Page 46 of The Forest Bride
“You were held, kept from your family. No wife, no children. No happiness.”
He gave a little huff. “You imagine a good deal of woe on my behalf.”
“The elderly nuns said I was woeful, cursed because of my red hair, green eyes, and freckles. Only witches and demons have such, they said. My sisters are beautiful and talented—Tamsin is blond, so gentle and smart. Rowena is dark-haired and kind and practical. I have the devil’s red curls and a temper to match.”
“I agree with the temper. And I would wager you are as much a beauty as your sisters,” he added. “But redheads are not cursed. What nonsense. My mother was redheaded, as are others in her family. Not a one is cursed. They are all good, smart, spirited women.”
“I rather like my hair. But some distrust red-haired folk.” She was blushing. Had he called her beautiful just then?
“Superstition. My mother said it began with the Viking raids long ago. It was not red hair that brought bad luck and trouble, but the Vikings themselves. You are no doubt as lovely and gifted as your sisters. I am surprised that you never married.”
She shrugged. “Both my sisters were married and widowed—Tamsin married again. Rowena was wed for a short time, but her husband perished. I think my father worried about my future, so he arranged these betrothals, though I told Papa I did not want to marry. The first—after you, that is,” she added, “was older than my father but kind. He died a week after agreeing to marry me. The next one was young, a good knight, but he was killed ina skirmish. I never had a chance to know him. So I told Papa I would be the plain girl and take care of him in his elder years.”
“I know that tradition in some families. But you are no plain girl.” She heard the kind amusement in his voice. It thrummed all through her.
“That role often falls to an unmarried daughter. I told Papa I would take care of the castle household as he aged. But he did not live much longer. I did learn to direct the household, and I took up the bow and arrow.”
“You were already doing that when I saw you at Innis Connell.”
“I had stopped, but Grandda left me a fine bow, so I took it up again. I did not really want to count linens. I wanted to defend the castle if it was necessary, so that I could truly help at Kincraig after Papa died, and when my brother went away to Selkirk.”
“He is deputy sheriff there now, I hear.”
“Aye, now. Then there was a fourth promise, you see. A Scottish knight, son of a Guardian of the Realm. Prestigious. Papa thought it would be a fine match. But he rejected me too.”
“Margaret, I never rejected you,” he murmured. “I was young. I was not ready. Neither were you.”
“Well, it was a refusal,” she pointed out. “This fellow refused too, after he had signed the promise and accepted the tocher. He took coin and a land grant, and Papa set the wedding—he would not listen to me. He was that concerned about my future. The man was courteous enough, but I did not have a good feeling about him. And then he changed his mind, which proved me right. Though he returned the coin, he kept the land. He said he was misled.”
“Misled!”
“He had heard that my other suitors had died and he wanted no part of that sort of luck. My brother is petitioning to regain the lands.”
“Legally,” Duncan said, ever the justiciar, “it could go in your brother’s favor. But it sounds to me that you are better off without such a one.”
“I think so too.”
The darkness was lifting. Soon the household would rise. Duncan had to leave, she thought. But this wrapping of warmth and honesty was filling her like sunshine in a dim room. She had needed this, and was only just realizing it. Here, in the quiet, listening and caring, Duncan Campbell was all she had dreamed he might be—gentle, kind, patient. His closeness, simple as it was, felt magical.
She wanted to tell him she had loved him since childhood, had loved him even thinking him gone. She had made him an ideal knight, the perfect husband and lover, the man she would never have, and whom none could match.
But she blushed at the thought and kept silent. He would think her foolish. Yet one question had always troubled her. “Duncan, did you ever want to marry me?”
He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and gave a long exhale. She dreaded his answer. He looked ready to leave, not ready to answer.
“I did,” he said finally. “But I would not marry a girl of thirteen. And I did not want you to wait. If I did not return, you would have been widowed without even a marriage.”
“I would have waited.” She sat up and scooted to the edge to sit beside him.
“I know. But it is done. Let it be forgotten. We are not the same as we were then.”
“We are not,” she agreed. “You did the honorable thing, then, that day.”
“I believed so at the time. Later I was not so sure.”
“Neither was I,” she said with a half-laugh. “What now?”
“This matter of Menteith and Lady Lilias must be resolved. That is the most important, aye?”
