Brenda Joyce (29 page)

“No! He never kept me prisoner—because he is fond of me! I went to Scone with Isabella of my own volition! And Alexander had agreed to allow me to return to Balvenie when we received the news of your attack here.” She was shaking now. She felt as if she would soon fall over.

Sir Guy was now truly surprised. “MacDonald let you return here—and he was about to allow you to return to Balvenie! And you are a valuable prize!” Sir Guy was thoughtful now. “MacDonald has become a fool. But why would Bruce release you?”

“I begged Bruce to let me go with Alexander when we heard of your attack. I do not know why he agreed, I swear to that! But he also wishes for a union between myself and Alexander—I think he thought Alexander would take Castle Fyne from you, and I would then marry him.”

“A grave miscalculation on Bruce’s part—and it will not be his final error,” Sir Guy said. Mug in hand, he slowly paced back and forth in front of her.

Margaret had to sit back down. She could not stop trembling. “Sir Guy? I do not feel well,” she said, and she meant it. She was dizzy and light-headed now. The room was beginning to sway.

He planted his hands on his hips. “I cannot believe they let you go! But they did—MacDonald, the mighty Wolf, and Bruce, the mighty king. And now, all is to my advantage.” He smiled, hard, with satisfaction.

She was going to swoon, she thought, from sheer fatigue, yet she must not do so, because Sir Guy was the enemy, and William needed her!

“Lady Margaret, we will be married this night,” he said.

Margaret heard him, in horror, as the hall turned black.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

M
ARGARET
AWOKE
AND
instantly recognized the chamber she was in. It had once been her parents’, and then so recently, it had become hers, but only briefly—only until Alexander had besieged Castle Fyne. Her gaze veered to the suit of mail hanging on a peg on the wall.

The bedchamber was now Sir Guy’s.

She trembled. She was at Castle Fyne, and William was seriously ill, but she was Sir Guy’s captive, whether he said so or not.

“My lady!” Marsaili cried, rushing to her side. “Here, take a sip of wine.”

Her heart had sunk with dismay and even fear. She recalled the terrible conversation she had just had with Sir Guy. Was he suspicious of her loyalties? It seemed so. And he had said that they would consummate their marriage that very night.

Margaret quickly looked past the maid, but no one else stood in her bedchamber, much to her relief. She sat up breathlessly, her heart thudding, but she no longer felt faint. Could she fend off Sir Guy? She must—but how? And even if she succeeded in denying him the consummation he wished for, what would happen when he heard the rumors of her affair with Alexander? Would he believe her denials? Her lies?

For those rumors would reach him, sooner or later.

Margaret took a sip of the wine. She had fainted in the great hall below once before, only to be carried upstairs by Alexander. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then.

And now, she compared the two times, the two men. When Alexander had rescued her from a swoon, she had been oddly grateful. There was no gratitude now. Even when she had been Alexander’s prisoner of war, she had felt safe and protected. She was not confirmed as Sir Guy’s prisoner, but she had no doubt she would not be allowed much freedom of movement, making her a veritable captive. And this time, she did not feel safe, not at all. She felt as if she were in dire jeopardy.

And she was in danger, was she not? Her entire future was at stake. What was she to do?

Would Sir Guy come for her shortly?

If he forced her to bed, they would not be considered man and wife, under Highland tradition. Tradition held she must consent to the marriage. But he could claim otherwise, and who would know the truth?

Margaret slid her legs over the bed, standing. “Did I sleep for very long?” she asked. How she hoped it was close to sunrise!

“Only a moment, my lady.” She smiled, but with concern.

Margaret did not know if the maid was worried because she had fainted, or because she now lay in Sir Guy’s bed. “I wish to tend my brother.” William needed her, and she could use William as an excuse to hold off Sir Guy. “But first, I would like to get out of this gown.”

“I can wash the gown fer ye tomorrow, lady, but in the meantime, I only have a leine fer ye.”

Margaret now saw the pale, saffron-colored tunic lying upon the foot of the bed. Clearly it had been left there for her. “That will do. I am hardly a stranger to Highland garb.”

“Aye, I recall ye wearing just such a leine the last time ye were with us,” Marsaili said, smiling. “How is my sister?” She began helping Margaret remove her surcote.

“Eilidh is a wonderful help to me, and I wish she were here,” Margaret said, meaning it. By now, both Peg and Eilidh knew she had gone with Alexander to Scone and that Bruce had been crowned there. They would not be very worried about her.

“She is a good woman,” Marsaili said, with pride.

Margaret trembled from the cold as she removed her cote, left only in her chemise, which came to midthigh.

“I’ll add more wood to the fire, lady, before ye come back to bed.”

Margaret was going to tell her not to bother, as she would spend the night in William’s chamber, when she heard a movement outside her closed door. Dread arose. And then the door opened.

Sir Guy smiled at her.

Margaret seized the leine and held it against her breasts as Sir Guy leaned against the door, smiling. Staring at Margaret, he said to Marsaili, “Leave us.”

Margaret was afraid. Worse, she was almost naked. She did not like Sir Guy’s stare or his smile, and she did not want the maid to leave, but she could hardly ask her to stay. Marsaili glanced at her for approval, but Margaret could not look away from Sir Guy.

“Leave us,” Sir Guy snapped, annoyed at her failure to obey.

Marsaili fled past him.

* * *

S
IR
G
UY
’
S
HARSH
expression eased as his gaze moved to the tunic she held, and then to the hem of her chemise, as if he could look through it, and then down her bare legs. “I have always thought you beautiful,” he said flatly.

Oh, my God,
Margaret thought, her grasp on the tunic tightening. She knew what he wanted. “Sir Guy, please allow me to dress.”

He pushed himself off of the door and strode toward her. “So you are modest?” He took the tunic from her hands and tossed it to the floor. “I am enjoying the sight of you. You please me, Margaret—and we will soon be wed.”

Margaret backed up, certain he could see through her thin chemise. She debated telling him they would never wed—but was afraid that would inflame him. “Our wedding is in June.” She tried to sound calm.

He caught her by her arm and pulled her forward. “Do not be afraid of me, my dear,” he murmured.

“If you wish to speak with me, please, allow me to clothe myself!”

His gaze moved over her thinly veiled bosom before rising. “I have conquered Castle Fyne, Margaret, as I said I would—I have defeated the damned Wolf and I am the victor here.”

“I know,” she breathed, when she wished to point out that he had not, precisely, defeated Alexander. He had not been present to defend the keep from Sir Guy.

“Do you know how it feels, to triumph in war?” he asked, softly, his hand warm on her arm.

“No,” she answered breathlessly.

“It is a glorious feeling—there is no other feeling quite like it.”

She bit her lip, not responding—she had nothing to say. But she recognized the heat in his eyes.

“I want you, Margaret, very much.”

“You want Castle Fyne.” The moment she spoke, she was horrified. But she could not stop. “And you have Castle Fyne.”

“I want Castle Fyne, and my bride.”

His thighs were rock-hard against hers. And she recognized the state he was in. Alexander had taught her that. “You are holding me too tightly,” she gasped.

“But if I let you go, you will flee—I am certain. You cannot elude the man you are to wed, Margaret.”

“You are hurting me,” she cried, when that was not quite true.

He eased his grip, his regard puzzled. “Why do I frighten you so? Why do I believe you intend to resist me?” he asked, stroking his thumb across the line of her jaw. Margaret knew he was about to kiss her and she stiffened.

His mouth covered hers, and as it did, he closed his other hand over her breast.

Margaret cried out in protest, jerking back frantically. He locked her in his arms, kissing her deeply, thoroughly. Margaret wanted to scream at him, but she could not push away and break the kiss in order to do so.

He finally straightened, breathing hard, his gray eyes heated with lust. But he did not release her. “Why must you play the virgin now? A union is in both of our best interests.”

“My brother could be dying. He needs me.”

“I need you,” he said harshly. “I need to consummate this union, immediately, so no man can dispute my rights here.” The lust was gone from his eyes. Determination burned there.

“There is no one disputing your claim tonight!” She thought frantically. “William is deathly ill, and Buchan wishes for us to have a public wedding, in an English church!”

“God, you are disputing me!” His stare became searching. “Buchan would agree—all has changed, Margaret. I would expect you to be as eager as I am to have our union consummated—and to have my claim here strengthened, by right as well as might, so no man, not even the Wolf, will ever think to take Castle Fyne from us.”

“I cannot think straight, with William so badly wounded! But I know I must obey my uncle, Sir Guy.” She trembled, trying to put a small distance between them—he would not allow it. “Perhaps you should send him a letter?” She hoped to merely delay what seemed inevitable now.

“I am not sending him a letter, Margaret.” He pulled her abruptly into his embrace. “You are here and we will be man and wife in a matter of minutes.” He locked his arms around her and began to kiss her, hard.

Margaret struggled. “I do not consent to this marriage!” she screamed, tearing her mouth from his.

His eyes widened in shock. His grip became bruising and brutal, as if he might break her waist. “You do not consent?”

She shook her head. “I cannot marry you. I do not know you, you are English—I will not!”

“So your professions of loyalty to Buchan were a ploy?” Fury covered his face. He shook her hard. “You will not thwart me!”

She was crying as he used his body to push her backward toward the bed. Margaret tried to hit him with her fists. He ignored her blows, driving her down onto the bed and coming down on top of her. He caught her by her hair so hard she froze. His stare was ruthless now.

“Is it MacDonald?” he asked softly.

He meant to hurt her anyway, but she was afraid of what he would do if she ever admitted her love for Alexander. “Do not force me,” she whispered.

His grasp on her hair tightened, he kneed her thighs apart, and she cringed. But she knew better than to provoke him. She closed her eyes tightly, so as not to look at his savage, ugly face.

Suddenly, Margaret heard racing footsteps coming up the stairs, beyond the closed door and the corridor. Sir Guy heard them as well, for his entire body went still.

The booted steps were louder now, rushing toward the door, urgency filling the sound. The door flew open, and one of his men stood at the threshold.

“Sir Guy! A messenger has come—from your brother!”

Sir Guy’s eyes widened.

Margaret was still—she was afraid to move.

And then he looked at her, once. The look was hard and ugly—he would return. He leapt from the bed and strode across the chamber. And then he was gone.

For one more moment, Margaret still could not move.

And then her thoughts began. She had been given a respite—and it was the miracle she had prayed for.

Margaret leapt forward, seizing and shrugging on the leine as rapidly as possible. And then, about to run for the door, she collapsed by the wall, tears blinding her. She began to shake, wildly, uncontrollably. And she began to retch.

He had meant to rape her.

She gasped and gagged, hugging herself, in a ball, on the floor.

* * *

W
HEN
W
ILLIAM
’
S
FEVER
broke, it was dawn.

Margaret was disbelieving as she clasped his damp, cool brow. For until that moment, he had been burning up with a raging fever. But he was suddenly cool now—the fever was gone.

Was it another miracle?

Silently, she closed her eyes and thanked God.

When she opened them, she saw her brother, resting peacefully. Pale morning light was streaming into the chamber. She had been sitting with him ever since she had left Sir Guy’s chamber—when Aymer’s messenger had arrived. She had spent the past few hours keeping compresses with icy lake water on his body, forcing him to drink, and alternately begging him to get better. Doing so had made it easier for her not to think about what Sir Guy had tried to do—or what he might try to do another time.

Now, she grasped her brother’s damp, cool hand, hard. “Will! You have beaten the fever!” She raised it to her mouth and kissed it.

His lashes lifted and fell.

She leaned close and kissed his temple. “It is I, Margaret. You have been ill with fever—fighting an infection. We are at Castle Fyne.”

Will’s lashes rose again, and this time, blearily and without focus, he looked at her. “Meg?”

Before she could respond, she heard the door open. She stiffened, not turning as her stomach roiled, as dread consumed her, as fear laid its icy claws upon her.

Sir Guy said, “He will live?”

She inhaled, summoning up all of the strength and courage she had. Determined to pretend their previous encounter had not happened, she turned to him. “Yes, I believe so.”

His gaze moved over her before he glanced at William briefly. He was unshaven and bleary of eye; clearly, he had been up all night, also. “King Edward has appointed my brother Lord Lieutenant of Scotland.”

Margaret stared, keeping her expression blank. There had been talk of Aymer de Valence being given command of Scotland for months. She did not know how it affected her, Alexander or the war against Bruce, but it certainly gave Sir Guy great power. Had he been called away? How she hoped so. How she prayed it was so!

“Why are you not pleased? My brother now the might of England here! I will become one of the most powerful lords in Scotland, Margaret. You will become one of its reigning ladies.”

They would never be man and wife, not if she could help it. “Then this is a fortunate turn.”

“It is very fortunate—but not unexpected. Aymer is one of King Edward’s favorites—as he should be. Bruce cannot go up against my brother and win.”

Margaret stared expressionlessly—she wanted nothing more than to have Robert Bruce defeat Aymer—and Sir Guy.

Her loyalties had changed. There was no further doubt now.

The English were the enemy; Sir Guy was the enemy.

Her tension escalated impossibly at the realization.

Sir Guy glanced briefly at William again, who was watching them both as he listened to their conversation. “I must take my army back to Berwick to join my brother and his forces there. But when you are well enough, I imagine you will wish to return to Balvenie, or join us in this war.”

She trembled, praying for another miracle—his immediate departure.

Will nodded. “I long to fight Bruce, with the rest of my family.”