“I do.”
The voice rang out loud and clear, yet for one confused moment, she thought she’d imagined it. The uncomfortable murmuring of the crowd, and the heads turned in the direction of the voice, however, told her she hadn’t.
Sir John swore. “If this is some kind of joke, someone is going to regret it.”
“You there,” the priest said loudly. “Step forward if you have something to say.”
The crowd parted, revealing a soldier—an exceptionally tall and powerfully built soldier. Strangely, the visor of his helm was flipped down.
He took a few steps forward, and Margaret froze. Stricken, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the powerful stride that seemed so familiar. Only one man walked with that kind of impatience—as if he was waiting for the world to catch up to him.
No... no... it can’t be.
All eyes were on the soldier wearing the blue and white surcoat of the Conyers’s arms. She sensed the movement of a few other soldiers, circling around the crowd in the churchyard, but paid them no mind. Like everyone else, her gaze was riveted on the man striding purposefully forward.
He stopped a few feet away.
He stood motionlessly, his head turned in her direction. It was ridiculous—fanciful—his eyes were hidden in the shadow of the steel helm, but somehow she could feel them burning into her. Condemning. Accusing.Despising.
Her legs could no longer hold her up; they started to wobble.
“What is the meaning of this, Conyers?” her father said angrily, apparently blaming Sir John for the conduct of one of his men.
“Speak,” the priest said impatiently to the man. “Is there an impediment of which you are aware?”
The soldier flipped up his visor, and for one agonizing, heart-wrenching moment his midnight-blue eyes met hers. Eyes she could never forget. Pain seared through her in a devastating blast. White-hot, it sucked every last bit of air from her lungs. Her head started to spin. She barely heard the words that would shock the crowd to the core.
“Aye, there’s an impediment.” Oh God, that voice. She’d dreamed of that voice so many nights. A low, gravelly voice with the lilt of the Gael.Oh God, Maggie, that feels so good. I’m going to...“The lass is already married.”
“To whom?” the priest demanded furiously, obviously believing the man was playing some kind of game.
But he wasn’t.
Eoin is alive.
“To me.”
Margaret was already falling as he spoke. Unfortunately, Sir John wasn’t going to get his wish: the bride would faint before the wedding night after all.
2
Stirling Castle, Scotland, late September 1305
ARE YOU SUREabout this, Maggie?”
Margaret took that as a rhetorical question. She was sure about everything, as her oldest friend well knew. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Brige?”
Margaret’s question was a rhetorical one as well. Of course her friend hadn’t. Like Margaret, Brigid hadn’t traveled more than twenty miles from her home in the Rhins of Galloway in the remote southwestern corner of Scotland. A place that was so far away it seemed almost another world. God’s bones, it had taken them nearly two weeks to travel here with carts, and it wasn’t a journey she was anxious to repeat anytime soon.
If she was successful—whenshe was successful—she might not be going back at all. Though the gathering at Stirling was an attempt to make allies of Scotland’s rivals for the crown to form a unified force against England, her father had another purpose in being here. He intended to propose a marriage alliance between Margaret and young John Comyn, the son of John “the Red” Comyn, Lord of Badenoch. It was her job to win over the young lord and make him eager for the match. As winning over men was something she’d been doing since she could talk, she would probably be betrothed in a fortnight.
Margaret spun around. “Isn’t it magnificent? Look how high the rafters are! The Hall is so large I’m surprised the ceiling does not come tumbling down. How do you think they built it to stay up there like that?” She didn’t bother waiting for an answer, she was already racing across the room to examine the enormous fireplace. “I can stand up inside!” she said, ducking under the colorfully painted mantel.
Brigid laughed as she peeked back under. “Careful,” her friend warned, suddenly sober. “The embers are still glowing from this morning. You’ll light your skirts on fire.”
“That would make an impression, wouldn’t it?” Margaret said with an impish smile. “No one would forget me then. The girl who caught her skirts on fire.”
“No one will forget you anyway,” Brigid said with a fond—if slightly exasperated—shake of the head.
