Brenda Joyce (11 page)

“I’m hardly jealous.” But as she spoke, an odd pang went through her. “I am angry and I am also sad. Because of your need for amusement, I have lost a friend.”

He suddenly swept off his mantle and threw it around her shoulders. “Sometimes, blessings come in disguise. ’Tis good to learn of her weaknesses now, before ye could be truly hurt.”

Margaret gazed up at him. Was he
concerned
for her? Did he
care
that her maid was now of questionable loyalty?

And was he right? Was it better to have learned now how easily Peg could betray her, rather than at a later time? Castle Fyne had been besieged and defeated, and Scotland was now in the throes of war. She could have asked Peg for aid in some way related to her predicament, never knowing that she might not be loyal. And what about later, when she meant to use trickery to see William? Would Peg keep her confidence? If Alexander asked her, upon his return from the battle, would she divulge it? “I suppose it is best that I learned of her true character, but I am hardly going to thank you for your part in all of this.”

He smiled. “I never thought ye would. Yer a strong, brave woman—ye need strong, brave allies.”

The scents hanging to his mantle began to waft over her. She smelled pine, fire, the sea...and man.

His smile vanished. He regarded her closely. “Sir Neil is a better ally. Ye can trust him.”

She hugged his mantle closer. Why was he telling her that she could trust Sir Neil? Again, she had the oddest notion that he cared. But she had to be wrong. “Why would you advise me like this?”

He hesitated, no longer smiling. “I admire ye, Lady Margaret, but yer very young and very untried. And ye have no champion now.”

“You cannot take that role. You cannot be my champion, not even in this moment—you are my
enemy.
”

His stare darkened. “We’re on opposing sides of a great war, but yer not my enemy.”

She inhaled, their gazes locked. She simply could not comprehend him, but he was fierce. It suddenly occurred to her that, if he hadn’t attacked her castle, even though on opposing sides of such a war, they could be friends. But she did not say so.

“And yer in my care. If I can advise ye, I will.” He had softened. “I must go, Lady Margaret.” He hesitated, his stare piercing. “It would please me greatly if ye dinna wish me dead.”

She stiffened. He was going to war. He might be defeated. He might even be killed. And that prospect should thrill her. Instead, she felt nothing but worry and dismay.

She said, very slowly, and choosing her words with great care, “I cannot wish you well, Alexander.”

He did not make a sound, but she thought she saw disappointment flaring in his eyes.

She added, “But I do not wish you ill.”

* * *

M
ARGARET
STOOD
ON
the bottom steps, gazing out into the great hall. How empty it now was.

Alexander had ridden out of the keep hours ago, astride his gray stallion, followed by his forty mounted knights. Margaret had watched from a window in the south tower as they rode through the entry tower and then the barbican, the MacDonald colors waving high above them. Outside the castle’s walls, the rest of his army had fallen into place behind him—first several more columns of mounted knights, and then hundreds upon hundreds of Highland foot soldiers.

She had watched him until he disappeared from view, as the path they traveled vanished into the forest, and then she had watched for another two hours, until his entire army was gone. And only then had she turned away from the window.

She stared into the empty great room. It was almost as if something were amiss with them gone. She almost expected to hear the clatter of spurs and the clank of swords and shields, as Alexander and his men filed in.

But they would not be returning from battle at this early evening hour. Alexander had probably attacked that afternoon—the march to the northernmost tip of the loch was only a few hours—or he might have decided to wait and attack tomorrow in the morning. Margaret wished she had asked. But he probably would not have told her his battle plans, anyway—no matter what he had said, she was his enemy.

Peg came into the hall and glanced at her, carrying a platter. Margaret had banished her to the kitchens before Alexander had even ridden away, so she could spend the day slaving over the hot ovens—so she could repent her sins. Thus far, Margaret had been ignoring the pain of her betrayal all day. It wasn’t that easy at this late hour.

They had been close for most of their lifetimes. There were memories now, of the times they had shared as children—of running barefoot through a hillside blooming with wildflowers, or riding double, bareback, and falling off, of skipping over wet stones in a bubbling brook.

And they had grown to womanhood together, through both the trials and triumphs of emerging from adolescence. There had been laughter and tears. Peg had always been there, when her brothers had not come home from war, when Mary had become sick and passed away, when her father had gone out riding, never to return.... When Margaret had received the news that Buchan had arranged a marriage for her to an English knight, Peg had helped her get to her room, for Margaret had been overcome by shock.

The ache in Margaret’s chest had been there all day, but it was bubbling up now, more insistently.

“Will ye eat?” Peg asked, her tone and manner subdued.

Margaret glanced at her and nodded. Peg had been reduced from being a great lady’s maid to a kitchen maid— a great fall, indeed. Yet Margaret felt no satisfaction. For a part of her hated seeing Peg like this. A part of her wanted for them to embrace, and she would then forgive her, take her back—trust her.

But Margaret knew better. She could not ignore her disloyalty. She could not pretend that it hadn’t happened. She had to protect herself from any such future betrayal. Alexander had been right.

“Will ye forgive me, now?” Peg asked. “I am hot, dirty, tired, I have suffered greatly, all day, as ye have wished for me to do.”

Margaret looked up and their gazes met. “Even if I forgive you, I cannot take you back.”

“How can ye be so cruel?” Peg cried.

“I am not trying to be cruel. You were disloyal to me.”

Peg shook her head. “Yer mother would forgive me! She would have understood!”

Margaret set the knife she had picked up aside. She would not let Peg use Mary to manipulate her now. “You betrayed me. I cannot trust you. I cannot allow you to serve me as my maid.”

“Maybe, if ye ever wanted a man, ye would not be so noble.” Peg turned and rushed out.

She wanted to cry, feeling crushed by heartache and loss. Instead, she sipped her wine. She knew the wine would eventually dull the grief.

Sometime later, another maid came into the hall, a small, dark-haired girl with very fair skin, who was probably close to Margaret in age. Margaret recognized her as one of the kitchen maids and she was asked if the plate could be removed.

“Yes, I am finished.”

The maid hesitated. “Lady, ye dinna eat. Ye should eat, to keep up yer strength.”

She sounded the way Peg used to sound—as if she were actually concerned. “What is your name?”

“Eilidh, my lady,” she said, with a small smile.

Margaret tried to eat a bit more, as the maid cleaned up the rest of the table. Eilidh was industrious, her actions filled with energy. Margaret watched her, very aware that she needed a new maid. “You were on the ramparts during the siege, stoking the fires for the burning oil,” she said softly.

Eilidh glanced at her in the midst of wiping down the table. “Yes, my lady, as was my sister, my mother and my nephews. And we saw ye there, too.”

Margaret stood up. “I cannot thank you enough for your courage, Eilidh.”

“My sister’s husband is one of yer archers, my lady—ye saved his life, when ye asked him to swear fealty to the MacDonald. We’re all so grateful to ye.” She smiled shyly. “We’re so pleased to have our lady back.”

She clearly meant it. “I am sorry I failed all of you,” Margaret said. “I am sorry we lost Castle Fyne.”

“Ye dinna fail us, lady. My grandmother served yer mother, until she was handfasted to Master Comyn and she left us. She says yer just like her—brave and kind. How could ye fight off the mighty Wolf? No one blames ye, lady.”

Margaret thought,
I blame myself.
But she said, “Eilidh, would you care to serve me while I am here? I no longer have a lady’s maid, but I desperately need one.”

Pleasure shone on her small face. “I would love to be yer maid, my lady!”

“Then go upstairs and ready my chamber for the night. Someone else can clean the table.” Margaret smiled.

The young maid hurried to obey, and Margaret went to the kitchens, to give the final orders of the night. Peg sat with two other women at the table there, looking defiant and sullen. Margaret ignored her as she asked everyone to finish tidying up.

Upstairs, Eilidh had stoked the fire in the hearth, and was now heating water for a hot bath. Braziers were being warmed for Margaret’s bed. She had even brought up a cup of hot wine. Clearly, the maid was eager to serve her. Margaret’s every instinct told her she had chosen well. She was about to disrobe, her earlier grief dissipating, when a knock sounded on her chamber door.

Margaret could not imagine why someone was at her door at bedtime. She rushed to answer it, and found Alan outside, a strange look on his face. “My lady, I am sorry to disturb ye, but the Wolf has sent two messengers to us.”

“Is there news? Has there been a battle?”

Alan met her gaze. “His lordship attacked this afternoon, not at Loch Riddon, but at Cruach Nan Cuilean,” he said. “The English suffered heavy losses, being trapped in a mountain pass, but they managed to flee.”

It was over? She was incredulous. “The Wolf has won?”

“No, my lady, their armies will fight again in the morning. Both sides have retreated to their camps for the night, on either side of the mountain.”

She became wary. “So he has simply sent us the war news?” Why would Alexander send two men to her, merely to tell her what had happened? Or, did he have another message of some kind?

Alan flushed and lowered his voice. “His lordship wishes for Eilidh to come to him, tonight.”

For one moment, comprehension escaped Margaret.

Alan said quickly, “He would hardly know that ye have asked her to serve ye, Lady Margaret, and I cannot refuse him.”

Margaret could not believe it. First he had summoned Peg, now he summoned her new maid? Could he not remain celibate for a single night?

She trembled, torn between dismay and anger. “Excuse me,” she said to Alan tartly, then slammed the door in his face.

She turned, and Eilidh burst into tears. “I dinna wish to go, lady! I am not like Peg! I like serving ye, and wish to do so always!”

“Stop,” Margaret said. “And let me think.” She was of half a mind to send that damned Peg to him—Peg would be eager to go. She began to pace. He was at war! Why did he have to send for a woman? It was unbelievable!

But she needed to confront this problem. “Eilidh—have you already been with Alexander?”

She nodded, seeming ashamed.

Margaret turned away, further dismayed. Did she now care about his affair with Eilidh? She shouldn’t care about anything he did, or anyone he did it with! Then she turned back to her. “Did he hurt you?” she asked briskly. She had to know.

“Of course not.” She blushed. “He’s a frightening master, but he did not hurt me.” Then she rushed, “I still dinna wish to go to him again!”

Margaret realized she meant her every word. And she had to ask, because Eilidh seemed so young. “Eilidh—did he take your virginity?”

She shook her head quickly. “I was no virgin, lady, but before ye think badly, I had a true love. He was killed last year when the MacRuari came rustling here.”

Margaret was relieved, though sad for her loss.

There had been a battle that day. It had not gone well for Sir Guy. The armies would meet again tomorrow—and tonight, Alexander wanted a companion.

So many possibilities filled her mind that briefly, she was overwhelmed.

She had never met Sir Guy. What if she went in Eilidh’s place? Even if she only had the opportunity to view him from afar?

And she would be close to the battlefield. She would know the outcome immediately.

And if she took Eilidh’s place, an opportunity to escape might present itself. She could gather help and return to free William.

Excitement began. Peg was tall and voluptuous. Margaret could never hide under a hood and mantle, pretending to be her. But Eilidh was a petite woman, like herself. It was as if fate had presented Margaret with this moment.

“Give me your clothes,” Margaret said. “All of them.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

M
ARGARET
COULD
NOT
stop shivering. She had been astride her mount for about three hours, traveling along a well-used path with Alexander’s two men, the way lit by the torch the lead rider held. The night was silent, except for the sound of their horses’ hooves on the frozen ground, the jangle of their bridles and their occasional blowing. The men did not talk. Every now and then an owl hooted. Once, in the far distance, she thought she heard a wolf baying.

She had never traveled in the middle of the night before, and she hoped to never do so again. She was just about to ask the men how much farther the camp was, when the path turned abruptly, and they came out of the forest.

Margaret gasped. They had paused their horses on the side of a ridge. Below, the night glowed with light, illuminated by dozens of campfires. Because of the brightness, she could just discern the array of tents formed by the army’s encampment. Above the camp, a half moon was hanging, surrounded by winking stars. After the past few hours of traversing nothing but dark, dense and snowy forests, it was a stunning sight.

Her heart began to race.

“Ye’ll be warm enough in a few more minutes,” one of the men said, somewhat lewdly.

Margaret did not bother to answer. The horses trotted down the ridge now, eager for the end of the journey and the hay they would surely be given. Margaret’s heart continued to pound too swiftly. In a few more moments, she would come face-to-face with Alexander.

She was not deluded—he would not be pleased to see her. But he could hardly send her back in the middle of the freezing night.

Their trek through the camp lasted for a few more minutes, and then she saw a tent three times the size of all the rest, a huge banner with a red dragon waving above it.

This time when she shivered, it was not from the cold.

Their horses halted and the two soldiers leapt to the ground. Margaret made certain her hood remained in place, its upper brim hiding her forehead, its cowl hiding her chin and mouth. Only her nose and eyes were exposed.

A soldier helped her alight. She followed both men to the tent’s flap door, fighting to remain composed. The first soldier called out, and Margaret heard Alexander reply.

The soldier lifted the flap for her. “Yer to go in, but then, he’s expecting ye.” He winked at her.

Margaret ignored him and stepped carefully into the tent.

The hide door dropped closed behind her.

Inside, it was warm. The tent was constructed of layers of thick hides, meant to keep the cold out, and several torches burned, at once illuminating the interior and warming it further. A hole atop the tent allowed the smoke to drift outside. Furs covered the floor. A small table and a bench were at one end, a large pallet at the other.

He had been sleeping, she saw. He stood by the pallet, clad only in his leine, which was unbelted and almost reached his knees. His hair was loose and disheveled. The fur covers had clearly just been thrown aside. She was afraid to look him in the eye.

But she looked up, without removing the hood or cowl.

Their regards met.

He would not think that she was not Eilidh, Margaret thought, to reassure herself. He still did not speak, and she could not decipher the look in his eyes. He would probably be furious to learn the truth.

Margaret removed her hood. But his expression never changed—and she realized he was not surprised to see her.

“So ye now wish to become my mistress?”

She inhaled. Had he been mocking? “Can you now see through hoods and cowls?”

“Yer eyes gave ye away, Lady Margaret.” And then he moved so swiftly that she had no time to react. She only glimpsed his face for a moment, and his expression was hard. In the next instant, she was in his arms, their faces inches apart.

“Well?” he demanded. “Do ye come freely to me at last?”

His tone was dangerous, but she had expected him to be angry with her. More important, he had been at war that day. He smelled of musk, sweat and even blood. She knew how war could change a man. Her worry increased. “No.”

“No? So ye play a new game, instead?”

He was very angry, and sarcasm laced his tone. She wanted to tell him that she had not come to play any kind of game, either, that she needed to meet Sir Guy—and that she had to know what would happen when they battled tomorrow. But his hands still grasped her shoulders. She recalled too well what had happened the last time she had been in his embrace, and she instantly wanted to step away from him.

“Please release me,” she began in a harsh whisper.

“Why? We fought today, men died, and ye have come.”

He kissed her. His mouth was hard, uncompromising. Margaret went still as he kissed her so deeply that she could not move.

But it was not hurtful or unpleasant. Her heart began to thunder, her blood to rage. That hollow feeling began in her belly. And her every imminent protest died. She reached for his shoulders, almost helplessly. And his kiss changed.

It became hungry.

Suddenly there was so much temptation—to go farther into his embrace, to kiss him back.

And as her skin flamed, as if on fire, as her blood pounded in her veins, as she ached in her belly, she had one very coherent thought. She must stop this terrible kiss, before it became something more—something they could not undo. She unlocked her mouth from his.

“Will ye admit that ye want me?” He breathed hard, his hands clasping her waist.

She could not think, she could only feel the wild urgency burning within. The kiss had been explosive, a harbinger of so much more.

She stiffened, about to pull away. There could not be more!

His hands tightened on her waist, so she could not move. “Why did ye come here, Lady Margaret? We both ken ye dinna come to lie in my bed.”

She looked from his hard face and dark eyes to his pallet. Then she realized what she had done, and she jerked her gaze back to his face. She stepped back, and this time, he let her go.

“No. I did not come here to become lovers.” She felt dazed.

He was still, except for his hands, which fisted. “’Tis a shame.”

She ignored that. “I came here to meet Sir Guy.”

His expression hardened.

“We have never met. We have only exchanged letters. I am small like Eilidh. It seemed the perfect opportunity. My future rests in his hands.”

“Yer future rests in my hands.”

She shivered. “Very well,” she said slowly. “I am your prisoner, so you are right.”

He now gave her an odd, sidelong look. Slowly, he paced a circle around her. “Ye took a huge risk, to disguise yerself, to travel at night through the forest, in the snow. Why would ye think I’d let ye meet Sir Guy?”

“If there was a parley, I hoped to attend, otherwise, I hoped to glimpse him from a distance.”

He halted and crossed his arms. “And what, pray tell, would attending a parley, or seeing Sir Guy from afar, gain ye?”

“I have never seen him!”

“So, ye hope to be reassured that yer English husband is not a toad? Or do ye think to arouse him? So fiercely, that he will forever hold to yer cause?”

She flushed. She knew very well that it would not hurt her cause if Sir Guy found her pleasing. He might become more resolved to have her and Castle Fyne.

“Mayhap,” he added, somewhat scathingly, “ye even think to find a moment in which to send him a message—or even to escape.”

She knew her cheeks were even warmer, because he was right. She had wondered if she could bribe a guard to get a message to him, alerting him to the fact that she was there. She had half hoped he would think of a way to help her escape. With great care, she said, “I would escape if I could. It is my duty to escape. You know that.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “Ye won’t escape, not even from here.”

He was so hard that she believed him. Suddenly, there was despair. A silence fell. It was fraught with tension.

He gave her a dark look, walked over to the table and poured two cups of wine. “War is no place for a woman.”

“What will happen tomorrow?”

He took up her cup and walked to her. “There will be a battle, and this time, I intend to chase Sir Guy back to England.” He handed the cup to her.

He had become savage as he spoke. “My fate is at stake, Alexander.”

He stared for a prolonged moment. “I might almost believe that ye came here to make yer fate.”

“Staying at Castle Fyne, while my fate swings in the balance between you and Sir Guy, hardly seemed resourceful.”

“I dinna think ye truly hope fer Sir Guy’s victory.”

She was stiff with tension. “I can hardly hope for your victory.”

“Ye dinna answer.”

“Of course I do. I want Castle Fyne back.” She meant her last words.

“But do ye truly wish fer an English husband?” He lifted his cup and drained it.

She did not have a good answer, so she did not speak.

“I dinna think so. Sir Guy will not win.” He strode back to the table and poured more wine. Margaret realized he was far more than tense; he was angry.

She took a sip of the wine, trying to hide her dismay. Unfortunately she was afraid that he was right. “Will you let him know that I am here? Is there a reason you cannot do so?”

“Why would I do such a thing? I cannot think of a good reason to flaunt ye before Sir Guy.”

She wet her lips. “And if I asked you, as a friend?”

“Ye keep claiming we are enemies. Now, we are friends?”

“You claim we are not enemies.”

He gave her a very intent look.

“Ye will never be my enemy.” He was final. “But ye should tread with care, Lady Margaret. My mood is foul this night.”

“That is exactly what I am trying to do!” she cried. “You know I don’t wish you ill, when I should pray for your defeat and downfall!”

He studied her for another moment, then drained his mug. “Ye should have stayed at Castle Fyne.”

“Probably—but I am here. For better...or for worse.”

She rubbed her arms, thinking of the passion they had just shared. But she must not think about it, not now, not ever. No good could ever come of the desire that could so easily rage between them.

Instead, she must think about tomorrow, for it could bring a new beginning for her—one leading to Castle Fyne’s liberation and her freedom—if Sir Guy could defeat Alexander.

“I have to know what happens tomorrow,” she said, looking up at him. “If you were in my place, you would feel the same way. Can I watch the battle tomorrow?”

“Ye’ll stay here, under guard—far from any fighting, and any chance to escape.”

Did he know her so well?

“And Margaret? I will punish my men tomorrow, fer being such fools.”

She was instantly alarmed. “Don’t punish them. Punish me.”

“Ye should have thought about their fates when ye tricked them into thinking ye were Eilidh,” he said flatly.

“I could not bear it if you truly hurt them.”

“They were ordered to bring me Eilidh. By bringing ye, they risked yer life and limb.”

She hugged herself. Had she forgotten how ruthless he could be?

“Are ye still pleased to be here?” he asked bluntly.

“Do you think to teach them a lesson, or me?”

“Ye need a good lesson, lady, because I will not always be present to guard ye. Yer courage is admirable. But it is misplaced. The day will come where it will put ye in jeopardy.”

“Why do you care?”

“Ye need a protector, Lady Margaret.”

“You almost sound as if you think to be that man.”

His gaze held hers. “I want ye to be my mistress.”

She gasped. Had he truly just asked her to become his lover?

“Aye, we’re at war. Aye, we’re blood enemies—a MacDougall and a MacDonald. But my brother married Juliana MacDougall. Ye need a protector, Lady Margaret.”

She was stunned. “I cannot become your mistress!”

“Because of the war? Sir Guy? Buchan? Or because yer afraid that ye truly want me?”

She choked. “Yes,” she managed to answer. She could not become his mistress because of the war, Sir Guy, her family—and the attraction they shared.

“We could be enjoying this night together. I could be yer protector, in every way. I would protect ye from Buchan’s wrath and Sir Guy’s rage. Ye could be mistress of Castle Fyne.” His gaze had become searching. “And ye’d never have to become an Englishman’s wife.”

It was almost as if he was asking for marriage—which he was not. Not that she would consider marriage, which would be far worse than any lover’s affair. They were blood enemies; they were at war. She was his prisoner—and she was promised to another.

And even if she were not promised to Sir Guy, she would not sleep with the man who had taken Castle Fyne from her. She could not betray her family that way.

“I will find a pallet for myself—ye can use mine.” He picked up his mantle, throwing it over his shoulders. But at the hide door, he paused. “Ye ken I may have to kill him?”

She recoiled. “Why would you have to kill Sir Guy?”

His gaze narrowed. “He stands in my way.”

She trembled. Surely he meant that Sir Guy stood between him and Castle Fyne; surely he did not mean that Sir Guy stood between them.

And Alexander vanished into the night.

* * *

M
ARGARET
REALIZED
THAT
she had finally dozed off. Instantly awake, she stared at the ceiling of the tent, as instantly aware that she was huddled up in Alexander’s covers upon his bed pallet.

It had been impossible to sleep once he had left. She had slid into his bed, and been consumed with his scent, and perhaps, what lingered of his presence. She had expected him to return with another pallet and share the tent with her, but he hadn’t done so. Although exhausted, she could not stop thinking about their conversation, the kiss they had shared and the impending battle.

But she had eventually dozed off. Now she realized that the camp outside his tent was coming to life; undoubtedly, his army was rousing itself and preparing for the battle to come. Margaret threw aside the covers, used a chamber pot, finger combed her hair and then braided it. A small pitcher of water was on the table, and she used a bit to wash her face and brush her teeth.