Brenda Joyce (27 page)

Margaret bit her lip, suddenly filled with compassion and understanding—how could she not be? She worried every bit as much about Alexander. And as she had that thought, he caught her arm from behind.

She turned, her heart slamming. “My leaving doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“One day, ye will realize ye changed yer loyalties long ago, and ye now live a charade.” He was unsmiling and grim. “Let us hope that day isn’t a day too late.”

She took his unyielding hand. “Is it true? Did you have to convince Bruce to let me return home?”

“He wants us wed.” He glanced down at their locked hands. “He thinks I’m a fool.”

“Then how did you ever manage to persuade him?”

“He needs my sword and he needs my men. He needs my brothers and their armies.” His grasp suddenly tightened. “I am trying not to be angry, because I ken ye so well. It is late. Let’s go to bed. We leave early on the morrow.”

Her heart raced. Even such a strong disagreement could not diminish the attraction and affection they shared. And they had so little time, she thought, gripping his hand more tightly. She didn’t want to even ask when she would next see him again.

She heard rushed footsteps, and then someone was calling Alexander’s name as the front doors to the abbey slammed. Padraig’s son and the messenger, Seoc, rushed into the hall, his brat dusted with snowflakes.

She felt frozen. Hadn’t Seoc come from Castle Fyne?

Alexander hurried to him. “What has happened?” he demanded.

Seoc was muddy, damp and breathing hard. “My lord! Castle Fyne is under attack.”

Margaret felt the floor tilt.
Sir Guy had finally attacked.

“Is it Sir Guy?” Alexander demanded.

“Aye, and he has two or three thousand men and perhaps a hundred knights!”

Margaret could not breathe. Sir Guy was no fool, oh, no! He probably knew she was with Alexander, and perhaps even at Scone with Scotland’s new king!

Alexander was already striding past her, toward the stairs. Margaret rushed after him, tripping in her haste. He did not stop for her, hurrying up them with long strides. Lifting her skirts, she followed.

And at the top of the steps, two huge Highlanders barred his way. Both were heavily armed.

“I must speak with the king,” Alexander said. “I have urgent news.”

Panting, Margaret paused behind Alexander as one guard went to the first closed door and knocked upon it. “A messenger has come, Your Majesty, and Alexander MacDonald says he must speak with you!”

A brief moment passed. But then the door opened, revealing Bruce, barefoot and in a simple leine. His hair was disheveled, his color high. Margaret could see past him into a large chamber, illuminated by the fire within. Isabella lay there in its bed, amidst the blankets, which were loosely draped about her obviously naked body, her long hair loose and flowing about her bare shoulders.

Margaret knew she could not worry about their open affair now, but she was terribly dismayed.

“What passes?” Bruce demanded, his eyes flashing.

“Sir Guy has attacked Castle Fyne with two or three thousand men. May I have yer permission to relieve the siege and defend the keep?” Alexander asked, speaking swiftly and sharply.

“You have my permission. And Alexander—make damn certain we do not lose Castle Fyne to the English!” Bruce said harshly.

Alexander did not reply, but Margaret knew he meant to do more than keep the castle; he meant to finally kill Sir Guy. She stepped forward, trembling, aware of her own audacity now. “Take me with you.”

Both men saw her at once. In unison, they turned to regard her. Alexander seemed incredulous, but Bruce stared, his speculation obvious.

Their scrutiny was unnerving. She inhaled. “Castle Fyne is mine—it is my legacy from my mother. I must go with Alexander!” She was pleading with the king, her gaze locked with his.

She instantly saw that Alexander meant to object. But before he could speak, Bruce held up his hand.

He stepped forward, past Alexander. His relentless gaze upon her and her alone, he spoke to Alexander. “Defeat Sir Guy—kill him, if you can—and take Lady Margaret with you.” He slowly smiled at her. “After all, it is her home—and that is where she should be.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
HEY
MADE
CAMP
along the pebbled shores of Loch Riddon, the high, rocky peaks of Cruach Nan Cuilean looming over them. They had ridden without pause for two days and two nights. The firs and pine crept almost to the shores of the loch itself, leaving a long but narrow clearing for Alexander’s men. Margaret hugged herself, so exhausted she could barely stand, as Dughall and another lad erected Alexander’s tent at the forest’s edge. Around her, his men were swiftly preparing for the night ahead. She ignored the sight of so many tents and cook fires being prepared, so many horses being watered and fed, so many arrowheads and knives being sharpened. Instead, she stared at the mountain.

Sir Guy had attacked Castle Fyne.

Even now, her home was under siege.

She rubbed her forearms, the afternoon chilling. Inwardly, she felt sick, as she had for the past two days. The prospect of her home falling under Sir Guy’s control was terrifying. She had finally realized she could not marry him, no matter how Buchan wished for the alliance, no matter how greatly it served the Comyn family. But if it did fall, what would happen to her?

She knew she must worry over far greater matters than her own tiny future. But if Castle Fyne fell, Buchan would never release her from the impending union with Sir Guy.

She glanced across the encampment, where Alexander spoke with some of his best Highland soldiers. His expression had not changed since they had left Scone Abbey—it was set with determination. He would not lose Castle Fyne.

She did not want to think about what he had told her about his deceased wife now, but she did. He had become involved with her for revenge—he had said so. And he had gone to battle, not for his mistress, who would later become his wife, but for Glen Carron, the stronghold he wished to possess.

She was certain that Alexander cared for her. But if Castle Fyne fell, would he be as eager to take her to wife? Would he wish to take her to wife at all? After all, she was already his mistress, and she would bring nothing to their union!

But she might not even have that choice. She wished her last thoughts were not screaming at her, but they were. If Sir Guy conquered the castle, there would be so much pressure brought upon her to go forward with the marriage....

The shadows of the late afternoon were lengthening. Alexander had dismissed his men, and he was starting toward her. Margaret glanced up at Cruach Nan Cuilean, remembering the last time she had been within its reach. She would never forget how Alexander had fought over her—and Castle Fyne—with Sir Guy then. She would never forget how it had ended—in hatred, with threats. Sir Guy had sworn to kill Alexander. Since then, his desire for vengeance had escalated. Since then, his hatred had grown. And since that battle, Alexander had vowed to kill Sir Guy.

It had become a blood feud.

She was afraid of what might happen when they next met—perhaps tomorrow—on the battlefield.

Alexander’s tent now stood entirely aloft, his banner flying above it. As he approached, she felt her knees buckle.

He caught her, some alarm in his eyes. “I would never wish ye here!” he exclaimed. “Only Robert would think to send ye with me.”

“I am tired. Some rest and I will be fine,” she said, but it felt like a lie. She was so frightened about the morrow. She was so frightened about the entire future!

“I canna worry about ye now, Margaret, yet that is what I must do.” He released her grimly, his gaze veering past her, as if he wished to espy the enemy upon the horizon.

She studied him. His focus was on Sir Guy and Castle Fyne, not her. She said softly, “He plots to marry us, even with Castle Fyne under attack.”

He started, his gaze veering back to her. “’Tis in everyone’s better interest, Margaret, even yers.”

She would not argue that last point now. She did not know if he was right or wrong. But it was even more tempting now than before to accept his offer of marriage. If she did, no matter what happened next, she would be out of Sir Guy’s reach. Buchan could not force her into wedlock.

She thought about her mother, wishing she were alive to advise her.

“Ye should rest. Go lie down, Margaret, as I have a great deal to do.”

“How can I rest—when I am so worried?”

“I will turn the English back,” he said fiercely. “Sir Guy is a coward, and tomorrow, ye will see as much.”

Once again, she thought of how much the two men hated one another, and of the vows they had made. “If only there were a way to negotiate!” she cried. “If only there were a way to avoid all the bloodshed and death!” And if only there was a way to ensure that Alexander and Sir Guy did not come face-to-face. Yet that was unlikely, and she knew it.

“This is war. I must take Castle Fyne back.” His blue eyes had never been as hard, as dark.

She stared unhappily at him.

“Come, Margaret. We both ken ye dinna wish to marry him now. We both ken ye’d rather I win the keep.”

In that moment, she knew what her heart wished—it finally, truly wished for Alexander to defeat Sir Guy, for him to retake her castle! “Yes,” she whispered.

“Of all of us, ye ken how much Sir Guy lusts fer Castle Fyne. No matter the size of my army, he willna surrender now. There is nothing to negotiate,” Alexander added, his expression hard and set, his tone final. Then, “Yer dismayed. Why?”

“You always speak the truth.” She could not smile. “What if the battle does not go well?”

“It will go well.” He was even more adamant now. “I won Castle Fyne and it is mine. And I want ye, Margaret, as my wife. I will have both.”

She met his intent gaze. Just then, it was impossible to think he would not succeed in attaining his ambitions.

Alexander suddenly stiffened. Margaret realized that he was listening to the sounds of the impending night, and then she heard approaching hoofbeats. A rider was coming into their camp at a reckless gallop—but why?

Alexander’s expression changed and he turned toward the sound, as did Margaret. A horseman approached from the west. The direction of Castle Fyne.

“I sent my spies ahead this morning,” Alexander said tersely. He started toward the horseman, who was now trotting through the makeshift tents and standing men.

Margaret quickly followed Alexander, although she could not keep up with him. Padraig appeared from some other corner of the camp, as did several more of his most trusted Highlanders. She tried to increase her pace, now outdistanced, as Alexander reached up and seized the spy’s bridle.

She lifted her skirts and ran, staggering somewhat. By the time she reached the group of men, Alexander’s face was dark with anger. “What is it? What has happened?”

He slowly turned, his blue eyes aflame. “We’re too late.”

“What do you mean?” she cried.

“He breached the gates hours ago—Castle Fyne has fallen.”

Margaret felt as if she had been struck in the chest. Her mind began to race.

Sir Guy had Castle Fyne—finally. She trembled, suddenly ill. Oh, God, now what should she do? She could not marry him, not for her family, and not even to get her legacy back! But he had just positioned himself in such a manner that she might have no choice. She flinched, tears arising, and met Alexander’s burning gaze.

“I will not let ye go to him.” His tone was hard, but controlled. It was a warning. “Ye will not return to Balvenie.”

She breathed hard. She didn’t want to go to Sir Guy! But did he deny her freedom now?

She rubbed her temples, trying to sort through this new, terrible crisis. “Will we now attempt a siege? You besieged the keep once—and you triumphed.”

It was a moment before he spoke. “We besieged the keep when there were but forty or fifty men within. Sir Guy has a huge army.”

His meaning dawned. “You will not attempt a siege?” She was disbelieving.

“There is no time,” he said, fists clenched.

“What do you mean?” she cried.

Alexander strode to her. “I was to defend the castle—and return to join Bruce. He needs me and my army in the north.”

“So you will turn your back on Castle Fyne? You will allow Sir Guy this triumph?”

“I allow nothing,” he said harshly. Then, “I had planned to attack his flank, Margaret, while he besieged the keep. But the garrison there fell too quickly. A siege now could take weeks—but more likely, it would take months—and Bruce does not have weeks or months. As soon as word of his coronation spreads, King Edward will send forth every single man he can muster. The war for Scotland’s crown begins.”

She hugged herself, still in disbelief. God, Buchan would put her under terrible pressure to marry Sir Guy. And all while Alexander fought with Bruce to keep Scotland’s crown! And where would she now go? To Queen Elisabeth’s court?

“There is more.”

Alexander had spoken so tersely that she cringed. Margaret dared to look up at him, knowing whatever he meant to reveal it would not be in their better interest.

“Yer brother was wounded in the siege.”

She gasped. “William was hurt?”

“Aye.”

Margaret began to shake. William had been wounded. Her only living brother, whom she had not seen in over a month.... Fear clawed at her. “Oh, God—how badly is he hurt?”

“Badly.”

She could not move, and for a moment, she could not speak. Then, “Is he dying?”

Alexander grimaced.

She hit him, hard, across his huge forearm, and pain shot through her hand. “Tell me!” she screamed. “Is he dying?”

“I dinna ken,” he shouted back, a roar. “But he is badly wounded, so aye, he could die, there is that chance!”

She hit him again, but weakly, and this time, she was crying.

But she knew what she must do—what her duty was now. Then the words came forth, unbidden. “I am going to him.”

He grasped her by her arms. “If ye go to him, Sir Guy willna let ye go, ye will be his prisoner—and then ye will become his wife.”

She fought for air. She knew he was right. Sir Guy would hold her against her will. He would control her fate. She would become his wife.

But if William died, and she did not see him first, she would never be able to live with herself. “Let me go,” she managed to say. “Get me a horse. Take me to my brother.”

Roughly, he released her. He gave her one last look—his expression hard. To his men, he said, “Take her to Castle Fyne.”

And she began to realize what was truly happening. Tears fell. “Alexander,” she whispered.

But his back was turned; he walked away.

* * *

C
ASTLE
F
YNE
WAS
ahead. Everyone halted their horses at the edge of the woods, the castle above them, atop the hill. And then the bells in the watchtower began tolling.

Margaret felt sick. They had ridden out of the camp immediately, as she could not wait until dawn to see William. By dawn, he could be dead.

There had been no time to send a messenger, no time to do anything other than to mount up and ride out. The shadows of the late afternoon had given way to the fading light of dusk. A crescent moon was emerging in the purple sky above the keep.

A dozen Highland soldiers had accompanied her. Margaret’s mare was in their midst, Alexander astride his gray stallion at their forefront. He had not spoken to her since she had decided that she would go to William—and put herself in Sir Guy’s command.

If she were not so frightened for her brother, she would be deathly afraid of what her actions meant, not just for her, but for her relationship with Alexander. But she only knew she must see William, and that he must not die. He was the only family that she had left!

Alexander turned his stallion so he partially faced her—but he did not look at her. “Ye will ride alone from here. Identify yerself to the watch.”

She flinched, for his tone was so impassive. It was as if he had also made a decision not to care. She stared, but he would not make eye contact with her.

She lifted her reins. “Alexander.”

He signaled his men, who turned their mounts around, in preparation of returning to Loch Riddon. “Ye should hurry, while there’s still some light,” he said. He waved his men forward.

“Alexander!” she cried. But she did not know what to say, because the only words that came to mind were wildly inappropriate:
I love you.

“Godspeed.” He spurred his stallion into a trot and then a canter.

She watched, incredulous, as she was left there alone, a short distance from the barbican. He had not looked at her, not even once. And that hurt so much.

But what had she expected? She was riding into a castle under Sir Guy’s command. Of course he disapproved.

But if he cared for her, wouldn’t he say something in farewell?

Alexander had caught up to his men, but he suddenly halted. He turned and, from across the glade, he looked at her.

Tears blurred her vision. And she almost considered giving up her desperate need to see William—she almost spurred her own mare and galloped back to him.

But what if Will died? She could not live with herself if she turned her back on him, and she knew her mother would feel the same if she were alive.

Margaret lifted her hand.

That brief instant stretched into an eternity. Then Alexander whirled his stallion and galloped into the forest, disappearing from her view.

She choked on her grief, staring at the woods where she had last seen him. And then she summoned up every ounce of determination she had. It was over; it was time.

Margaret turned her mare and urged her into a trot, up the hill and toward Castle Fyne. As she did, archers appeared on the ramparts above her. The bells continued to toll.

She realized she was crying—that tears were sliding helplessly down her face. She already missed Alexander. She would always miss him.

But so be it. Margaret used her sleeve to dry her cheeks, and then she drew her hood down to reveal her unusually colored hair. Cries began to sound from the castle’s walls. She had been recognized.

And by the time she reached the barbican the front gates had been opened. But before she could pass through them, a group of armed knights thundered through the entry tower, over the drawbridge and across the barbican toward her.