EOIN WAS WRONG.There was nothing fine about it. Even more than a week later, Margaret was still reeling from the aftereffects of their arrival back at the castle.
The dreamlike bliss of the cottage had been left decidedly behind the moment they’d ridden through the portcullis and been confronted by her brothers, who were preparing to ride out in search of her.
She didn’t know what had been worse, watching her brothers coming to physical blows with the man she loved, or later, seeing the cold rage of her father and his, as she and Eoin—blood still running down his nose from the brawl with her brothers—stood before them in the king’s solar and announced what they had done.
War between the two clans might have broken out right there had Eoin’s mother not intervened. While the men shouted, issued threats and ultimatums, and exchanged names of relatives, hoping to find a connection that would provide an impediment to annul the marriage, Rignach MacLean had calmly told them it was too late for that. Margaret could already be carrying a child, and her first grandchild would not be branded a bastard. They would have to make the best of an “unfortunate” situation.
Despite her intervention, however, Margaret did not delude herself that Eoin’s mother would be her champion. Lady Rignach could not hide her disdain as her gaze quickly swept over her—as if lingering too long might sully her. She looked at Margaret as if she were beneath her, as if she’d seduced her son, and forced him to do the only honorable thing.
Margaret wished she could say that once the initial shock and anger had passed it was better. But it wasn’t. Her family’s disappointment was just as bad—maybe even worse. No matter how far-fetched the idea of a betrothal with John Comyn might be, she felt as if she’d let her father down. She tried to make him understand, but he wouldn’t hear her explanations. Indeed, he barely said three words to her in the days leading up to her departure.
Even Duncan looked at her as if she were a traitor, marrying “the enemy.” But Eoin wouldn’t fight against them now... would he? It was the one thing she hadn’t fully considered in those dreamlike moments in the cottage, and the thought of being on opposite sides from her family were war to break out was too horrible to contemplate. She vowed to do whatever she could to convince him to fight with her clan and the Comyns if trouble came. The prospect of having her husband’s considerable talents on their side had been the one thing to ever-so-slightly mollify her family.
Eoin’s mother had thought it best that Margaret and Eoin remove themselves from court and return to Gylen Castle on the Isle of Kerrera as soon as possible to staunch the gossip. Margaret suspected it had more to do with his mother being unable to withstand the shame of Eoin marrying such a “backward,” “heathen” creature from the godforsaken corner of Scotland.
Even though Margaret agreed it would be best for her and Eoin to go, it didn’t make it any easier to say goodbye.
Only Brigid had tried to be happy for her. But something was wrong with her friend, and no matter how many times Margaret asked, she would not confide in her. She had a clue though when Brigid said she admired her for “following her heart” and “not letting anyone stand in the way when she loved someone.”
Had Brigid fallen in love without Margaret realizing it? She wanted to be there for her friend, but instead she was saying goodbye, knowing that it would be some time before they saw each other again.
Ifthey saw each other again.
The heartache of losing her family and best friend in one blow, of being sent far away from anything she’d ever known, might have been easier to bear had Margaret been able to share it with Eoin.
But since that day in the cottage they’d spent little time together. He’d been locked away most days with his father—and the Earl of Carrick, she couldn’t help noticing. Nor did they share a bed at night. A private chamber at Stirling could not be arranged, and everyone—except apparently her—thought it better that they did not add to the “scandal.”
Margaret didn’t give a fig about the scandal. She just wanted to know that Eoin was all right, and that he did not regret marrying her after all.
Any hope that they would have time alone together on the journey west, however, vanished when she learned that his mother, sister, and foster brother would be accompanying them—along with half his father’s household men for protection.
By the end of the third day of traveling, when it was clear that once again she would be forced to share a tent with his mother and sister—and not her husband, who was apparently bedding down by the fire with some of the other men—she didn’t know whether to cry or strangle him. He was either the most uncaring of bridegrooms or the most obtuse. Whichever it was, she wasn’t going to let it continue. She’d never felt so lost in her life and needed to know this hadn’t been a horrible mistake.
Leaving his mother and sister to direct the servants with where to put their trunks in the canvas tent, which was bigger than the room she and Brigid had shared with a few of the other women in Stirling, Margaret excused herself to go in search of her husband.
Wrapping her cloak around her to ward off the autumnal chill in the air, she wound her way through the bustling clansmen as they made haste to set up camp in the falling light of dusk.
So far they’d endured long days in the saddle, rising just before dawn to be on the road as soon as the light broke and stopping shortly before dusk. The pace, however, was agonizingly slow—even slower than the journey from Garthland to Stirling. Dubh was going about as half-mad as she was, chomping at the bit toride.
As carriages were rare and impractical on all but some of the old Roman roads, all the women were on horseback, but Eoin’s mother and sister traveled with far more carts that she and Brigid. Margaret’s two trunks seemed paltry to their four or five—each.
In addition to the trunks of linens and clothing, there were boxes for their jewelry, another for their veils and circlets, and another for their shoes. But it wasn’t just clothing. Margaret had been shocked by the amount of household plate and furniture that had accompanied them. No doubt by time she returned to the tent, it would look as comfortable as a room at Stirling, replete with beds, fine linens, chairs, tables—one used solely for Lady Rignach’s writing (Margaret had mistakenly asked if she traveled with a clerk, much to the amusement of Eoin’s sister, who informed her that only the villeins at Kerrera didn’t know how to read and write)—a huge bronze bath, and two braziers.
On the way to Stirling, Margaret and Brigid had slept on bedrolls and been content to eat with the men around the campfire. But even a night in the forest wasn’t an excuse to deviate from “civilized” living arrangements, according to Lady Rignach. Margaret was sure the word had been for her benefit.
But Lady Rignach didn’t need to remind her. Margaret was painfully aware of her inadequacies every time they took out a book to read or a piece of parchment upon which to write.
She just wished being civilized didn’t take so much time. At this pace they wouldn’t reach Oban, where they would ferry to Kerrera, for another week. In the Western Isles, travel by ship was usually much faster and far more efficient, but Lady Rignach did not like the sea.
She found Eoin on the opposite side of camp, gathered near the horses with a handful of his men—including Finlaeie MacFinnon. Eoin had his back to her, and the men seemed to be arguing about something.
Finlaeie glanced over and saw her first. She stiffened reflexively, but forced herself to smile. For Eoin’s sake she was making an effort to forget what had happened at Stirling and befriend his foster brother. But it wasn’t easy when Finlaeie looked at her as if she belonged in the lowest stews of London.
She would never forget what he’d said to her before the race, but she told herself she could try to forgive him. Of course, he had towantto be forgiven first, and thus far he’d given her no indication that he felt sorry for anything.
There seemed to be a coolness between the foster brothers though, and from the nasty-looking mottled bruise on Finlaeie’s jaw, she suspected it had something to do with that.
From the intensity of the conversation, she could tell it wasn’t a good time and would have backed away, but Finlaeie nudged Eoin, said something in a low voice, and nodded in her direction.
