Page 14 of The Forest Bride
“Ah,” Duncan said. “Apparently Sir John has waited long enough.” He watched as the sheriff pushed through the crowd to cross the sunlit clearing toward the table. Then Duncan’s attention was caught by someone in the crowd.
Sunshine glowed on the head of a young woman in the crowd whose uncovered hair shone bright as copper, her face pure and beautiful. Tall and slim, she stood in a green cloak, her bronze-and-copper hair spilling over her shoulder in one fat plait. Her gaze was keen, her eyes like jewels under arched brows. Golden sunlight and the white flowers of a hawthorn tree formed nearly a halo behind her.
He stared. She stood still, a beautiful statue amid the bustling crowd. A blond lad stood beside her, a quiver strap across his chest, bow upright in his hand like a walking stick. He spoke. She nodded.
He noticed that her gaze seemed fixed on Menteith. Even at a distance, Duncan saw a spark of temper and pride in the lifted chin, slim shoulders, high pink blush. Then she glanced around the clearing at the people, the table and the men seated there.
Her eyes went wide as she looked straight at Duncan.
By God, he thought, she looked familiar. He had been holding ayre courts for three years in the region and might have seen her before. Yet something tapped at his memory.
Margaret Keith.That was who she resembled. He sucked in a breath, stunned. Yet Margaret Keith could not be here in this place, in the middle of a local crowd. The strong, fire-haired Celtic beauty he was looking at now was not the fragile, whimsical young girl he remembered, but the resemblance was startling. He had hurt that girl so deeply that she had gone into a convent, so his father had heard.
Guilt had conjured her. This girl was just a beauty who reminded him of the one he had never forgotten. He still wondered what could have been if he not made a terrible error.
Fate had not only stepped in the way, it had taken over and thrown his life into turmoil. Once captured and imprisoned, several years had passed before he returned to Scotland a freeman. Even then, he moved around, never establishing a home, never finding time for peace, never taking a wife.
Poor little Margaret Keith. He had loved her in his way, remembering and cherishing her bright, wild spirit. Had she not become a nun, she would have married someone else. She did not need Sir Duncan Campbell, knight, laird, justiciar, prisoner, rebel, working openly and reluctantly for one king and secretly, loyally, for another.
The young woman glared at him, then at Menteith again. Certainly she seemed displeased; perhaps she had a legal complaint to air. The lad beside her, holding the bow, whispered to her. Something was going on there.
“Who is that lass, the redhead?” he asked quietly. “Did she submit a complaint?”
“Not that I know. Bonny thing.” Constantine leaned toward him. “I do not trust Menteith. Be wary.”
“Aye, but he gets his say.” He tapped his fingers on the table as Menteith approached.
Tough and wiry, Menteith was not a tall man but the crowd parted for him as he moved with force and fury. His round, beefy face above a brown beard, his red cheeks and dark eyes, his tense shoulders, all spoke of a man who carried anger in every step.
“Campbell. Murray,” he snapped. “I am here for recompense.”
“Sir John,” Duncan greeted. “Taking your turn ahead of others, I see.”
“I am sheriff of Dunbartonshire and lord of Dunbarton Castle. I do not have time to wait. I presume you read the papers.”
“I have. State your complaint,” Duncan replied.
“Those thieving MacRuaris took eight of my sheep and two of my cows a month ago. I want compensation for the animals.”
Duncan studied the parchment. “This occurred on your property at Loch Roskie?” He looked up. “You can prove the theft? Do you have witnesses?”
“I know they did it. My men reported it to me. That is enough proof.”
“You lost livestock, but a MacRuari was badly hurt and may die. Which has more value, sir?”
“I would get no money for that fellow at market,” Menteith growled.
But some say you got a good price for betraying Wallace, Duncan thought. Beside him, Constantine Murray, who knew that rumor too, said nothing.
“I trust you will take care of this matter, Campbell. Because I am a sheriff, it must be decided by another court, but that deputy”—he looked at Constantine—“has no authority in Stirlingshire except when that sheriff is away.”
“I do have authority. I decided you need a justiciar,” Murray said.
Menteith ignored him. “Campbell, your father would have seen to this for me.”
“Would he?” Duncan asked mildly. “But he is no longer with us.”
“And you hold his title of justiciar in the north. You have the look of him too. I am sure I can expect the same courtesy from you that he would have given.”
