Page 67 of The Forest Bride

“With Menteith at the lower end, they seem to think the Highlanders at this end are not worth the bother. So Brechlinn is safe, as much as can be.”

Margaret took another spoonful of soup. “This is excellent. You made this, not your brother.” She chuckled.

“Certainly! With Bran in the kitchen, I cannot imagine what they eat every day. I come here often to help with the household, and with the—with guests in and out to see the laird.”

Hearing the stumble, Margaret looked up. “Guests?”’

“Some come through here at times to see the laird. Legal matters and such.”

“Ah.” She nibbled on a bannock slathered in butter. “You know the laird well.”

“We were childhood friends. Duncan and his family would stay here for weeks at a time in the summer. He and Bran were good friends. We all played together. Distant cousins, you see.”

“No wonder he is fond of you and Bran.”

“Aye. And good friends with my husband, years back. He is gone now.” She looked away. “And he is good to my son, Owen. The boy is eleven, and wants to be a smith like his uncle in Crianlarich. Until he apprentices, Duncan gives him chores here, working in the stables, the mews, the house. Owen enjoys it.”

“He is here?”

“Sometimes. You may have seen him helping here and there. His father died in a battle when Owen was small.”

“I am so sorry. It happens far too often.” Margaret shook her head sadly.

“Duncan makes sure we are fine. He will never ask anything in return. He is a good man. Quiet with it, and steady.”

“I am not surprised.” She sat back. “Thank you for supper.”

“You found a stone with a hole in it?” Effie reached across the table to pick up one of the stones there. “At the falls today? It is said we can see what cannot be seen through such holes. The future and such. When we were bairns, we would find these by the pool and look through them.” Effie rolled the stone in her hand, then held it to her eyes. “We invented grand stories. But I only see this plain little room.”

Margaret picked up a similar stone. Tentatively she peered through it, relieved to see only the windows, wall, a bit of Effie’s hair and kerchief. “Only what is here. My Grandda had such a stone, a pretty one. He was Thomas the Rhymer,” she added shyly.

Effie gasped. “Your kinsman! How lovely.”

“He was a lovely man, true. Gruff, but kind to us.” She turned the stone in her hand. “I wanted to stay longer at the falls and the pool, but we were out with the birds. And then Sir William de Soulis rode by.”

“I heard Duncan and Bran talking about it. Duncan Campbell was not impressed with the man, I saw that. We may never quite know what he is thinking, but he has a deep integrity. Depend on that.” Effie gave her a long glance. “But you know that. Even with what happened years ago, you know him.”

Margaret blushed. “The betrothal ended a decade ago. I am not sure I know him.”

“My dear, anyone with an eye to see knows something is there. He has always cared for you.”

“He has?”

She nodded. “I still see it. That quiet air in a man, that strength in his nature, can draw a woman in like a lodestone. Once you feel it, it never leaves you. Both of you care for each other.”

Margaret listened in silence, frowning, sensing more.

“When that betrothal was broken, Duncan’s father told my father, his cousin, ‘That lad broke his own heart when he told that wee lass farewell. Broke hers too.’”

“Broke his own heart?”

“He despaired that Duncan might never marry. But then Duncan was captured and held and had no chance to even let his family know he was alive. It was years before his kin saw him again.”

Margaret nodded. “Some of this I know.”

“And in my bold way—Duncan may not like it but hang the lad for not being forthcoming with you—I thought you should know that he cares for you. I have been watching you both, and I just want to help. He is a thickhead.” Effie leaned forward. “Margaret. I must tell you something. Someone must tell you, for the man himself may never, and I want to kick him for it.”

Margaret laughed softly. “What is that?”