Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore
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“I’m sure the meat will be fine,” Marianne assured Emile, hoping she was right. “Is there anything else—?”
“Non, my lady, non,” Emile declared, slicing the air with his hand. “I understand. Twenty more and Scots, too.”
He sniffed as he headed for a pot boiling over the fire. He stirred its contents, which were sending forth a delicious smell of beef and gravy. “They will be no trouble. The Scots will eat anything. Even my worst meal will be wonderful to them.”
Relieved that Emile wasn’t going to panic or lose his temper, Marianne turned her attention to another matter. Gesturing for Polly to join her, she retreated to a corner, away from the bustling of the cook and his helpers. “I heard what happened in the hall.”
“Oh, my lady, please, don’t be angry!” Polly cried, anxiously wringing her hands. “I couldn’t help it. He just did it. Took the tray right away from me. What was I to do?”
“You did nothing wrong in the hall, Polly. That’s not why I wanted to speak with you.” Marianne delicately cleared her throat. “You, um, seem quite taken with the Scot who helped you.”
Polly turned as red as a ripe apple and stared at the floor.
“Of course, that was a kind thing for him to do,” Marianne went on gently. She knew better than to lecture. The Reverend Mother’s lectures had more often had the opposite effect than the one she intended; she’d made sin seem exciting rather than something to be avoided.
“However, I must warn you that many men think a woman’s gratitude should be expressed in one particular fashion, and we don’t know if that Scot is such a man or not.”
Polly looked up, her brow wrinkled, as if she didn’t understand.
A year or two in the convent hearing the stories some of the girls had to tell, Marianne reflected, and she wouldn’t be so confused. “I mean,” she explained, “that he might think you’re so grateful, you’ll give yourself to him.”
Polly’s eyes lit up.
This was not the reaction Marianne had expected. “Or that you ought to, whether you’re willing or not,” she added significantly.
Polly gulped and went back to staring at the floor.
“So I think tonight, you should stay away from the Scots. All of them.”
“Yes, my lady,” Polly murmured, her voice so low, Marianne could scarcely hear her.
Nevertheless hoping the young woman appreciated that she was trying to help, Marianne said, “Now you may go and tell the alewife we’ll probably need three more casks for tonight.”
“Yes, my lady,” the maidservant murmured before she hurried away.
“Marianne!”
At the sound of her brother’s enraged voice, Marianne cringed, then turned toward the door leading to the hall.
Nicholas stood just inside the entrance, his hands on his hips, his dark brows lowered, his expression wrathful. He imperiously pointed to the door leading to the yard. “Outside, Marianne, now!”
God help her, this was going to be worse than she’d feared. Yet somehow, she’d have to try to make him understand that she’d only been trying to help.
Once outside, a breeze caught Marianne’s garments. It wasn’t a chill draft such as she always felt in the castle, but a warm gust of air with the hint of the tang of the sea, some miles east. The clouds parted, giving glimpses of bright blue sky.
Nicholas stamped his way across the courtyard ahead of her. Skirting the puddles, she followed him to a secluded area between the mason’s hut and a wattle-and-daub storehouse, away from where the laborers were building the inner curtain wall.
“What the devil was the meaning of that little performance?” Nicholas demanded when they were alone, crossing his arms, his sword still swinging at his side from his brisk pace.
“I didn’t mean to offend or upset you, Nicholas,” she hastened to assure him. “I was only doing what I’d been taught, to show you that—”
“You shouldn’t have come to the hall and you damn well shouldn’t have invited those men to stay.”
“I didn’t invite them. I was sure, as overlord of Beauxville, that you had. That’s what the holy sisters taught me an overlord should do.”
“Don’t quote the holy sisters’ ideas of etiquette to me,” he retorted.
Clearly, it was wrong to assume even a Norman nobleman behaved like a Norman nobleman in this godforsaken place.
In spite of her mistake, she tried to salvage her plan. “I was only trying to be a good chatelaine to you, and take care of your guests.”
“Those men are not my guests and this isn’t Normandy.”
As if she needed reminding. “No, I realize that.”
His eyes narrowed.
She hurried on, desperately trying to make him understand why she’d done what she had. “I wanted to show you what I’ve been taught, at your great expense, to prove to you that the money hadn’t been wasted and that I deserve a Norman husband, at the very least.”
“You could have spared yourself the effort,” Nicholas snapped. “You could act like the queen and it wouldn’t make a difference to me. In a se’en night, you’re marrying Hamish Mac Glogan if I have to lock you in your chamber and put a guard outside the door to make sure of it.”
He stepped closer, glaring at her. “Do I have to put a guard on you, Marianne?”
“No, Nicholas, you don’t. I understand,” she replied, because to her sorrow and despair, she did. Her brother’s mind was made up, and there was nothing she could say or do that would make him change it.
“Good. And stay out of the hall tonight. Those are the most arrogant, insolent Scots I’ve ever had the displeasure to meet, and I won’t have them staring at my sister.”
“I have no wish to be the object of any man’s impertinent attention, either,” she answered haughtily, her pride roused.
Nicholas didn’t look quite so angry. “Good. Now go to your room and stay there.”
“Gladly,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away from her brother.
And his plans for her future.
THE MOON ROSE nearly full. Marianne had counted back the days from the time she’d last seen it and realized it was waning. If she wanted to flee with the moon to light her way, she dare not delay.
Sadly, she had no choice except to flee, no matter how dangerous it was. It was either stay and marry Hamish Mac Glogan, or escape Beauxville and take her chances.
Clutching a bundle of clothing and shoes against her chest, she left her bedchamber and slowly crept down the curved wall-stairs leading to the hall. She had to get past all the men and hounds sleeping there, and across the courtyard. She’d slip out the postern gate to the river, steal a boat and make her way to a fishing village by the sea. From there, she could purchase passage to York and home to Normandy.
She fingered her mother’s crucifix around her neck and hoped it, and her ribbons and perhaps a gown or two, would fetch enough for her journey.
If the postern gate was locked and guarded, she’d have no choice but to climb over an unfinished wall, although that would take more time and run more risk that she’d be seen by the guards at the gatehouse towers.
She reached the hall. Fortunately, her brother was extremely lax in religious matters, so instead of Matins being said, everyone in the castle except the guards on duty were asleep. Unfortunately, in addition to the men who usually slept in the hall—the