On a Highland Shore by Kathleen Givens Page B

by people whose families had lived here since the beginning of time. Chansons instead of songs. The Normans, the French influence, had permeated Scottish life. When had Scots lost control over their own lands? She glanced at Lachlan, whose thin nose and dark coloring betrayed his Norman blood. Their children might look like him, all dark angles, might act like him, arrogant and self-assured, traits which she had to admit were as much Scottish as Norman.
    “A fine meal,” Lachlan said, bringing her out of her reverie.
    “Aye,” she answered.
    “Did ye not think it a fine meal, Nell?” he asked.
    Nell, her eyes large, nodded.
    “Nothing has changed, Lachlan,” Margaret said, stopping in the dimly lit corridor. “I still dinna want to marry ye. Ye still betrayed me with Fiona. And all the pretending otherwise willna change either.”
    Lachlan’s face was lit by the torchlight; hers, she knew, was in shadow—as she’d chosen. His struggle for control was obvious, but win he did. After a moment his expression was as smooth as his voice. “I still wish to marry ye.”
    “Why?” Margaret heard the curiosity in her voice. “Why me, Lachlan? Ye have money enough. Why not find another woman, who will look the other way?”
    For a moment she thought he might actually tell her what was in his mind, for several emotions flew across his face. Ambition, hardly surprising. Stubbornness, again, predictable. A longing that startled her—surely not for her? And something else that she could not read. Possessiveness? Could that be the sum of it—that she’d been promised to him and, like a child who cannot eat another bite but who will not relinquish a sweet, he would not let her go?
    “We are betrothed, Margaret.”
    “Is that enough for a life together? I will ne’er forget what ye did.”
    Lachlan’s smile was brief and cold. “Here ye are,” he said, gesturing to the doorway. He left them then without a backward glance.
    “He could at least have answered ye,” Nell said.
    “Perhaps,” Margaret said slowly. “Perhaps he doesna ken himself.”
     
    The night was uncomfortable, spent on pallets of straw in a crowded antechamber full of strangers. To be sure, the Comyn women were both welcoming and inquisitive, but Margaret hardly felt at ease among them. They watched her as though it was likely she might grow a second head, and she realized how very thoroughly she had been discussed.
    She lay awake, thinking how foolish she’d been to think that she could come to court, survey the men, and choose one who would be suitable to her and her parents. This evening, set so far from the king and queen, surrounded by strangers who intimidated her, had made her face the situation. How could she choose amongst strangers? How would she be able to trust that any man she met here would be better than Lachlan? How could she think to see into the heart of a man she’d just met? Lachlan or the veil, unless she could convince the king otherwise. But would the king even grant her an audience? Much of the talk this evening had been of the situation in England and whether Scotland would be drawn into the conflict. Her own problems would be insignificant to King Alexander, and she’d have, at best, only a moment of his time. She turned over yet again.
    “Are you awake, Margaret MacDonald?”
    The whisper came from her left, the voice that of one of the younger Comyns, a sweet-faced girl who’d been friendly earlier.
    “I am,” Margaret whispered back.
    “Is it true that you’re here to try to end your betrothal?”
    Margaret sighed to herself. Why deny it? All of court seemed to know her story. “My father sent me here, but aye.”
    “Tonight I met the man I’m to wed.”
    “And?”
    “He seems kind enough. Older than I’d hoped, but…” The girl’s weight shifted, as though she’d raised herself on one elbow. “We’ve been betrothed since my birth. But I’m thinking…if you are successful, perhaps I can end my