Brenda Joyce (24 page)

She went still. What had he said?

When she didn’t respond, he seemed disappointed. “Will ye ever give an inch?” he murmured. “Tell me ye still care. Tell me yer glad I came to Balvenie. Tell me ye wish to be my wife.”

Her heart thundered. “I can never marry you.”

“Ye can,” he said softly. “Ye will.”

“I am always afraid for you. I’m afraid you will die by the sword.”

“I will die like my father, sword in hand, upon the battlefield, in God’s grace,” he said fiercely. “But if yer waiting fer me, I will not die soon.”

She clasped his face. “Is that a vow?”

“Aye, ’tis a vow, Margaret.”

Her heart turned over, hard. What if? her mind began. But then he kissed her, hard, with a hunger pent up from the past weeks, and her thoughts simply ceased. There was only sensation—his hard, inflamed body, her taut, heated skin, the urgency racing between them. And there was emotion—desperation, relief and elation.

She had forgotten how much she needed to be in his arms. She had forgotten the rush of dizzying pleasure, the budding desire, the building pressure. Margaret ran her hands over his hard back, their mouths fused.

He broke the heated kiss abruptly. “I missed ye,” he said, eyes hot.

“I missed you,” she admitted breathlessly.

His smile was satisfied, yet savage. Alexander lifted her abruptly into his arms, shoved his way into the forest, and laid her down on a bed of pine needles. He paused on all fours, a question in his eyes. And Margaret reached up and pulled him down on top of her.

Their mouths fused frantically as he reached for the hem of her clothes. A moment later Margaret gasped as he impaled her amidst an explosion of stars....

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

M
ARGARET
LAY
IN
Alexander’s arms, their naked bodies entwined. She did not move, afraid that if she did so, reality would intrude. Just then, she wanted to be held, and to hold him. She did not want to think about anything other than how wonderful their lovemaking had been.

She closed her eyes and kissed his chest. “You are an excellent lover, Alexander.”

“And ye would ken, how?”

She looked up at him, cradled in his arms. Then she reached up to touch his rough jaw. “I would know because I am so pleased.” But now, with her pulse having returned to normal, she felt the cool breeze on her back and shivered.

He reached over her and pulled her mantle over them both. “Will ye admit yer glad that I came to Balvenie for ye now?”

She snuggled against him, her cheek pressed to his chest. “You are shameless to ask such a question now.”

“I ken when triumph is at hand, Margaret.”

He was a warrior. He knew when to strike—he knew that she was so pleased that she must answer yes. “Yes, Alexander, I am glad you came to Balvenie.”

He lowered his face and kissed her slowly. “I came fer Isabella, as Bruce commanded,” he said. “But I also came fer ye, Margaret.” His eyes darkened. “Buchan only cares fer himself. Sir Guy is as filled with ambition.”

She trembled. She had been trying not to think about anything other than the past hour they had shared. She did not want to face reality now, not if she could avoid it, just for a bit more. “You are filled with ambition as well, Alexander.”

He was gruff. “Aye. But I care fer ye. The others only think to use ye as their pawn.”

“I don’t want to think about this now,” she whispered. But it was too late, reality had intruded upon their brief moment of happiness.

His grasp tightened. “I’m sorry. I dinna mean to distress ye.”

She quickly smiled. “I am not entirely distressed.” And then she pressed herself even more closely to him.

“Good,” he said, and he fell silent. He continued to hold her, but she knew he was brooding, as she was.

It felt right, being in his arms, when it was so terribly wrong. What was happening? He had admitted caring for her, even to her uncle. She had admitted caring for him. There was a strong bond of affection between them, and there was so much passion. But she also respected and admired him—he was a man of courage and honor, and he was just. And he had proven that he respected her.

So many emotions were swirling within her—confusion, fear, but there was also joy, and a swollen emotion that felt suspiciously like love.

Oh, God. She must not fall in love with Alexander!

“Margaret. What is it?”

She realized that panic had jolted her.

“Sir Guy will kill us both if he ever finds out, and my uncle will banish me from his lands.”

He sat up, helping her to do so, too. Then he adjusted the mantle about her shoulders and chest, aware of her modesty.

“If ye wed me, I’ll keep ye safe.”

“I cannot argue with you now.”

He studied her. “Ye’ll bend, Margaret, sooner or later.”

“Have you ever been thwarted, Alexander, when seeking ambition?”

“No.” His gaze was direct.

And she was his ambition now. She stared at him, suddenly thinking about his deceased wife. “Did you really besiege Glen Carron Castle for the sake of a woman you wished to wed?”

He eyed her carefully now. “I was young and ill-tempered.”

“So it’s true?”

He said with equal care, “’Tis a bit of the truth.”

She suddenly straightened. “You don’t want to speak of your wife, Alexander? Did you love her that much?”

He sat up straighter, too. “I probably loved her. It’s hard to recall. ’Twas long ago, Margaret. I was angry—I wanted to go to war and avenge my clan.”

“What do you mean?” Margaret asked, wondering how he could forget whether he had loved her or not.

“The massacre of Clan Donald had been just months before. Her father rode in that battle. I wanted revenge—any kind of revenge—and so I took her to bed. She became my mistress, she was carrying my child. I decided to marry her.” He shrugged. “Glen Carron is a fine castle and I wanted the keep. MacDuff refused. So aye, I besieged the castle and took him prisoner, until he agreed to the union.”

Margaret felt how wide her eyes were. It did not sound to her as if he had loved his wife. The match had been the result of his need to avenge his kin.

“Why do ye ask about something so ancient?” he asked.

She tried to be nonchalant. “Legend has it that you had an undying love for her.”

He laughed, but roughly. “Perhaps I did, at the time.” His smile faded. His stare became direct. “The only woman I have affection for is now is the woman before me.”

She flushed. “We should go back, before someone suspects.”

“They suspect, Margaret, we’ve been gone fer an hour.” But he stood up.

She leapt to her feet. “I cannot have gossip about us reaching Buchan and Sir Guy.”

He steadied her instantly, reached down and handed her clothing to her. He did not reply, and she wondered if that meant the gossip
would
soon reach Buchan and Sir Guy.

Margaret watched him for a moment as he began to don his belts and swords. Her heart was thundering, partly from desire, and partly from fear. She was afraid of the extent of the affection she felt for him.

She did not want to fall in love with Alexander MacDonald. That would be a terrible twist of fate. If she ever realized that she loved him, surely, she would have to decide where her loyalties lay—for the very last time.

“You said Will would understand if I told him how I felt.” She shook her head. “I think you are wrong. I think he would be furious.”

Alexander came over to her. “There is one way to find out.”

She gasped. “You will take me to him?”

“If he gives ye his blessing, will ye then accept me as yer husband?”

She began shaking her head. “Even if he did, we are at war!”

“If we were not at war, would ye marry me?”

Margaret went still. She owed him the truth. She owed it to herself.

In that moment, she knew that if this war ended, she would beg her uncle to accept him as her husband, never mind the feud between their clans.

“I would try to make amends with everyone first, but yes, Alexander, if we were not at war, I would wish to marry you,” she said.

He smiled at her with hard satisfaction.

“But we
are
at war! And we remain at an impasse, Alexander.”

“Do we? I think not.”

March 26, 1306—Scone Abbey

S
CONE
A
BBEY
ROSE
so abruptly out of the mists that their horses shied.

Margaret had been riding beside Alexander, with Isabella at her other side. They were behind three Highlanders who had led the way since dawn that morning. The horses in front of them were taken by surprise at the sudden sight of the pale stone ahead, and they leapt wildly aside. Margaret’s mare reared, as the bells in the abbey watchtowers began to ring.

Alexander reached down to seize Margaret’s reins. As he halted her prancing mare, the bells kept tolling above them.

Margaret glanced at Isabella, to make certain she was well. Her mount was also at a standstill, for Dughall was with her. The three foremost men had all halted their unruly chargers, too.

“Scone,” Alexander quietly said.

Margaret had never been to Scone before, much less the centuries-old abbey. Massive walls seemed to stretch endlessly before them, behind which a huge central tower soared, a spire atop it. And alongside the spire a great yellow flag waved, a red dragon in its midst.

“It is done,” Alexander said, sounding savagely pleased. “Bruce is king.”

For one moment, Margaret stared at the yellow flag, transfixed. They were late. A terrible storm had made travel impossible for almost an entire day. Bruce had been crowned yesterday anyway.

She glanced at her friend, who had been staring up at the flag, too, her eyes wide with disbelief. Margaret suddenly realized the implications of Bruce being crowned as planned on March 25th. Isabella had not been part of the ceremony; she had not betrayed her husband, or her king!

Before elation could take hold, Alexander stood in his stirrups and signaled the fifty or so men behind him. Then he turned to face forward, but he glanced at her, briefly smiling before spurring his horse over to Isabella. “Countess. If ye will join me?”

Margaret tensed, watching as Isabella and Alexander rode together, side by side, up the road. The front doors of the entry tower were slowly opening. She suddenly worried about Bruce, remembering his intimidating presence. Would he be angry with Alexander for their late arrival?

Margaret rode through the entry tower with Dughall, keeping their mounts to a sedate walk. Their horses’ hooves echoed on the cobbled stone in the archway.

It felt eerie. She glanced up at the vaulted ceilings above them, feeling trapped.

Dughall grinned at her. “’Tis good we’re not the enemy.”

But she was the enemy, Margaret thought with a shiver.

They emerged into the early daylight of the courtyard. It was full. Tents had been erected everywhere, and horses were tethered by the far walls. Yet as full as it was, it could not contain Bruce’s entire army—just his most important men.

Alexander and Isabella were riding directly to the steps before the central hall. A group of men stood there to greet them.

Margaret tensed, espying Robert Bruce immediately. He stood a hand above everyone else, in a dark red surcote with long sleeves and an ermine-lined gold mantle. A brooch winked from its claspmantle and jewels glinted from the hilt of his sword. He was surrounded by equally well-dressed noblemen—one of whom was the Earl of Atholl.

Her heart turned over, hard. Her instinct had been correct. Atholl had betrayed Buchan that night at his home. Atholl rode with Bruce.

Alexander had dismounted, and he was helping Isabella to do so, as well. But Margaret’s gaze was riveted to Atholl’s, and the moment he met her eyes, he smiled and bowed his golden head.

Margaret did not smile back. Atholl had betrayed her uncle, after so many years of friendship. She wondered if Buchan knew. And she wondered what Atholl thought of her—and Alexander.

Bruce was hurrying down the steps. “Alexander! You have brought me the Countess of Fife!” he exclaimed.

Alexander dropped to one knee. “Yer Majesty,” he said. “I have gladly done as ye have demanded.”

“Rise up, you may pay me homage tomorrow. And I had no doubt you would bring her here.”

“The storm delayed us,” Alexander said, standing. “And I am sorry.”

“Do not apologize for God’s will.”

Margaret was relieved that he seemed only happy at their arrival, despite its delay. He was positively expansive as he turned to Isabella. But suddenly a beautifully gowned and heavily bejeweled woman stepped outside the central hall, also clad in red and gold, her hair tightly braided beneath a gold circlet. The woman was younger than Bruce, but older than either Margaret or Isabella, probably in her late twenties. She stared, unsmiling, at Bruce and Isabella, and Margaret felt certain that this was his second wife, Elisabeth de Burgh.

“Countess!” Bruce boomed. Margaret’s attention was jerked back to Bruce and Isabella. He clasped her hands tightly and said, “Welcome to my royal court.”

Isabella beamed. “Your Majesty!” She started to curtsy, her color high.

He hauled her upright, and then held her by both arms. “Do not bow to me yet. Isabella—how beautiful you remain!”

Her eyes shined. “Thank you, Rob—Your Majesty.”

Margaret was horrified. Isabella was smitten with Robert Bruce. Her feelings were so obvious; they were expressed all over her face.

“I am so pleased you have come, Isabella. I have a great need of you.”

“I could not wait to come and help you to become king!” she cried earnestly. “I have dreamed of this day!”

Margaret felt despair stab through her. Isabella was not worldly, never mind that she had thought so for a moment at Balvenie. She was young and flirtatious, she was impressionable and impulsive. But most of all, she was in love with Robert Bruce.

“Do ye wish to stay astride forever?”

She jerked as Alexander spoke, rather teasingly, but so softly no one could hear.

But her attention returned to Bruce and Isabella. “And you will be a great help to me! We despaired, Isabella, when Alexander did not arrive yesterday, and I was crowned anyway. But we will hold another coronation tomorrow!” He turned, scanning everyone present. “Tomorrow, at Caislean Credi, the Countess of Fife will lead me to my crown!” he roared.

Everyone present roared back in approval.

And Isabella gazed upon Bruce with open adoration.

Margaret looked past Bruce. His wife stood unsmiling on the top step before the central hall, surrounded by several noblewomen. She was as still as a statue, and clearly displeased.

Alexander laid his hand on top of her knee.

She inhaled. As distraught as she was, as frightened—for Isabella, who would apparently still be used by Bruce as his pawn—Alexander’s touch aroused her in many ways. He had her attention, and he also made her instantly wonder what they would do now. Were they to continue their secret love affair? An insane part of her hoped so!

But if she was ever found out, she was doomed.

He smiled at her and took her hands, tugging her down from her horse. Margaret landed in his arms.

“All will be well,” he said softly, and then he released her.

“Lady Comyn.”

Margaret froze at the sound of Bruce’s voice. Slowly, she turned, wishing he had not noticed her.

He smiled at her, though it did not reach his eyes. Instantly, she dropped into the lowest curtsy she had ever performed. Keeping her head bowed, she said, “Your Majesty.”

“You may rise,” Bruce said, his gaze sharp.

She was a Comyn and Bruce’s rival—but she was now in his court. She shifted, stepping closer to Alexander, aware now of a rising sense of fear.