On a Highland Shore Read Free Page A

companion!” Margaret cried. “It would be so nice to have ye there. Surely Lachlan wouldna mind having ye along.”
    Fiona gave a short laugh. “Would that no’ be something?”
    “Perhaps we could even find ye a husband among Lachlan’s men so we’d be together always!”
    “I’m in no hurry for a husband.”
    Margaret nodded thoughtfully. Fiona’s choices were few—the handful of unmarried young men, or the widowers with children—none inspiring. Unless she was successful in bringing Fiona with her, Fiona would eventually marry one of the local lads and live a life just like her mother’s, a life of hard work and repetitious tasks. And the terror of childbirth, which had taken Fi’s mother, and which threatened every woman. Margaret was suddenly filled with determination to change Fiona’s fate.
    “I’ll talk to Mother about ye coming with me,” she said fiercely.
    Fiona shook her head morosely. “She willna agree. She’s asked me to help with the others after ye’re gone.”
    “There are others who can do that. I’ll talk to her. Think of it, Fi! Ye and I among all those English ladies.”
    Fiona’s eyes widened. “English ladies! Are ye going to England, too?”
    Margaret paused before answering. She’d met the players at court, knew their histories and those of their families, often back several generations. But Fiona had been isolated here at Somerstrath and knew none of that.
    “Our Queen Margaret,” she said, “is the daughter of King Henry of England. When she came to Scotland to marry our King Alexander, she brought many of her ladies, and many of their husbands. Almost half the court is English now, or has strong ties to England. They all speak French, of course.”
    Fiona nodded, as though she’d already known that. “Of course.”
    “So ye’ll have to learn French, too,” Margaret said. “And we’ll have to get ye all new gowns!”
    “Like yers?”
    There was that note of envy again. Margaret looked at her finely tooled leather shoes with their painted designs, discarded now in the sand, then at Fiona’s bare feet. Their clothing showed the differences in their stations as well, Margaret’s soft linen and wool in stark contrast to Fiona’s coarsely woven gown. The weaver’s daughter wore his mistakes; the laird’s daughter his finest work.
    “As my companion ye’d have to dress well. And our hair! Wait until ye see how everaone wears their hair. Ye’ll be unwed, so ye could wear yer hair loose. I will talk with Mother about ye coming with me.”
    “Not yet. Wait until yer parents are no’ so angry with Rignor.”
    Margaret sighed. “Aye.”
    Her brother Rignor, only two years younger than she, often needed to be watched more closely than the little ones. His wild antics and volatile temper had earned their parents’ disapproval often enough, more so recently. Her father often loudly despaired of him; her mother said he just needed a few more years.
    “Is he still saying he’s going to marry Dagmar?” Fiona asked.
    “Oh, aye, the fool. As though he’ll be allowed to.”
    “Yer father canna be pleased with that, and who can blame him? She’s naught but the daughter of yer da’s tacksman from the next glen, willing to lift her skirts for any man.”
    Margaret nodded, remembering all the times she’d watched Dagmar lure a man to a quiet corner, returning shortly with her clothing askew and her smile smug.
    “Dagmar’s hardly a suitable wife for the heir of Somerstrath,” Fiona said crisply. “Can ye imagine her as the lady of Somerstrath?”
    “How would we ken who fathered her children?”
    “Someone should tell Dagmar she’d best set her sights elsewhere.”
    “Someone has. My mother was quite emphatic.”
    Margaret sighed, thinking of her mother’s irritability in the last few months. Surely it was only because of the babe she carried, but Mother, always quick-tempered, had been especially difficult lately, her moods unpredictable, her annoyance