Brenda Joyce (17 page)

“I do not have affection for you!” she cried.

He studied her, his mouth soft. “I would be very dismayed,” he finally said, “should you ever wish me ill.”

Margaret had no response to make. She could not fathom the depth of her distress now. She wished he had never taken up Bruce’s cause. She wished he were not going to war tomorrow—and she even wished she were not planning to escape with William.

He moved away from the wall, saying, “We have digressed. There is no excuse ye can make fer disobeying my command.”

She took a breath. “I am aware that you are angry.”

“I meant to protect ye, Lady Margaret. I meant to keep ye out of jeopardy.”

She had been right. He had wanted to keep her away from Bruce, but not so they could discuss their war secrets. “What will you do?”

Their gazes locked. “It gives me no pleasure, but ye’ll be confined to yer chamber till I decide otherwise.”

She tensed. How would she be able to escape, if she was confined to her chamber now? “If I tell you I am sorry—if I mean it—would you reconsider such a punishment?”

“No.”

* * *

M
ARGARET
LAY
IN
her bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was late and the castle was mostly asleep and incredibly silent. The only noise was from the wind outside, moving the trees, and a lone wolf, baying from a ridge somewhere.

She could not sleep. She had spent the day in confinement in her chamber, as promised, with Dughall standing outside her door as her guard. Eilidh had not been allowed to attend her. Dughall had brought her meals. Her window faced north so she could not see into the courtyard or barbican, but all day she had heard the footsteps and voices of Alexander’s men as they provisioned the stronghold for his absence. Later, she had heard their voices from the great hall as they supped.

With nothing to do and no one to talk to, she had tried to take up her needlework, but that had been impossible. She was too worried.

She would never be able to escape now. William would have to escape alone. And tomorrow, Alexander would ride off to war.

* * *

W
HY
DID
HE
have to ride with Bruce? Why did he have to go to war against the might of England? What if he did not return from this battle, or the next one? She could tell herself a thousand times that he was a mighty warrior, that he would be fine, but three of her brothers had died in war. She knew better than anyone how feckless war was. How feckless fate was. Men like Alexander lived and died by the sword, and few lived to old age. She just hoped Fate would not take him at the battle of Dumbarton....

But they were marching to Scone. They meant to seize Scotland’s throne. There would be too many battles to count, both before and after Bruce was crowned....

Suddenly she heard a footfall on the stone stairs. She sat bolt upright, aware that it was Alexander. She stared across her chamber, which was illuminated by the fire in the hearth. Would she even be able to wish him Godspeed tomorrow?

Men were such fools, to take war so lightly!

And she was a fool, to have any care for him, when they were enemies!

She heard his door open and she flung herself back down on her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. If only she could care this way for Sir Guy. And who knew? Maybe one day she would, but just then, she did not.

In a way, Alexander had become a significant part of her existence. In a way, he had become the center of her existence. Of course, he was her captor. One day, he would not be so significant.

But he almost felt like a mountain in the center of her world, one that was unmovable, and even insurmountable. Yet it was a mountain that was always there, a presence that was certain.

She tried to laugh at herself. He was like a mountain, but he wasn’t an unmovable part of the land—he was a man. If he died, she would be saddened, but she would recover, just as she had recovered from the deaths of her three brothers and her parents.

“But I don’t want him to die.”

Margaret stiffened, realizing that she had spoken aloud.

She slid from the bed, barefoot and clad only in her chemise. He was leaving tomorrow at dawn, and earlier, she had refused to tell him that she cared.

She threw a fur around her shoulders and went to her door, helpless to resist her own impulses now. It hadn’t been locked all day and it was not locked now. She opened it and Dughall instantly leapt to his feet. “Lady Margaret?”

He was incredulous, but then, she was barely dressed. “I wish to speak with Alexander,” she said, very unsteadily. And she did not wait for his response. Margaret went to his door and opened it.

He leapt up from the bed, dagger in hand, held poised to attack.

She froze against the door, in surprise, dropping the fur.

His eyes were startled; instantly, they slammed over her and narrowed. He put the dagger down on the bed, then faced her, his eyes warm. “Margaret.”

She was not surprised that he was alone—she was fairly certain he had been sleeping alone since the battle of Cruach Nan Cuilean.

She hadn’t known what she would say to him a moment ago, but it was so easy now. “I don’t want you to die.”

His eyes widened slightly. His chamber was dimly lit from the fire in the hearth. He wore only his leine, and the fire made it possible to see somewhat through his tunic. Like all Highland men, he wore nothing beneath it.

His blue gaze now moved over her, slowly. “I am not dying anytime soon.”

“That is what each of my three brothers thought.”

“I am the Wolf of Lochaber,” he said very softly.

“Alexander...I am worried about you.” She had finally admitted it—and not just to him, but to herself.

“I am glad.” He walked toward her and placed his hand over her shoulder on the wall. His gaze smoldered, meeting hers, but she saw questions there, too. He looked past her, into the hall. “Ye may leave us, Dughall.”

Margaret did not turn, but she heard the boy flee. She realized she was staring at Alexander’s broad, hard chest. Dark hair dusted its center. His nipples were erect.

He said softly, “How worried are ye?”

“I don’t want to have this care. We are enemies!”

“I dinna wish to be enemies, Margaret, not now, not ever.”

“I am afraid you won’t return from this battle,” she whispered.

“I will return, Margaret, ye may be certain, if yer waiting for me.”

“Alexander—how can I?” she begged.

“Ye can because ye care. Alliances change all of the time.” He laid his mouth on hers, gently, a feathery brushing of their lips.

Desire exploded. Margaret seized his shoulders, her body on fire, and the moment her hands closed upon him, his kiss deepened.

She moved into his embrace, against his entire hard body, and nothing had ever felt as right. His large body encompassed hers. Her breasts were crushed by his chest, and she could feel his manhood, rock-hard against her belly. She moaned. He opened her mouth, thrust his tongue deep. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her.

Margaret wrapped her legs around his waist as he braced her back against the wall. She held on to him tightly, kissing him back, blinded by the urgency in her body and the sudden demands of her heart. A moment later he was plunging deep inside her, and then they were both crying out.

* * *

M
ARGARET
AWOKE
SUDDENLY
, in confusion. For an instant, she did not know where she was. She stared at the stone ceiling, lying under a great many furs, in the bed that had once been hers, in the chamber that was now his...
Alexander.

She inhaled, stunned. Too many images to count raced through her mind, and in every one, she was in his hard, heated embrace, burning with urgency, or in the throes of ecstasy. She sat up, blushing. He had made love to her with so much passion, so many times; she had returned his passion, as wildly, as shamelessly.

Last night, she had been compelled to go to him, but she hadn’t consciously meant to join him in bed. Yet somehow, the moment she had seen him, she had wound up in his arms—and once there, she had not had a single thought of retreat.

And now, as she glanced around the dark room, she saw that he was very much gone.

Dear God, surely he had not ridden off to war without saying a fare-thee-well? She sat up, glancing at the shutters, which were ajar. It was still dark outside—but she saw a glimmer of the rising sun. It was not yet dawn—he couldn’t have left yet!

There was no time to dwell upon what had happened now. She leapt up from his bed, found her chemise upon the floor—it was torn and she blushed again—and she threw it on. Barefoot, without a mantle, she ran from his room.

Dughall wasn’t in the hall, and for that she was grateful. But now, she recalled his presence there last night. She halted.

She was to marry Sir Guy in June. She was Lady Margaret Comyn—the enemy of both Robert Bruce and every MacDonald in Scotland. But she had slept with Alexander last night.

And Dughall knew.

Her chamber door was ajar. She glanced at the room—Eilidh stood there, smiling at her. “Ye’ll catch yer death, standing there mostly naked like that,” she said.

Her heart lurched with dismay and dread. Eilidh knew, as well. Margaret rushed inside, closing the door, as Eilidh handed her a clean chemise and cote. “I cannot explain,” Margaret said briskly, taking off her torn undergarment and replacing it with the other ones. “But you are sworn to secrecy, Eilidh, you must vow now, on the lives of your mother, your sister and your nieces and nephews, that you will never tell anyone where I was or what I was doing last night.” She did not add that her life might depend upon it.

For now she thought of her powerful guardian. Her uncle would exile her if he ever learned of her infidelity. Of that, she had no doubt.

Eilidh blanched. “My lady, I would never betray ye! And I am pleased for ye. We all ken how his lordship has been lusting after ye, ever since the siege.”

Margaret looked blankly at her. Everyone believed that Alexander had desired her from the moment he had first taken the castle?

“I hope he was a pleasing lover,” she added, somewhat slyly. “Ye look satisfied, my lady. Ye have good color today.”

Margaret thought that she blushed again. “Help me braid my hair!” She had no intention of sharing the details of her night with Alexander. As Eilidh handed her a pale blue surcote, she glimpsed a pile of clothes on the bed. Her heart slammed. “What is that?”

Eilidh picked up a hairbrush. “Ye asked for the clothes yesterday,” she said, keeping her tone low.

Her disguise. Today, she was to attempt an escape.

Margaret fought to breathe, and with determination, she pulled the wool surcote over her head and shoulders, adjusting the long sleeves. She found her girdle and tied it as Eilidh began brushing her hair. Her heart now pounded with furious force.

William would be at the north door, if he could, in two hours. He would be expecting her to be there, too.

She could not think clearly. But her heart seemed to be shrieking in protest now.

Could one night change their lives?

“Hurry,” Margaret snapped.

Eilidh stiffened, as Margaret never raised her voice, and quickly braided her hair into a long, single plait. Margaret turned and took her hand. “Eilidh, I am sorry. I am uncertain of what to do.”

Eilidh smiled. “I ken, my lady.”

Did she truly understand? But how could one night change anything? It hardly changed her name, her birthright, her loyalties or the facts of war. Impulsively, Margaret hugged her. Then she raced from the room and downstairs.

She forced herself to slow as she approached the threshold of the hall. She heard the voices of the many knights within, the clank of platters and mugs and swords.

She paused on the threshold of the great room.

Alexander stood with Padraig, already wearing his swords, and they were in a rapid conversation. She knew he was about to leave—she saw it in the set of his shoulders and in his hard, aggressive stance. Urgency rippled in his body, a very different kind of urgency from the kind that had afflicted him last night.

She flushed. Images flooded her, as did sensations...the heat in his eyes, the curve of his mouth...his arms were so strong, his body so hard. In his embrace, she had felt tiny and safe—she had felt cherished.

He jerked to stare at her, clearly ceasing conversation in midsentence.

As a result, Padraig turned to stare at her, too.

Her heart turned over, hard. She wondered how many of his men knew about them. Fear coiled. Buchan must never find out about the night they had shared. Sir Guy must never know.

Alexander left Padraig, crossing the hall with long, swift strides, and pausing on its threshold before her. His face softened. His did not speak, but his gaze held hers, and it was searching.

“I wanted to wish you farewell, Alexander, and Godspeed,” she said roughly.

His gaze remained probing. “Do ye have regrets?”

She hesitated, incapable of looking away. “I haven’t had time to think.”

“I have no regrets.”

Her heart lurched another time. She wished he wasn’t leaving...she wished they weren’t enemies...she wished she were not intended to another man. And she realized she did not have regrets either—how could she? “I am glad,” she whispered, “that we found a moment to share as we did.”

He smiled at her. “It was more than a moment.”

She trembled. “Alexander? Last night changes nothing. You go to war—as does my family—and we fight for different kings.”

“Last night,” he said as quietly, “changes everything.”

Her heart turned over once more. But they hardly had time to argue. “Does it change my name? I am Margaret Comyn. Does it change who my uncle is—who my brother is? Does it change that I am to wed Sir Guy in June?”

“Sir Guy might refuse to marry ye, if he learned of this.” His stare was sharp.

“He must never know! Buchan must never know! My uncle would lock me away in a tower for the rest of my life if he ever learned of this.”