Page 76 of The Forest Bride
Lifting on her toes, she leaned into the crenel space between the stone merlons. Far down the loch, she could see a birlinn, sails breezing out as it moved over dark glassy water that reflected a twilight sky sparkling with stars. By the time the boat reached the head of the loch, evening would be full on.
“How do you know they are coming here?” she asked.
“We are the only castle at this end of the loch. I can see helmets, armor.”
“Could it be the soldiers you are expecting?”
“Perhaps, though there are not enough on board for that. I see just a few men and soldiers.”
“Not Menteith,” she guessed. “And he is in too much discomfort to travel.”
“Unlikely to be him. Besides, he is at Loch Roskie now, east over the moor. I have not seen banners or colors yet, but I think I know who this might be. We will wait and see.”
“It just makes me more concerned about Lady Lilias.”
“It is unlikely this has aught to do with her, lass.” He sighed. “I should tell you. I am expecting a few, ah, guests.”
She looked up at him. “That does not make them sound like friends.”
“Friendly, but I do not know them. Have you heard of the reports about some mischievous priests lately?”
Surprised, she nodded, remembering something her brother and others had mentioned at Kincraig. “The ones the English call naughty and irresponsible? They were arrested and punished. I heard something of it.”
“I have been assisting them here and there. As a favor for Bruce.”
“Oh! Oh, I see,” she replied as it became clearer. “Remote Brechlinn, and you want no attention here. So it is something you must hide?”
“Or someone, until he can be moved. I need to trust you with this, aye?”
“Of course.”
He set a hand on her shoulder, just an instant, a warm, sure grip that sent a delicious shiver through her. “We will soon know who it is. Bran MacArthur!” he called over his shoulder. Bran, standing on another section of the parapet watching the water turned. “Send four men to the quayside. I will join them soon. Then see what is in the larder to feed visitors.”
“Sir!” Bran hastened down the steps.
“I can help.” Margaret gathered her skirts. “I will go to the larder.”
“You need not do that,” he said.
She set a hand on her hip and faced him. “Duncan Campbell, you do not have enough help here. Either I check to see how you will feed your visitors, or I take up my bow and quiver and go down to the quay with the men. Otherwise I am useless here, another bowl, another bed.”
His tipped brow showed her he noted the last word. He had a habit, she had seen, of angling one black brow high beneath asweep of dark glossy hair, to convey doubt, disdain, amusement, or something else, adding a twist of his lips, a glint in his eyes. But just as quickly he would become inscrutable again.
“Food and a bed will always be here for you.” Something sincere and tender warmed his eyes. She stared up at him, and wondered—almost afraid to think it—if her dreams could come true after so long.
In that moment, she only wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him again. Bunching her skirts in one hand, she turned. “I—thank you. I will find the larder.”
Down the steps, through the yard, she wandered into the kitchens. A quick question to a boy scrubbing pots sent her down wooden steps to the coolness of an earth-and-stone enclosure filled with shelves, where barrels and sacks held food. Barley, oats, onions, carrots, turnips, apples, a barrel of dried, seasoned meat—a small barrel of dried fish made her step back—though she knew others might like its pungency—and small casks of ale anduisge beathasat on another shelf. She found three wheels of cheese in rough cloth sacks, and small jars of a few spices. While the shelves and containers held a modest variety of foods, quantities were low.
At the convent, despite being a less-than-ideal candidate, she had learned to cook and help in the kitchens. She had already learned something about directing a large household at Kincraig under her mother’s tutelage, and later, with her sisters as they kept the castle for their widowed father. When her sisters were away, she had acted as chatelaine, supervising the household. She felt at home in the small Brechlinn kitchen.
Anyone could see that the larder would not produce a feast. But she had a mean hand for oatcakes, and the nuns at the convent had taught Margaret and young novices to prepare basic and satisfying meals with the simplest ingredients. Thisshe could do. She needed to be useful to Duncan and those at Brechlinn. She rolled up her sleeves.
As she worked, she recalled the secret task Duncan had revealed, and knew why Sir Duncan Campbell, justiciar in the north and son of an earl, chose to live in modest circumstances with few men and few supplies. He did not want to bring attention to his castle—not just to protect the secret of the falcons he kept there, but also the work he did supporting those involved in defending the cause of Scotland. She smiled to herself as she peered into baskets of dried apples and cloth sacks of grain and nuts and more. Pride deepened by affection—aye, by love—filled her, knowing he trusted her with his carefully guarded secrets.
At the sound of footsteps, she turned to see Bran’s tall bulk in the doorway. “My lady. You need not help.”
“I am happy to do it. I think your sister and her son went home earlier.”
