Chapter Seven.html #2
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.
* * *
MARGARET 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.
All this was done within minutes, as the sounds of horses and men outside the tent escalated. Her heart raced. Today was war.
Margaret threw on her mantle and fur and stepped outside. The dawn was gray and light, the camp a hive of activity, with men coming and going, horses being saddled and wagons being loaded, but she saw Alexander instantly.
He stood beside the huge fire pit outside his tent with three other men.
He wore a chain mail tunic and mail leggings, his brat draped and pinned over his shoulders.
Padraig and another Highlander stood with him, also clad in mail, furs draped upon their shoulders, and the third man was an armor-clad English soldier.
Her gaze veered across the fire pit to where another English soldier, also clad in armor and mail, held the first knight’s horse. Had Sir Guy sent a messenger to Alexander? And if so, why?
As she rushed forward, she wondered if word had gotten out that she was in the camp—and if Sir Guy was demanding her freedom.
Alexander turned before she reached him, either hearing or sensing her approach. His gaze skimmed over her, a habit she was now accustomed to.
“Good morning,” he said politely. “Did ye sleep well?”
“I slept perfectly well,” she lied. She turned to stare openly at the English knight. His helmet was down, and she met dark eyes set in a craggy and pale face.
“My opponent wishes fer a parley,” Alexander said.
Her eyes widened.
“Apparently he fears to engage me in battle a second time.” He gave her a significant look and placed his large body between her and the Englishman. “Tell Sir Guy I look forward to our meeting.”
The Englishman nodded, not even glancing at Margaret again before he strode to his horse. Her heart sank as he mounted—he did not suspect who she was. Clearly, Sir Guy had not been alerted to her presence, much less demanded her freedom. The pair of riders galloped off.
Alexander was speaking to Padraig very rapidly, in the land’s native tongue. Margaret spoke Gael, but his dialect was foreign to her—she could not really discern his words. Padraig nodded and he and the other Highlander hurried off.
Alexander slowly faced her. “I will bring a dozen knights, as he will, and we will meet in an hour in the glen just south of the mountain.”
Margaret did not even think about it, she seized his hand. “You must let me come with you!”
“So he can be stirred to undying loyalty by yer wit and beauty?” With sharp scrutiny, he pulled away.
“That would be a boon and I will not deny it, but you already know I do not wish to remain your prisoner,” she said. “But surely you wish to avoid further warfare? Surely, you do not want him to attack Castle Fyne. Maybe I can be of some help.”
“Ye will be of help, for I have already decided how to use ye, Lady Margaret. As it turns out, I want him to see ye—but for my ends, not yers.” He strode past her toward his tent.
He was going to allow her to attend the parley—and she would meet the man she would marry in June! Oh, what did he intend? Concerned, she rushed after him, all elation gone.
Alexander was outside his tent, sharpening one of his huge swords on a stone.
She halted, instantly rigid, watching him.
The blade screamed as he sawed it back and forth across the stone.
She trembled as he straightened, sheathing the sword, finality in the motion.
He then unsheathed his right-hand sword and sharpened it in an identical manner.
Watching him prepare for war was frightening. “How will you use me?” She heard how tremulous her tone sounded.
“Ye need to quickly eat, we are leaving shortly,” he said, striding past her.
Clearly, he had no intention of answering. She followed him but he was moving so quickly now that she could not keep up. He ordered someone to give her food, and a moment later she found herself with bread and cheese in hand, Alexander gone. A young Scot about her age faced her.
Margaret looked at him, unsmiling. All around them Alexander’s men were moving to and fro, most loading wagons and carts with canon, catapults, rocks and missiles.
She shivered, as it began to dawn upon her—she was not just in an army camp, and on the verge of battle, she was about to attend a meeting between the leaders of the two armies—one man her betrothed, the other, her captor.
Her tension had risen when she had seen Alexander taking his blades to that stone; now, it became unbearable.
“I’m Dughall,” the blond lad said. “Ye had better eat. The Wolf said so.”
Margaret ate, not because she was hungry, but because she knew a long day was ahead. Dughall did not speak; he simply stared, very openly, as if she were a great curiosity. She wondered if Dughall had learned of her identity, but she was too preoccupied to ask.
He handed her a flask.
She shook her head. “I prefer water.”
“The water here isn’t fit for drinking.”
Margaret realized that the army had spoiled the water in the river, so she took the flask and drank what she could. The wine had been watered down previously, so it wasn’t as strong as she had expected.
She was almost finished when she heard the horses approaching, an unnerving clatter of myriad hooves upon the cold road—and a reminder of what they were about. She tensed and looked past Dughall.
Alexander was astride his gray charger, leading the cavalcade. He paused before her, his blue gaze cold and hard.
Her heart lurched. He was a warrior now, intent upon war and victory. It was hard to believe that last night they had had a sensible conversation—or shared that kiss.
But did she not already know how ruthless he was? How clever? He might be attending a parley, but he had his own ambitions. He would not be easily thwarted. She knew it for a fact.