At least most seemed to be, but she wondered about the Lord of Badenoch. Her father told her not to worry, that the son was utterly “charmed,” but Margaret did not think the same could be said of his sire. She had the sense that like his wife and daughters, the Lord of Badenoch did not approve of her. She hoped she was imagining it, but the more time John seemed to spend by her side, the more pinched his illustrious father’s expression seemed to grow. Impressing him was going to be her true challenge.
Brigid had pled a headache for the midday meal, and Margaret was returning to the Hall after checking on her, when she stopped in her tracks at the sound of a voice. A deep voice that seemed to sink into her bones.
Despite the crowd gathered near the entry, she picked him out right away. As it had too many times over the past week, her gaze landed right on the familiar dark-blond head.
She felt that strange jarring in her chest—as if someone had gripped her heart and shook it—and then the blast of heat that illogically made her skin prickle as if she were cold.
Her attraction didn’t make any sense. She liked men who smiled and jested—like Tristan. Not serious men who were as learned as a monk. But something about all that quiet, simmering intensity, something about those shrewd, nothing-gets-by-me eyes was wildly attractive. Viscerally attractive.
Holy Cross, this was ridiculous! It was getting worse. All she had to do was set eyes on him and her body reacted. Her senses suddenly heightened—the air seemed purer and the sounds sharper—and her pulse leapt with something that felt a lot like anticipation.
As there could be nothingtoanticipate, however, she’d done her best to ignore both her reaction and him. The way he’d avoided her gaze when their eyes did happen to meet made her wonder if he were doing the same thing.
It was hard to tell. His expression was always so infuriatingly inscrutable. But something about the way the furrowed lines between his brows deepened when his gaze landed on her, and the way his eyes seemed to become a little darker blue right before he turned away, made her think he was fighting this attraction as much as she was.
Her reasons were clear, but what about his? Did they have something to do with Lady Barbara Keith?
She felt a strange pinch in her chest as she peered through the crowd and glanced at the pretty fair-haired young woman standing a few feet away who was so often in his company. Not his company exactly, but his mother and sister’s, who were invariably nearby. Actually, the persons most often in his company were his foster brother, Finlaeie MacFinnon, and his brothers, Donald and Neil, but something about the way the marischal’s daughter looked at him—properly, of course, out from under her lowered and demurely cast eyes—made Margaret suspect there was something between them.
And why that bothered her so much when she could have nothing to do with him, she had no idea.
Taking advantage of all the people standing around the edge of the room while the trestle tables were being put away for the dancing, she inched closer to where he stood to see if she could hear anything.
He was talking to Finlaeie—probably something about old battles, as the few times she’d overheard him talking it was about war—but she couldn’t make out their words.
Unfortunately, his sister she could hear quite clearly. “Did you see that gown? I wouldn’t have been surprised if she started brewing ale right in the middle of the meal.”
Margaret stilled, and though she didn’t want it to, her chest pinched. She had no doubt of whom they were speaking. She glanced down at what she thought was a pretty blue woolen gown. An ale wife? Although gossip and rumor might not bother her in the same way they did Brigid, that did not mean she was completely immune to their barbs.
“It wasn’t as bad as all that,” Lady Barbara said softly—almost kindly. Which she quickly ruined by laughing. “If that is the ‘finery’ of Galloway, then I should not like to see what the peasants look like. Perhaps they wear nothing but leaves and heather?”
Apparently the demure little kitten had claws.
“Maybe she just enjoys flaunting her body at anyone who will take notice,” Marjory MacLean said. “I hope we are not forced to endure another few hours of watching her dance like a heathen at Beltane. I’m surprised she has found men willing to partner her and be the subject of such an... exhibition.”
Margaret had heard enough, her hurt forgotten, her face heated with anger, no longer able to force a smile on her face. There was nothing wrong with her gown or the way she danced. And she was going to tell them exactly that.
“She was looking at you again,” Fin whispered.
Eoin clenched his jaw and pulled his friend off to the side. He didn’t need to ask who he meant. Fin and some of his other friends had picked up on the strange undercurrent running between Eoin and Lady Margaret and couldn’t resist prodding him about it every time the lass looked at him—which was too bloody often!
But as he found himself doing the same damned thing, he could hardly blame her. Christ, his attraction to the lass was damned inconvenient, and Fin sure as hell wasn’t making it any easier. “Shut the hell up, Fin. One of the ladies will hear you.”
“I don’t know why you are hesitating. If she were looking at me like that, I’d give her exactly what she was asking for and swive her senseless. It’s not as if it’s the first time...” His friend smiled wickedly. “For either of you.”
Eoin didn’t have a temper to lose, so when the flash of rage sparked through him, tensing every muscle in his body and leaving him a hairbreadth from sinking his fist into Fin’s gleaming white grin, it took him by surprise.
Fin as well. He stepped back instinctively, his brows shooting together.
“What the hell is the matter with you, MacLean? You’re acting like a jealous suitor. Christ, you can’t be seriously considering pursuing the lass.”
“I’m not considering anything,” Eoin said flatly. “But I’ll not hear malicious gossip repeated about any lady.” And no matter what he’d heard, he believed Margaret MacDowell was a lady.
The rage that had surged through him subsided just as quickly. Suddenly he was embarrassed by the display of emotion, which didn’t make any sense, since he didn’t get emotional. He must be going mad. Probably of boredom. Being locked away in long, tension-filled negotiations all day, trying to prevent Bruce and the Lord of Badenoch, John “The Red” Comyn, from killing each other, and then being forced to dance attendance on Lady Barbara and listen to his sister’s prattle at the meals, was putting him on edge.
“I think I need that hunt more than I realized,” he added. “The walls are beginning to close in on me.”
Fin was still studying him too intently, but he accepted the explanation with a slam on the back. “I think I like it better when all you talk about is vanguards, ambuscade, and flanking.”
