Chapter Seven.html
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARGARET 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.”