguerite's reverie, making her jump. “There you are!”
The duke of Buccleigh, tall and dark-haired, his broad shoulders trailing a vast, dark cape, appeared. He grinned and embraced Rubina, then laid a gentle hand on Marguerite's shoulder. “My! The pair of you light up this hall,” he said.
Rubina dimpled. “Thank you, Father.”
“Well, it is still a tad gloomy, husband,” Lady Amabel said firmly. “You might have got Murdoch to add some more torches.”
The duke grinned. “Yes, my lady. I confess it is.”
As the two engaged in witty banter about the darkness of the hall, and why – or why not – it was a good notion to add to the lighting, Marguerite let her eyes search the hall. She stopped.
There! A head of pale reddish hair shone in the light of a torch. It was Sean – no one else had that mix of his height and coloring. Ah, those strong shoulders. He turned.
Oh...
Marguerite wanted to run. She looked at Rubina. Her friend squeezed her hand.
“Father! You know the torches won't last all winter if we don't use them...” she said, countering something her father was saying. Her eyes moved from Marguerite to Sean. Go, she seemed to be saying. Leave me here.
Marguerite swallowed. She wanted to go over and yet she felt as if her legs had turned to lead. She took a steady breath and walked across the hall toward Sean. “Sean?”
She was behind him now, close enough to see the pattern of stitching on the yoked linen tunic he wore. She focused on it, wishing she could make him turn round. He was talking to a tall, dark-haired knight she vaguely recognized. He noticed her first.
“Milady?”
“Sir,” she said, curtseying. She gulped a steady inhalation as Sean turned around.
Cold brown eyes, frosty and unseeing, moved over her. They passed across her face as if they had not seen her. Marguerite was stunned. “Sean?” she whispered.
Nothing. His companion looked embarrassed.
“Sir Sean,” he said with a hesitant smile. “You may recall the lady Marguerite? She was often at court.”
Marguerite felt like everything had ceased moving. The whole hall was still; frozen around the form of the tall, red-blond man who did his best to ignore her.
“We did meet, I recall,” he said thinly.
Marguerite recalled the name of the brown-haired knight. “Sir Geoffrey. I am pleased to see you here. Glad you could attend the ball.”
“As am I!” Sir Geoffrey said with a lopsided grin. “At a time like this, I say a ball is a bold action! Just what we need. What say you, eh, Sean?”
Sean turned and gave the both a wintry look. “I say his grace the duke is wise.”
He turned away again.
Sir Geoffrey looked startled. He grinned at Marguerite. “You think some people find it hard to lighten up, eh?” he winked. “Well, a good chance for us to show the way. Shall we dance?”
“I'm glad for you, that you feel easy dancing with Sir Rodham's betrothed,” Sean said tightly.
Sir Geoffrey raised a brow and didn't miss a beat. “It's a dance, Sir Sean. I think no priest in all of Scotland would see sin in that.”
Marguerite wanted to hug him. She smiled instead. “Agreed. Shall we dance?”
“Indeed.”
She let Sir Geoffrey lead her out onto the dance floor. As the music began and they whirled into a reel – all of court was infected with country-style dancing, and the style flowed over into the noble balls – she let her worries go.
Sean is jealous!
The moment she thought it, she dismissed the thought. How could that be? He couldn't imagine this was her idea! Besides, he was always so cold to her.
“My lady, you do very well,” Sir Geoffrey complimented as they circled and skipped together.
She blushed, feeling complimented. “Thank you, sir. You do as well. You have experience of such dances?”
“I wish I had more,” he said frankly. “Though I think dancing with a lady like you is a rare experience.”
Marguerite felt her heart lift. After Sean's unkindness, it seemed a wonder that any man would say such things to her. She smiled. “Thank you, Sir Geoffrey. You are a gallant knight.”
“And you are a beautiful lady,” he said with a smile. “I would we were all as fortunate as Rodham.”
At the mention of the man, her spirits fell. She had almost forgotten his existence! To be so speedily reminded of him was upsetting. “I thank you, sir,” she managed to say.
“Well, it's a fair evening, and a young one, yet. Would you care for some refreshment?” he asked as the dance ended. He must have sensed her sorrow, for he smiled, his brown eyes kindling. “I would keep your fair company as long as I reasonably might.”
Amidst giggles and a scattering of claps as the dancers applauded each other, and their partners, she curtseyed and he bowed. “Yes, please, sir.”
They went to the refreshments table together.
Marguerite accepted a goblet of claret. She also helped herself to some small jam tarts. The room seemed warmer and merrier. She saw Rubina and Camden determinedly heading to the dance floor. She raised her goblet at Rubina, who framed a curtsey, and, giggling, smiled at her.
She smiled back. As she did so, Sean looked her way.
She froze as his cheeks lifted in a sweet, sad grin, just before he looked away. She had been smiling breathlessly and, perhaps, he thought she smiled at him. She felt color flood her cheeks. He must think her a loose woman.
As if it isn't wicked enough for me to throw caution to the wind and dance with Geoffrey. Now here I am grinning carelessly at him, too.
She felt her cheeks burn with shame and did her best to focus on some story Geoffrey told. Her heart flooded with hope too, however. What if he was truly pleased to see her smile at him? While she stood there, goblet in hand, heart racing, she heard someone call her name.
“Marguerite?”
She stared. “Sean?”
He was standing beside her. He was smiling. Geoffrey raised a brow.
“I think I see my commanding officer there,” he said candidly. “If you'll excuse me, milady, do? I ought to discuss with him his plans for the cavalry detachment.”
“Oh. Of course, sir,” she curtseyed quickly. “I wish you well.”
“Farewell.”
She swallowed hard as he left, leaving her alone. Sean looked down at her, a softness in his eyes that made her heart melt.
“My lady Marguerite,” he said gently. “I...it was a surprise to see you, I must say.”
“I noticed,” she said. It was hard, now that he was here, not to feel a sudden flush of reproach in her heart.
He cleared his throat. “Marguerite...I'm sorry. I ask you to forgive me?”
“My forgiveness is freely given,” she said acidly.
“I thank you,” he said quietly. “But then...you still seem vexed.”
“Vexed?” She chuckled bitterly. “You find fine words for it, sir. No, I'm not vexed. Why would I be?”
He swallowed hard. “Marguerite, please. I ask you...”
That did it. She set aside her goblet and looked up into that handsome, infuriating face. “You, sir, have a lot to explain,” she interjected coldly. “You dance attendance on me, and then withdraw it. You scorn me, and then you smile. You are cold and then interested. If you wish me to go mad, you are certainly doing a fine job.”
She turned away. To her surprise, a hand descended onto her wrist.
“Marguerite...please.” His eyes were brown and stormy. She tensed.
“Unhand me, sir,” she said. Her voice was very soft, but even she could hear the rage that trembled in it.
He didn't move.
“Sir,” she said tightly. “You will let go of me.” Her whole body was throbbing, the touch on her wrist racing from her pulse to her throat and down into her belly. It made her glow and tingle inside. At the same time, she was angry with him. Impossibly, incandescently angry.
He must have seen the look in her eyes, because he moved his hand. His eyes dropped. He sighed. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I...I am a fool.”
Marguerite closed her eyes. Seeing that handsome face so contrite made her heart ache. “Mayhap,” she said, her throat tight with held-in tears. “And maybe I have been a fool as well. But it's too late now.”
When she looked up again, his eyes were kindled with a strange light.
“What?” she said.
“My lady?” he replied gallantly, as if none of the conversation that just occurred had happened, “if you would accompany me to the hallway? I would take fresh air.”
Marguerite stared at him. “Sir?”
“I know, I know,” he smiled. “But fresh air is good. See? Paracelsus would be proud of me. Shall we go?”
Feeling her heart suffuse with light, Marguerite nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He matched his pace to hers and, together, arms close but not quite touching, they drifted from the room. Marguerite thought she might actually die of happiness.
Sean was here. He understood, at least in part. Moreover, somewhere deep inside her burned a flame of love, and hope.