Brenda Joyce (28 page)

They were heavily armed, clad in mail, their visors down. Abruptly, she halted her mare. Her heart skidded in fear and alarm.

The dozen knights surrounded her. One lifted his visor as he trotted directly to her. It was Sir Guy, and he stared, surprised. “Lady Margaret!”

She somehow wet her lips. “Sir Guy. Good evening. I have come to see William. Is he still alive?”

His eyes wide, he studied her. “Yes. Is this a trap?” He scanned the land beyond her.

“No, this is not a trap—I am entirely alone,” she said tersely.

His gaze slammed back to hers. “He let you go.”

“Please—we can discuss this later. I am desperate to see my brother.”

His stare remained searching—and now, she did not think his expression particularly welcoming. She tensed. She hadn’t had the time to wonder if he might be suspicious of her relationship with Alexander—now that so many knew that they were, indeed, lovers.

He moved his steed against her mare and caught her arm. “This is a surprising but pleasing turn, Lady Margaret.” And before she could object, he lifted her from his horse and placed her in the saddle in front of him.

Heat exploded in her cheeks. His arm tightened around her waist, and he was galloping back over the drawbridge and through the entry tower. “I look forward to your tale, Margaret, for I cannot imagine how you persuaded Alexander to release you.”

His breath brushed her ear as she spoke. She shuddered with distaste. “I have no intention of escaping, Sir Guy, if that is why you removed me from my mare. I am here of my own free will, sir.”

“I take no chances now,” he said, sounding pleased. “My God, I have Castle Fyne—and I have you.”

She trembled again, deciding not to speak—as any response that came to mind would most likely annoy or provoke him. But one thing was clear. Twice he had referred to her having been released; he believed she had been kept against her will.

He did not know of her affair. Not yet, anyway.

“Can you take me immediately to my brother, sir? Please?” Margaret asked, as calmly as she could.

“Of course. And afterward, we will...discuss...matters.”

She closed her eyes in sheer dread. She now recalled how he had wished for a Highland handfasting at Balvenie, and she had little doubt he would wish to marry her and consummate their marriage as swiftly as possible now.

But she would worry about Sir Guy later. First, she must see Will.

And as they trotted across the courtyard, a great many men and women waved at her, calling out to her. Margaret recognized most of them.

“Wave back,” Sir Guy said softly. “They adore you. I see that now. They adore the lady of Castle Fyne.”

Margaret waved dutifully back.

“Alexander was a fool to release you to me,” he said in her ear.

They had reached the stairs leading to the great hall. Sir Guy had only halted his horse and loosened his grip upon her, but Margaret was already leaping to the ground. She did not want to consider his meaning. “Where is Will?”

“He has the chamber next to mine.”

Margaret lifted her skirts and raced up the wooden steps, running through the hall. Several maids rushed after her. “Can we help ye, Lady Margaret?”

Margaret recognized Eilidh’s sister, Marsaili. “Is my chest still here? I will need my potions, surely, to attend my brother.”

“Yes, and I will retrieve it fer ye,” the second woman said.

Margaret recognized the woman who had been beside her on the ramparts, fighting off the invaders, during Alexander’s siege.

She reached Will’s door. It was open, and she halted there. There was so much blood. Will was so pale. And he was unconscious.

Margaret steeled herself, then she strode into the chamber.

Before she woke him up, she looked at his bandaged thigh—the linen soaked through with blood. A sword had clearly sliced through an artery. If he was still bleeding, he would certainly die!

“I need more linens,” Margaret said, praying she sounded calm. “And I need a strong pair of hands—preferably male hands—in case we must stanch this again.”

Will’s lashes lifted. “Meg?” He was weak and disbelieving.

She knelt beside him, clasping his face and kissing his cheek. “Yes, I am here. I am going to take care of you, Will.”

“I can’t believe it...how did you come? And did I dream it or is Sir Guy here, as well?”

Will did not know of her divided loyalties. “Sir Guy has taken Castle Fyne from the Wolf, Will. And you must not speak, you must save your strength! I will look at your leg.”

“Thank God,” he murmured, eyes closing.

She touched his forehead, which was damp with sweat and hot with a fever. He was already fighting an infection.

Margaret waited until the maid had returned with a young Highland lad before she began to peel away the bloody bandages. To her relief, the wound had been cauterized and the bleeding had stopped. But the terrible gash was inflamed with an infection.

Marsaili returned with her chest. Margaret smiled at her grimly. “Now we will save my brother’s life,” she said.

* * *

S
IR
G
UY
WAS
seated at the table in the great hall, still, when she paused on its threshold several hours later. She tried to control her dismay. She had hoped he would have gone to bed, though she had not thought that likely.

Instead, she had suspected that he would wait up for her—and she had been right.

Sir Guy looked at her, a mug of wine in his hands. He did not stand. But his gaze skimmed her bloodstained gown.

“I apologize for my appearance, Sir Guy,” Margaret said, refusing to enter the hall. Everyone else within it was sleeping upon their pallets, except for two serving maids. They hovered not far from Sir Guy.

“Is your brother alive?”

Margaret tensed. She did not think Sir Guy cared whether William lived or died. “Yes. But he has lost a great deal of blood and an infection has set in.”

“Do you think he will live?”

“He will live,” Margaret flared, and then she reminded herself to hold her emotions in check.

Sir Guy slowly stood. “If you are angry, be angry with MacDonald, not me. His men delivered the blow to your brother’s leg, not mine.”

She trembled. Of course William had been fighting with Sir Guy, against Alexander, to liberate the keep. Yet she hadn’t had time to dwell on that fact.

“And William was only here because MacDonald refused to ransom him,” Sir Guy added with a slight smile.

Was he trying to drive a wedge between her and Alexander? Yet why would he even think to do so? He did not know they were anything other than a captor and a captive. But he did speak the truth. If Alexander had ransomed William—or simply freed him—he would not have remained at Castle Fyne, and he would not be fighting for his life now. “William has been a prisoner here since February. As soon as he is well, I would like to send him home to Balvenie.”

“Are you asking my permission?” Sir Guy seemed surprised. “I am lord here, but I am not lord over your brother. I already sent word to Buchan, by the way, telling him of my conquest, and of Will being wounded.”

She wished he hadn’t done so. “Then we will hear from him in return.” She forced a smile. “Sir Guy, I must beg you to dismiss me. We rode for two days straight, and then I tended my brother. I am exhausted, I must change my clothes—and then I wish to stay with William. He needs my care.”

Sir Guy smiled oddly. “We have a great deal to discuss, Lady Margaret. If you wish to change your soiled gown, you may do so later.” He gestured. “Sit down.”

It was not a request, nor was it uttered as one. Margaret felt her heart lurch with dismay, and she slowly crossed the room. Sir Guy did not move, his stare unwavering upon her. When she sat, he poured wine from a vessel into a mug and handed it to her. Then he glanced at one of the maids, standing nervously in the corner, and ordered food for her.

Margaret stared grimly at her wine, as Sir Guy sat down on the bench beside her. “There is great talk in the land,” he said.

She tensed, but not because his big thigh was against hers. She looked up at him, praying gossip of her affair had not reached him.

His gray gaze was steady upon hers. “Bruce was crowned king at Scone,” he said flatly. It was not a question.

Was she to admit having been there? She had come with Alexander, so of course she would have been there.

“Not once, but twice,” he continued, almost softly. “Will you deny it? Will you deny being a witness to the coronation?”

She held her mug now tightly with two hands. “No.”

“And the Countess of Buchan led him to the throne?”

She inhaled. So the news was out. “Yes.”

Sir Guy smiled. “They say MacDonald came for her in the middle of the night, that he took her directly from her own bed.”

She was shaking now. “Yes, that is what happened.”

“They say she was not forced—they say she was more than willing.”

She wet her lips and shook her head. “No.”

“No?” His brows lifted.

She must lie for Isabella, she thought, feeling desperate. “Bruce meant to use her no matter what, Sir Guy. She decided to cooperate. She did not have a choice!”

He studied her. “The gossip is vicious, Lady Margaret, truly vicious. They say she was thrilled to crown him...and that she shares his bed.”

Margaret looked helplessly at him.

“I have spies,” Sir Guy said, “in a few places, mostly in the south. But Aymer, my brother, has spies amongst Bruce’s most trusted men.”

Margaret went still, immediately thinking of Atholl.

“You are pale,” he said softly. “Surely, you do not have something to hide?”

“No,” she managed to answer. And she said, not just because she wished to change the topic, “Isabella had no choice!”

“She had no choice but to crown Bruce—or to bed him? Please, do not tell me the mighty Bruce forced her to bed! The man has slept with half of the women in England. Soon, he will sleep with half the women in Scotland.”

She was silent, thinking frantically, wishing she hadn’t seen Isabella in Bruce’s bed—for then it would be so easy to dissemble. And if Sir Guy knew all of this, didn’t her uncle?

There would be no saving her marriage, she realized. But Isabella did not wish for it to be saved, anyway.

“And you, Lady Margaret?” he asked softly.

She flinched. “I beg your pardon?”

“What choices have you had?”

His gray stare was mesmerizing. “I do not comprehend you,” she tried, but she did. She knew exactly where he meant to go.

“You were at the coronation.”

“Yes.”

“And you had no choice but to attend?”

She felt her cheeks begin to warm. “I was curious. And I was there—at Scone Abbey....” She trailed off. Oh, God, what would he say and do, next?

“Yes, you were there.... When he came for Isabella at Balvenie, did MacDonald take you from your bed, as well?”

She wanted to glance away, but his stare was so relentless that she could not look aside. “I was asleep when they intruded.”

“I can only imagine,” he said, unsmiling. “You were asleep, and you awoke to what? A fight in the hall below?”

She stared into his expressionless gray eyes. “The fighting did not awaken me. I awoke...when he seized me.”

He made a harsh, amused sound. “Of course he seized you in your bed. How frightened you must have been.”

Her cheeks were on fire now. “I was not frightened, Sir Guy. I had already been his captive for almost a month. Had he wished to hurt me, he would have done so while I was a prisoner here.”

“You are such a clever woman,” he murmured. “And now you will tell me that he abducted you, as well?”

“No.” She shook her head, her heart thundering. “I was afraid for Isabella. I knew what they intended. I had overheard them discussing her here, at Castle Fyne, that single night Bruce was with us. She is so young, so reckless! I decided to go with them to attempt to keep her safe—to try to thwart their schemes to use her! But as you know, I failed. Isabella is headstrong.”

He studied her. Then he turned his relentless gaze away, finally. As he reached for his wine, Margaret almost collapsed.

But she knew this respite would be brief, she knew another attack was forthcoming.

He drank for a moment, then he glanced at her. “You went willingly with him.”

“Because of Isabella.”

“Yes, because of Isabella, because you are such a loyal friend—when you do not share a drop of blood.”

“She is married to my uncle. I advised her, again and again, of the fate of her marriage, should she help his worst enemy.”

“And did you advise her to stay out of Bruce’s bed?”

“Yes, I did!”

“And you, Lady Margaret? All this advice you dispense, out of loyalty, with such sincerity, do you follow any of it, yourself?” He stood, legs braced.

She was too tired to stand, yet she did not like him towering over her—and she was afraid of his insinuations. “I am doing my best, Sir Guy, in these treacherous times.”

“MacDonald has become fond of you.
Fond.
I comprehend his offer of marriage—he seeks what I seek—legitimacy of ownership here. But now he is
fond
of you. Just how fond has he become?”

She managed to stand up. Did he know of her affair, or not? Was he fishing—or was he playing cat and mouse? “I refused his offer of marriage, Sir Guy!” she cried. “Not once, but several times.”

“So he has asked you directly?” His eyes were wide. “That begs the question then—has he seduced you?”

She was overcome with panic. How could she answer when she was a terrible liar? When lying was the only possible answer?

“Why do I even ask?” He shook his head then. “You are so loyal—even to Isabella—you are too loyal to Buchan to betray him by sleeping with the enemy! But he has tried, hasn’t he? He has tried to seduce you.”

Tears had arisen. It was a sign of her desperation. Why hadn’t she married Alexander? This man would learn the truth, eventually, and then he would hurt her! Somehow, she nodded.

“Why did he release you?” Sir Guy demanded. “Did you use your wiles upon him?”