Page 94 of The Forest Bride
“Oh?” He tipped a brow.
“I hear he will recover.” She gave a bitter smile.
He whistled. “Well done, Dame Agatha! You have a good friend in her.”
“She means a great deal to me. And I feel that I have a new friend here in Effie too. And—in you?” She felt a lift of hope.
“We need to talk.” He looked grim. Anxious. Her heart sank a little.
“We could shoot arrows over the wall and search for them in the woods.”
“Rain. Come with me. I know of a place where we can find privacy.”
She followed him out of the mews and across the bailey, where they ran through the rain to the keep. Up the wooden steps and inside, then along a short stem corridor to another door. He beckoned for her to proceed him up a set of steep steps that turned around a pillar, a narrow space lit only by an arrowslit high up.
They climbed three levels, passing stone platforms with closed doors. Margaret clung to a sturdy rope bolted to the pillar on the steep steps. When they reached the topmost platform, she saw a single arched door.
“What is this?” she asked.
“The quietest room in the castle.” He pushed the door wide.
What was so important? Did he want to convince her further about De Soulis? There was no need for that—she bristled at the thought. True, she was resolved that she would have to see De Soulis if there was no other way to find Lilias and save Thomas’s blue stone. But did Duncan not trust her to see the risks and be careful?
Perhaps he simply did not know her well enough yet to understand her stubborn nature. Perhaps he did not realize how much she loved him, and could not love another.
She stepped into a shadowy and spacious room where a brazier gave off a flickering amber and light and cozy warmth to counter the cool-gray light that diffused through glass roundels in a shuttered window lashed with rain. A large wooden bed draped in dark tartan curtains filled one side of the room. By the window was a stout oak table, two chairs, and a painted cupboard. A width of thick tartan wool was spread over theplanked floor. The table was piled with parchments and leather-bound books.
She turned. “The laird’s bedchamber?”
He shrugged. “The only place not overrun. May I shut the door?”
“If you mean to talk about Sir William, then leave it open. I will not stay.”
“I see. What would keep you here?”
She paused, then boldly met his steady gaze, her heart drumming its hopes and dreams. “I hope you know what that would be.”
He inclined his head. “Margaret, I need to explain something. You must listen.”
That sounded ominous. Frowning, she went to the table and sat in one of the chairs, primly arranging her skirts, folding her hands. The brazier’s warmth felt good. Fortifying. Her hands went cold with a sudden unnamed fear. He took the other chair.
“Wine?” He reached for a ceramic jug and a wooden cup.
She shook her head. “Not just now.”
“I think you may need it.”
Dear God, what did he plan to say? She twisted her fingers, nodded.
“I only have one cup.Baccalarius,” he explained. “Bachelor knight.”
“You are not lowborn, sir, which the term describes.”
“It is used more for an unmarried knight now, or was in France when I was there.Bacalar, they called us, our group of Scottish knights—unmarried knights, and not one of us low-born. But free, in a sense.”
“Free?” Her voice squeaked as the air go out of her. Did he mean to let her go again? Perhaps he did not mean to dissuade her from accepting De Soulis after all.
She did not want De Soulis. She wanted Duncan Campbell—she wanted him so much it hurt.
