Brenda Joyce (22 page)

Buchan stared sharply. “I will meet him with ten knights, as I said I would, because I wish to know what he will do this time. But my small army will be close enough to protect us if he thinks to deceive
us
in any way. He is camped here with two hundred men, Margaret. I cannot simply meet him without a small army of my own.”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

“Why would you wish to come?” he demanded.

He hadn’t refused. She said tersely, “He has Will. And he has my castle. I also want to hear what he will say.” She boldly approached and touched his arm. Suddenly nothing had ever been as important; suddenly, she had to see Alexander. “Uncle. I fought almost to the death to defend my dowry. I fought him for an entire day, at times, throwing burning oil on his soldiers. I stabbed a MacDonald man. I have earned the right to join you. If you negotiate with him, perhaps, I can help.”

His eyes widened. A brief but terrible silence fell. No one in the hall moved. Perhaps she had been too bold, gone too far—she was but a woman!

But Buchan finally said, “You have earned a great many rights, Margaret.”

She nodded, barely able to draw a breath.

“In fact, I want you to come to the red rocks with us.”

* * *

T
HE
POUNDING
RAIN
had stopped, but the skies were so dark they were almost black, indicating that more rain would come. Margaret rode just behind her uncle, Sir Ranald at her side, as their horses walked slowly down a narrow, muddy path toward the river.

Ahead, she saw a shadowy cluster, just barely formed against the dark sky, but then the images began to take on the shape and appearance of horses and men. She could now see the red boulders that designated their meeting spot; she could make out the white water of the swollen river, as it rushed torrentially through the glen.

And she finally saw Alexander.

He sat his gray steed at the forefront of his men, neither horse nor man moving.

Margaret felt her heart lurch and then thunder. She had not seen him in almost three weeks. She could not look aside now. Her cheeks began to burn.

He was staring at her, too. She felt certain—though he was still too far away, and she could not see his eyes....

He had asked for her in marriage, but she could not imagine how he truly felt about her having escaped.

They continued to slowly approach, the ground dangerously slick beneath their horses’ hooves. Her uncle finally paused his horse, a small distance separating him from Alexander. Margaret halted her mare beside him.

Their gazes met. Alexander’s expression was hard, but it was also impassive—it was impossible to discern any of his emotions. He nodded slightly at her.

Oddly, the small gesture seemed too intimate and Margaret tensed, glancing at her uncle, who was observing them. She did not nod in return, or in any way acknowledge the salutation. She was suddenly so afraid that her uncle would guess at the intimacy they had shared.

Buchan’s heated regard was on Alexander. “You hold my nephew, you hold my castle—and you’ve taken me out of my fine hall in the middle of a storm. What do you want, MacDonald?”

Alexander’s gaze was cool. “I suggest ye reconsider my proposal, Buchan.”

“There is nothing to reconsider! I gain nothing from such a trade!”

Margaret tensed, horrified—surely, her uncle did not consider Will nothing.

“I dinna think ye had any care fer yer nephew. He is fine, by the way. Angry, but fine.”

Briefly, Margaret felt a great relief.

“I have a great care for Will,” Buchan flared. “Is this why you have called me outside in such weather? To berate me for my refusal to give you my niece? To accuse me of not caring about my nephew?”

“I have called ye here,” he said, staring at Margaret now, “to make a second offer.”

She froze. Their gazes locked. He would offer for her another time?

Alexander tore his gaze from her and said to her uncle, “I’ll add Glen Carron Castle to the trade.”

Buchan started.

Margaret began to tremble. When he did not speak, she wondered if her uncle was considering trading her to Alexander—for her brother and a castle.

“I rebuilt the keep after I razed it to the ground—it is a fine, defensible fortification,” Alexander said flatly. “An’ ye ken, it abuts Badenoch land. Ye’ll grow yer borders there.”

Stunned, she stared at her uncle, who was gazing at Alexander, his expression now one of calculation. She could see that his mind was racing.

He was considering such a trade! He might accept, she thought, feeling almost frantic. A part of her was dismayed—that he could be so easily persuaded to give her over to the enemy—but another part of her was desperate.

She knew Alexander would be a reasonable husband, knew she would enjoy being in his arms and bearing him children.... But dear God, then what? He would go to war against her brother, her uncles, her aunts and cousins....

“She is to wed Sir Guy in June,” Buchan suddenly said harshly. “Surrender Castle Fyne and Glen Carron, and I will give her over as your bride.”

Margaret felt her heart lurch. She looked from her uncle to Alexander, stunned.

He
would
trade her—but only for two castles, one of them being Castle Fyne.

Alexander was staring at her—she thought she could see a flicker of compassion in his eyes. But when he spoke, his face was hard, cold and set. “I will not give up Castle Fyne.”

Buchan’s expression became savage and mocking at once. “You think yourself a great lord? My niece is worthy of princes, and she’s to marry a man with royal blood—not a Highlander from the far isles who cannot speak French properly.”

“So ye insult me now?” But Alexander smiled coolly, amused.

Margaret felt a chill sweep her, and she begged silently,
Don’t!

He glanced at her—as if he had heard her innermost thoughts. Then he turned a frightening look upon her uncle. “Ye should think one more time about refusing me. Ye dinna wish to suffer my wrath.”

“And now you threaten me?”

“I have Will, I have Castle Fyne—and I am here, at Balvenie.”

Buchan started. “What do you intend, Wolf?”

“I promise ye great loss,” he said, picking up his reins. His stallion pranced, snorting. He turned to Margaret. “Are ye well?”

She froze. He was speaking directly to her?

“Lady Margaret,” he snapped. “Are ye well?”

She knew she must not answer—she knew she must look away—but she could not do as she must. She whispered, “Yes, I am well.”

He spurred the gray stallion toward Buchan. “I became fond of my captive, Buchan. Ye keep her well.”

Buchan was turning red. “When we capture you, Wolf, I will be the one to take off your head and place it on a pike!”

Alexander laughed at him.

“Stop,” Margaret tried to say, but her whisper was low and hoarse. How could they do this, now?

Sir Ranald seized her wrist in warning.

“And when yer favorite castle lies in ruins, and Sir Guy is dead, I will take her as my bride,” Alexander said.

Margaret was horrified.

Alexander whirled his horse, sent her a searing look, and then spurred the beast hard. It screamed in protest and galloped away, blood on its sides. His knights all followed.

And then there was no one at the red rocks and the river’s banks but Buchan, Margaret and his men.

“I will kill him,” Buchan said. And then he turned his furious gaze upon her.

She wanted to cringe.
He knows,
she thought. But she did not move.

“If he wants you, you have become more trouble than you are worth!” With that, he spurred his horse and began to gallop up the muddy hill.

Margaret was ready to collapse. Sir Ranald reached out and caught her as she swooned, dragging her from her small mount to his larger one. “Lady! I will have you safely home.”

Hot, blistering tears arose. Margaret nodded, now in Sir Ranald’s arms.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

E
ILIDH
WAS
STOKING
the fire in the hearth in Margaret’s chamber when Sir Ranald led her in. She was trembling. On the way back to the castle, it had rained torrentially, and she was soaking wet. But she was not shaking from the cold. She was not on the verge of collapse because of the rain.

Eilidh blanched. “Lady?”

“She has had a trying afternoon,” Sir Ranald said. “You must help her into dry clothes, sit her before the fire and bring her warm wine.”

Margaret felt shocked. And she was terrified.

Did Buchan suspect that she and Alexander had been lovers?

But there was even more. Did Alexander mean to marry her, no matter the consequences—and would he attack her uncle to do so?

“Please sit down, Lady Margaret, before you fall over,” Sir Ranald said kindly.

Margaret had been guided to the chamber’s sole chair, which had been placed before the blazing fire. Somehow, she did as asked; somehow, she looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you, Sir Ranald. I am fine.”

“You are not fine.” His green gaze was searching. Then he dropped abruptly to one knee and took both of her hands in his. “I wish to protect you, Lady Margaret! I wish to aid you! But if you play a dangerous game, then you must tell me.”

What did Sir Ranald think? She had not considered what everyone else who had been present at the red rocks might think of the encounter. But Sir Ranald had caught her eavesdropping at Strathbogie; he had seen her exchange with Alexander.

As she stared at him, terribly uncertain now, Peg and Isabella ran into the room.

“What happened?” Isabella cried. “John is vowing to murder the Wolf the next time they meet! He is furious, and already in his cups!”

Margaret looked back at Sir Ranald. “We will talk another time, when I have had a chance to think,” she said. If Sir Ranald meant to be her ally, she would accept him as one. She so needed allies now. But she would not make him her confidant.

He nodded and left the room.

Peg closed the door behind him. “Margaret?” she asked, eyes wide.

She could no longer contain her distress. She covered her face with her hands, trying not to cry, thinking of Alexander, who had decided he must marry her, no matter the cost, the pain. She could not imagine his motivation, other than his desire to control Castle Fyne for all of his lifetime, and to pass it down to his sons.

But what of her and her desires?

The chamber seemed to rock wildly, as if a boat in storm-tossed seas.

She thought of Buchan, who had hated Alexander before, and would hate him impossibly now. The two had been enemies for a great many reasons before this war had come between them, but now, their enmity had become personal. Alexander had threatened Buchan; Buchan had threatened him in return. It felt certain that in the end, one man must die.

It was Isabella who came to her and put her arms around her. “What did he do?”

She tried to wipe the moisture from her face, desperate to find composure. She met Isabella’s worried gaze. “He made a second offer of marriage—and when Buchan refused, he threatened to destroy him and his castles.”

Isabella said, “No, I meant what did my husband do?” Then, “He is angry with you—he told me so! I assumed you are near tears because of him.”

Margaret inhaled. “He considered trading me to Alexander, not just for Will, but for Castle Fyne and another keep.”

Isabella was dismayed. “I am sorry. But he does love you, Margaret.”

“He would give me over to the enemy if the trade was advantageous enough.” The pain stabbing through her breast felt like a knife. “He would give me over with hardly a second thought.” Hadn’t he abandoned her while she was being held hostage at Castle Fyne?

And hadn’t Will complained all along that her marriage to Sir Guy was an act beyond expedience—that she was being tossed aside, as if a
thing
of little worth, a
thing
without feelings?

She had refused to believe it, but it was true. Her father would never have treated her in such a way. He had loved her for who she was, from the time she had been born. He would have wanted a marriage for her that was expedient, but he would have also wanted her to care for her husband. Margaret had no doubt.

He would never have bartered her away, not even in a time like this, when a kingdom was at stake.

“Of course he would seek a trade if doing so would make a good alliance—you are only a woman.” Isabella clasped her hand tightly. “We are all disposable, Margaret. You must know that.”

Margaret had not realized that Isabella was so worldly. “What if Alexander makes a third offer? What if he offers so much that Uncle John cannot refuse?”

“Will he make another offer?” Isabella asked, surprised.

“I never expected any offer!” Margaret cried.

Isabella paused. “The truth is, if Sir Guy fails to take Castle Fyne back, you will have lost your value to him—but you are a great prize for Alexander.”

* * *

“T
HE
W
OLF
IS
smitten,” Peg said, stepping forward. “He was smitten with Margaret from the moment he first conquered Castle Fyne.”

Isabella turned an incredulous look upon Margaret. “Is it true?”

“He is hardly smitten,” Margaret said, standing. But she wasn’t angry with Peg for speaking up. She wondered if she could be right. “Can you help me out of my clothes?”

Eilidh rushed to her chest to pull out dry garments as Peg came over, and they began to pull off her wet cotes. Isabella watched them and said, “Margaret, the Wolf has already proven he will go to great lengths to take a woman to wife.”

Margaret had just shrugged on a dry chemise and surcote. Peg began to unbraid her wet hair as she faced Isabella. “You are right. He is relentless.”

Isabella studied her. “Is he repulsive?”

Margaret laughed, somewhat hysterically. Should she confess all to her friend? Did she dare?

“He is very handsome,” Eilidh whispered. Peg nodded in agreement.

Isabella started and Margaret winced. “He is handsome—and there is more. He said he would kill Sir Guy if he had to.”

“He will not let a marriage stand in his way?”

“No.” Her gaze locked with Isabella’s. She knew that even if she married Sir Guy, Alexander would come for her.

Isabella knew it, too. Her color high, she slowly said, “He may be your savior, Margaret, in the end.”

Margaret shook her head. “Please don’t say that.”

“He has stolen Castle Fyne from you, and now, you have nothing but the hope that Sir Guy will take it back. But if he marries you, you will be lady of Castle Fyne again.”

* * *

M
ARGARET
COULD
NOT
sleep. She stared up at the ceiling of her chamber, watching moonlight play across it. Her uncle had left with his great army that morning.

Buchan would take his army south to join King Edward’s as it marched north, in an attempt to stop Bruce in his westward march across Scotland.

She wondered if Bruce would attempt to be crowned in four more days; she wondered if Aymer de Valence, who now commanded most of England’s army, would learn he was marching for Scone and somehow stop him. She turned over onto her side, hugging her pillow. To stop Bruce, if he was intent on a coronation, would mean a battle to the death. Of that, she was certain.

She trembled. She had done her best to avoid Buchan ever since that meeting with Alexander at the red rocks. Buchan had been preoccupied with his war preparations, so it had been easy to do. Still, she knew he was not pleased with her now.

Could Alexander be smitten? If he was, wouldn’t she know? And didn’t he realize how devastating his ambitions were for her—for her entire family?

More dismay arose, as did a lump of fear. Margaret wished she knew if Atholl and the others had a plan to separate their armies. If she had, she would send word. No matter what happened—even if she married Sir Guy—she did not want Alexander to die.

Tears arose. Hugging the pillow, she rocked herself finally to sleep.

And then she was wide-awake and terrified—for a hand was clasped over her mouth, preventing her from screaming, and a viselike arm was around her waist. She was pressed hard against a muscular male chest. A man was in her chamber—in her bed!

“Dinna scream. I willna hurt ye, Margaret.”

As her eyes flew open, as her scream was choked off, she knew it was Alexander.

She looked upward, into his intense eyes, while he loosened his grasp of her mouth and his grip on her body. Her heart turned over wildly.

He slowly removed his hand, saying, “And if ye do scream, no one will hear—the watch has been rendered useless for the next few hours.”

Now she began to realize what he had done—he had stolen into an enemy fortress, one filled with Buchan’s finest soldiers! “Alexander! Are you mad? If they catch you they will hang you!”

He slowly smiled at her. “Ah, so nothing has changed, ye canna wish me ill.”

She went still, acutely aware of being in his embrace—overcome by the sensation of his hard muscles against her softer flesh, by the scent of man and pine, by the knowledge that he was there for her. “I cannot wish you ill.” She breathed hard, almost lifting her hand to touch his face, but she must not act as if they were lovers. They were not lovers—that one night had been long ago! “You cannot be here.”

“I can and I am.” He did not smile now. “Ye ken the man I am. I never say what I dinna mean. I’m taking ye away, Margaret, and ye’ll be my wife.”

Her mind spun, incredulously. “You will force me to marry you?”

“I dinna think there will be force involved,” he said softly. His gaze moved to her mouth.

Desire pummeled through her. Margaret did not move.

He slowly looked up and into her eyes, a slight curve to his mouth. “Dinna tell me ye remain loyal to Sir Guy and yer uncle.”

“I despise Sir Guy.”

He smiled. “As ye should.”

“But I cannot betray my uncle by marrying you.”

“Come, we must go. This discussion can wait.” He stood, taking her with him. “Get dressed.”

Margaret started for her clothes chest. “Where are we going?”

“Scone.”

Margaret froze.

“Surely ye wish to come. Surely ye wish to be there fer Isabella—she will need a friend.”

Margaret began to shake.
He had come to Balvenie for Isabella!
Her thoughts tumbled. “Alexander! If you must pursue me, so be it! But leave poor Isabella alone! Do not make her betray her husband! Please!”

He hardened. “Get dressed, Margaret. Now.”

She began to shake wildly, but did as he demanded. She rushed to her chest and took out her clothing, thinking about the fact that he hadn’t just come for her—although she had no doubt he meant to marry her, if she would ever relent. He had come to abduct Isabella and force her to commit treachery against her husband—and treason against King Edward.

She turned to him. “Treason is a hanging offense.”

“Isabella will be kept safe.”

“Buchan will hang her himself!” she cried. “And if he does not, King Edward will hang her!”

He strode to her and took her arm and shook her, once. “Get dressed, now.” His eyes were hard. “We killed a few of the guards, but the others will soon awaken.”

Immediately she thought of Sir Ranald, who had been left behind to take care of her. “Sir Ranald? Please, tell me you did not kill him!”

“Get dressed.”

Again he was the man she so often feared and hated, a man who would not compromise, not when driven to achieve his own ends. Margaret turned away and now saw that her door was wide open. Torches lit up the hall beyond it. She suddenly glimpsed one of her uncle’s soldiers, lying crumpled upon the floor. She did not know if he was dead or unconscious.

She gave him her back and stripped off the ankle-length robe she slept in. She quickly donned her cote and surcote. She was frantic as she tried to do the cords of her girdle.

How could she help Isabella? Her friend was not strong. She was gentle, playful and young for her age. Margaret could manage these intrigues. But Isabella did not deserve to be a political pawn.

Buchan would hunt her down, she was certain. If Isabella consensually helped crown Bruce, he would hurt her terribly for such disloyalty.

Alexander seized the girdle and took it from her. “Yer shaking as if yer afraid of me.”

“I do fear you,” she said, looking up. “But right now, I am afraid for Isabella, not myself.”

He handed her the soft boots she wore when riding. “When will ye ever trust me? If I tell ye we’ll keep her safe, that is what we will do. Bruce is not like Buchan. He rewards those who are faithful to him.” Grasping her arm, he guided her into the hallway.

Margaret was relieved that the men who lay in the hall were clearly unconscious, and not dead. But Sir Ranald was not amongst them.

Isabella’s chamber—which she shared with her husband—was at the far end of the corridor. Her door was wide open, and she was rushing out as Margaret approached, her dark hair in one long braid, her eyes bright with excitement, her cheeks flushed. “Margaret! You are coming with us?” She sounded surprised and pleased. And she was smiling.

“Isabella, do not voluntarily go with these men!” Margaret cried. “If ever there is a time to come to your senses, it is now!”

“I haven’t lost my common sense,” Isabella returned, her smile fading. “Oh, Margaret, be happy! Bruce will be crowned at Scone!”

How could she dissuade her now? “You must stop now and think about the consequences of what you intend to do! What of your marriage? You have a good marriage, Isabella, and Buchan loves you. He will be furious and he will never forgive you.”

A very stubborn look crossed Isabella’s face. “I don’t care.”

“You don’t mean that,” Margaret cried. “You can’t mean that!”

“I do mean it. I do not care about John! Will you come with me? Please? I need you, Margaret!”

“I doubt I have a choice, but I would not betray my uncle, or this family, Isabella. If I go with you, I am being forced to do so.” But as she spoke, she glanced at Alexander, feeling as if her words were hollow.