A Hellion at the Highland Court (The Highland Ladies #9) - Celeste Barclay Page 0,18

of the Bedchamber. She’d listened to several of the ladies complain as they left the keep and made their way to the rosebushes. Queen Elizabeth led her entourage, disinterested in the younger women’s conversations. Laurel walked alone, not in the mood for company. But she regretted shooing the Dunbar sisters away, since now she had no way to ignore Margaret.

“At least I am pretty,” Margaret sneered.

“And just as empty-headed as I said,” Laurel snorted. “A sharp tongue is the tool of a sharp mind, Maggie. Having just a pretty face means the Lord got bored when he made you. He lost interest just like—how many has it been—four men now.”

“At least I have suitors,” Margaret snapped.

“Suitors wish to marry a woman. Not a one thought aboot marrying you, Maggie.” Laurel stressed the diminutive that Margaret loathed. She’d claimed only maids were named Maggie.

“What are you saying?” Margaret demanded.

Laurel grinned. “While neither of us has suitors clamoring at our doors, the difference between us is I haven’t lifted my skirts.” Laurel snorted again. “Or dropped them.”

“You—you— Tu es une puterelle,” Margaret snarled, switching to French to accuse Laurel of being a woman of ill repute.

“Your French is horrid. ‘Tu es’ is you are. You meant ‘je suis.’ After all, I’m not the one who keeps buying chicken’s blood from the butcher.”

“Why you—” Margaret’s words died as Queen Elizabeth turned toward them.

“Ladies,” Queen Elizabeth’s tone stopped the women from continuing their argument. Laurel dipped into a deep curtsy while Margaret wobbled on unsteady legs.

“Your Majesty,” Catherine MacFarlane spoke up. “When will Lady Laurel wed? My father wishes me to marry before the first snow. Will my wedding be delayed?”

Laurel sucked in a breath. The ladies had been loudly whispering their accusations since they left the keep, but Catherine voiced the question they all wished to ask, even Laurel.

Queen Elizabeth looked at Laurel as she addressed the women who gathered around her. “Have you ever seen a fox caught in a trap? It hisses and snaps at anyone who comes near, even those who try to help. Why? Because he’s ensnared and no longer free, no longer trusts what is around him. The fox will chew his own leg off rather than be a captive. But the fox eventually succumbs whether he remains in the trap or alone in the woods. When a kindly soul comes along, the fox would do well to wait and watch. He might just gain his freedom with far less pain.”

Laurel swallowed and gave a single jerky nod. While several other women chatted amongst themselves, trying to sort out the queen’s metaphor, Laurel understood its meaning. But she feared she’d been in the snare so long that there were no kindly souls left who would risk her hissing and snapping. But Sarah Anne’s voice pierced any solace Laurel might have found in the queen’s words.

“But that still doesn’t tell us when Laurel will be gone.” Sarah Anne narrowed her eyes and curled her lip in disgust as she looked at Laurel. “After more than half a score of years here, isn’t it obvious she’ll be a spinster? Why punish us?”

“Lady Sarah Anne, is there someone proposing to you soon?” Laurel asked in a saccharine tone. She held her hands over her chest in mocking delight and excitement.

“Well, no,” Sarah Anne confessed. “But it’s still not fair.”

“On that we agree,” Laurel muttered. Queen Elizabeth turned away, and the women continued their promenade through the late summer blooms. As they made their way across the bailey to retire to the queen’s solar, Laurel noticed a mountainous man with dark hair watching the ladies. It was clear he was a Highlander from the plaid wrapped around his waist and his billowing leine, but Laurel wasn’t close enough to make out the blue-and-green pattern. He could have been from any number of clans, but she thought she recognized him. He walked away before she drew near enough to tell.

“Laird Campbell of Glenorchy,” King Robert greeted Brodie. The men had fought alongside one another countless times over nearly two decades, and Brodie had saved the king’s life on at least three battlefields. But the king could say the same about Brodie. They’d been friends since their youth, even though the king was a handful of years older than Brodie. The king’s younger brothers were closer in age to Brodie. He’d had more than one adventurous night out in Stirling with the Bruce’s blood-brother and adopted brother, both named Edward. The latter was married