Page 71 of The Forest Bride
He huffed and bent to rummage his hands through a patch of green ferns. “She would not live here. She has a cottage outside, in what was once a thriving village. Many left the glen after English burned some of the village once they had finished wrecking Brechlinn.”
“You are rebuilding. Brechlinn will grow.”
“True, but we cannot last long on Bran’s cooking. Nor would I ask Euphemia to take on more, though she is willing to help.”
“She has a good heart, your cousin,” she commented, bending to search.
“She does, and has her own work to do as well. She weaves tartan cloth and makes a good penny in town markets.”
“I did not know. How lovely! She has a son, she says.”
“He is a good lad, but he does not want to be a weaver. He wants to forge steel.”
“Aha!” She rose, arrow shaft in hand. “It went past this oak.”
He took it. “You have a sharp eye, lass.”
“And here!” She waded through ferny undergrowth and came up with another long arrow, fletched in gray feathers. Handing it to him with a look of glee, she turned to rummage further.
“Well done. Shall we head back? Mungo!” He whistled and saw the hound loping between the trees.
“Oh, Duncan, look!” When he turned back, Margaret Keith had stepped into a grove of oaks and birches, where bluebells spread in a haze of purple-blue far into the forest. The light was golden and violet here, gentling over the girl, her face, her hair, her eyes. He caught his breath at such beauty, wanting to say what he felt, yet not ready, unsure to define it or limit it in words. He saw her shiver and cross her arms.
“It is chilly, and you came out without a cloak. Come ahead.”
“Not yet. We might find more arrows. I would stay here forever.” She twirled around just where two birches formed an arch.
A memory went across his mind like a shooting star—lithe young Margaret in his father’s courtyard, spinning, cloak swirling, bright curls spilling down her back, her face delicate and joyful. She had been innocent and full of dreams. He had spoiled that.
“You are like a forest sprite,” he said gently.
“Go in if you want. I can stay with Mungo and look for arrows.”
“Soon you would be chasing him over the hills. Unless your intention is just that, to run off and disappear.”
“It did cross my mind.”
“You are still in the custody of the justiciar. I would come after you.”
“Then I will save you the trouble and stay.” Under the canopy of greening branches, she spread her arms in the blur of the bluebell wood. “It is so peaceful here. It reminds me of the forest near Kincraig, which overlooks part of the northern span of the great forest of Ettrick and Selkirk. I always thought I would—” Shaking her head, she pointed. “Is that an arrow there?”
He looked. “Just a feather. You thought you would what?”
“You do not want to know.” She moved ahead between trees, surging through bracken going green with spring, the shadows dimming her hair to reddish-brown.
“I do.” Some urge, a twist in the center of his being, told him so.
She looked over her shoulder. “When I was very young, I wanted to be married in the forest, under the arches of the trees, like a magnificent cathedral. Grandda had predicted a forest wedding for me once.”
“You mentioned it to me once.” He studied the trees. “Thomas said your first betrothal would not come about, but you would be a forest bride. Something like that.”
“You remembered.”
“I did.” Every moment of that day. Every word. “I recall you thought it a silly notion, a wedding in the forest.”
She sighed. “I have learned more since then. My sister found some of his writings on scraps of parchment. He had written a verse about us. It starts, ‘Three lasses, three ladies, three brides all,’ with something about each of us. Part of the verse says, ‘Oneshall loose an arrow in the heart of greenside.’ I suppose that one is me.”
“That prediction certainly came true.” He laughed.
