A Runaway Bride For The Highlander. Elisabeth HobbesЧитать онлайн книгу.
She was in profile to him. Her stiff hood and veil drew her hair back and obscured it completely, while emphasising her high cheekbones and giving Ewan a perfect view of a delicately formed jaw and slender neck. He felt an alarming lurch below his ribcage and feared his heart had suddenly forgotten how to beat. A heart as burdened with grief as his was could surely be forgiven for succumbing to the load it had been forced to bear. He pressed his fist into the spot as his eyes began to blur.
Had they not, he might have been more aware that he was being watched and looked away quicker. As it was, it took him a moment to realise that the girl no longer had her head bowed reverently, but was looking straight at him. He blinked to clear his vision and stared back, slightly unnerved by her boldness. She had called into question the manners and behaviour of the Scottish court and yet here she was, openly staring at him. He’d thought French women were modest and demure. Some devilry inside Ewan made him wink at her. Her eyes widened and she smiled nervously in a manner that Ewan thought rather sweet. He recalled how she had gently touched his arm when he spoke of his grief the night before, breaking all social codes. He’d drawn away, unable to cope with her kind attempt at consolation, and now wished he hadn’t wasted that opportunity to touch her.
Her eyelashes fluttered before she gave her attention to the ceremony and kept her eyes firmly fixed on the bishop with an expression of raptness Ewan envied. Ewan wondered whether his sermon would falter if he noticed her looking so intently, and after those blasphemous thoughts he was unable to concentrate at all. He forced himself to listen, but more than once his eye was drawn back to the girl, hoping to see that she was as distracted as he was. She never looked toward him again and Ewan had to content himself with the pleasant view of her profile.
* * *
When the ceremony ended, the nobles moved once more into the Great Hall. It appeared the dancing and drinking was to recommence early in the day. Before Ewan could make his way to the table laden with pitchers of wine a soft hand touched his sleeve and a quiet voice spoke.
‘I crave a word with you, son of Hamish Lochmore.’
A small man had appeared at his side so silently Ewan had barely noticed him. He recognised the speaker, however, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Robert Morayshill had worked for James IV and now presumably served the new monarch, liaising with operatives tasked with gathering information and relaying it to the government. The two men strolled towards the furthest of the great fireplaces, seemingly engaged in no more than idle talk.
‘Your father might have spoken to you before he died about certain ways in which he assisted his country.’
Morayshill let his words tail off. The word that had not been mentioned hung in the air between the two men.
Spy.
Ewan glanced at the fireplace and moved slightly into the centre of the room. A grille might be used for ventilation, or might be a Laird’s lug, a shaft leading to a chamber where unseen ears might be listening. He noted Morayshill’s eyes tighten with approval.
‘My father was very discreet,’ Ewan said cautiously. ‘He kept his own counsel.’
‘Hamish Lochmore, discreet! Your loyalty to your father is admirable, but we both know that isn’t the case.’ Morayshill laughed.
‘Wasn’t. Not isn’t. And I would thank you not to defame his memory.’
‘As you say. And I say to you that your father was brash and sometimes lacking in subtlety, which worked to everyone’s advantage at times.’
Ewan dipped his head in acknowledgement. Spying was too sophisticated a word for what Hamish had done. There had been no covert meetings between velvet-clad and silk-tongued ambassadors, no ciphers slipped from sleeve to sleeve. Instead, Hamish would receive word that a particular group of merchants or travellers who had spent time recently in courts in England or on the continent would be arriving in one of Scotland’s ports. They would be greeted by Hamish, playing the role of loud, crass, overly friendly Highland laird—a part which he performed with ease—who would take them drinking and whoring as the mood took him. The visitors would wake the following morning with a headache fit to blind them, unsure of how loose their tongues had grown.
Though Hamish never revealed the details of what he learned or how it was used, his descriptions and impersonations of befuddled Flemish wool merchants or vomiting Italian minstrels had kept Ewan and John entertained long into the night. Ewan’s throat tightened with grief at the loss of the warm-hearted figure with the bellowing laugh. There would be no more drinking and laughing. No more days hunting or riding.
‘One of the men here today has been communicating with the English court for years,’ Morayshill said. ‘This is expected. We have agents in England and abroad, naturally. However, recent matters have had far-reaching consequences.’
Ewan listened, anger rising. Someone had passed crucial information regarding the Scottish troops to the English, to be sent to Queen Catherine in King Henry’s absence. Instead of hampering trade negotiations or causing dissent in the borderlands, the spy had directly contributed to the massacre of the men at Flodden.
‘Hamish believed he knew the identity of at least one agent. Did he tell you anything?’
Hamish had hinted to John and Ewan—if drunken growls of ‘I’ll skin that redheaded traitor alive, nae mind the consequences’ could be counted as a hint—but had never shared the identity of the man.
‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘Would you be prepared to assist in discovering the culprit?’
‘I don’t think...that is... I don’t have my father’s manner.’ Ewan’s jaw tightened at the thought of another role he doubted he could fill.
To his surprise Morayshill shook his head. ‘There might be matters that a young man with more discretion and an understanding of the complexities of politics could undertake. If you can point me down the right path to follow, there are others who can verify the truth.’
‘Aye, perhaps,’ Ewan answered uncertainly, feeling a little better. His education would be a benefit there, not a hindrance, and being described as discreet warmed him. By the time they parted, he had promised he would do everything in his power to discover the identity of the spy who had done so much damage at Flodden.
Ewan made his way to the table once again, but before he could reach it the crowds parted to either side of the hall. Margaret Tudor, widow of the deceased King, was making her way into the Great Hall. Her eyes were heavy and her face drawn. Her marriage had been political—designed to create a greater bond between the English and Scots—but it was said she and James had been happy. Her grief must have been greater because James’s body had not been returned to her from the battlefield, but had instead been taken to Berwick by the English.
Ewan had been denied the chance to lay Hamish and John to rest in the crypt at Castle Lochmore and felt a sudden stab of pity for the Englishwoman. He bowed as she passed and as he raised his head he found himself face to face with the French girl who had been walking in attendance with the other women of court. She paused and looked directly at him, tilting her head to one side and regarding him with wide brown eyes as curiously as if she was examining the apes or civets in the menagerie at Holyroodhouse.
Blasted woman! Those fine brown eyes reached everywhere. The sooner Duncan McCrieff took her away to be his bride, the better. Ewan drew a sharp breath, realising that was the last thing he wanted.
She took her place in the ranks of women at either side of Margaret where the other women started fussing over her as if she were a pet mouse. Ewan paid no attention to what Margaret was saying, but instead stared at the French girl, wondering how he could be so intrigued by her when they had barely spoken and everything she did irritated him.
It must be the strange manner of her clothes that commanded his attention. He examined her now. Her dress was cut from one length of cloth and laced tightly beneath each arm; not a separate skirt and bodice tied at the waist in the Scottish fashion. The design caused the stiffened bodice to draw in closely at her slender waist