Chapter Twelve.html #4
He sat his gray steed at the forefront of his men, neither horse nor man moving.
Margaret felt her heart lurch and then thunder. She had not seen him in almost three weeks. She could not look aside now. Her cheeks began to burn.
He was staring at her, too. She felt certain—though he was still too far away, and she could not see his eyes....
He had asked for her in marriage, but she could not imagine how he truly felt about her having escaped.
They continued to slowly approach, the ground dangerously slick beneath their horses’ hooves. Her uncle finally paused his horse, a small distance separating him from Alexander. Margaret halted her mare beside him.
Their gazes met. Alexander’s expression was hard, but it was also impassive—it was impossible to discern any of his emotions. He nodded slightly at her.
Oddly, the small gesture seemed too intimate and Margaret tensed, glancing at her uncle, who was observing them. She did not nod in return, or in any way acknowledge the salutation. She was suddenly so afraid that her uncle would guess at the intimacy they had shared.
Buchan’s heated regard was on Alexander. “You hold my nephew, you hold my castle—and you’ve taken me out of my fine hall in the middle of a storm. What do you want, MacDonald?”
Alexander’s gaze was cool. “I suggest ye reconsider my proposal, Buchan.”
“There is nothing to reconsider! I gain nothing from such a trade!”
Margaret tensed, horrified—surely, her uncle did not consider Will nothing.
“I dinna think ye had any care fer yer nephew. He is fine, by the way. Angry, but fine.”
Briefly, Margaret felt a great relief.
“I have a great care for Will,” Buchan flared. “Is this why you have called me outside in such weather? To berate me for my refusal to give you my niece? To accuse me of not caring about my nephew?”
“I have called ye here,” he said, staring at Margaret now, “to make a second offer.”
She froze. Their gazes locked. He would offer for her another time?
Alexander tore his gaze from her and said to her uncle, “I’ll add Glen Carron Castle to the trade.”
Buchan started.
Margaret began to tremble. When he did not speak, she wondered if her uncle was considering trading her to Alexander—for her brother and a castle.
“I rebuilt the keep after I razed it to the ground—it is a fine, defensible fortification,” Alexander said flatly. “An’ ye ken, it abuts Badenoch land. Ye’ll grow yer borders there.”
Stunned, she stared at her uncle, who was gazing at Alexander, his expression now one of calculation. She could see that his mind was racing.
He was considering such a trade! He might accept, she thought, feeling almost frantic. A part of her was dismayed—that he could be so easily persuaded to give her over to the enemy—but another part of her was desperate.
She knew Alexander would be a reasonable husband, knew she would enjoy being in his arms and bearing him children.... But dear God, then what? He would go to war against her brother, her uncles, her aunts and cousins....
“She is to wed Sir Guy in June,” Buchan suddenly said harshly. “Surrender Castle Fyne and Glen Carron, and I will give her over as your bride.”
Margaret felt her heart lurch. She looked from her uncle to Alexander, stunned.
He would trade her—but only for two castles, one of them being Castle Fyne.
Alexander was staring at her—she thought she could see a flicker of compassion in his eyes. But when he spoke, his face was hard, cold and set. “I will not give up Castle Fyne.”
Buchan’s expression became savage and mocking at once. “You think yourself a great lord? My niece is worthy of princes, and she’s to marry a man with royal blood—not a Highlander from the far isles who cannot speak French properly.”
“So ye insult me now?” But Alexander smiled coolly, amused.
Margaret felt a chill sweep her, and she begged silently, Don’t!
He glanced at her—as if he had heard her innermost thoughts. Then he turned a frightening look upon her uncle. “Ye should think one more time about refusing me. Ye dinna wish to suffer my wrath.”
“And now you threaten me?”
“I have Will, I have Castle Fyne—and I am here, at Balvenie.”
Buchan started. “What do you intend, Wolf?”
“I promise ye great loss,” he said, picking up his reins. His stallion pranced, snorting. He turned to Margaret. “Are ye well?”
She froze. He was speaking directly to her?
“Lady Margaret,” he snapped. “Are ye well?”
She knew she must not answer—she knew she must look away—but she could not do as she must. She whispered, “Yes, I am well.”
He spurred the gray stallion toward Buchan. “I became fond of my captive, Buchan. Ye keep her well.”
Buchan was turning red. “When we capture you, Wolf, I will be the one to take off your head and place it on a pike!”
Alexander laughed at him.
“Stop,” Margaret tried to say, but her whisper was low and hoarse. How could they do this, now?
Sir Ranald seized her wrist in warning.
“And when yer favorite castle lies in ruins, and Sir Guy is dead, I will take her as my bride,” Alexander said.
Margaret was horrified.
Alexander whirled his horse, sent her a searing look, and then spurred the beast hard. It screamed in protest and galloped away, blood on its sides. His knights all followed.
And then there was no one at the red rocks and the river’s banks but Buchan, Margaret and his men.
“I will kill him,” Buchan said. And then he turned his furious gaze upon her.
She wanted to cringe. He knows, she thought. But she did not move.
“If he wants you, you have become more trouble than you are worth!” With that, he spurred his horse and began to gallop up the muddy hill.
Margaret was ready to collapse. Sir Ranald reached out and caught her as she swooned, dragging her from her small mount to his larger one. “Lady! I will have you safely home.”
Hot, blistering tears arose. Margaret nodded, now in Sir Ranald’s arms.