Chapter Thirteen.html
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EILIDH WAS STOKING the fire in the hearth in Margaret’s chamber when Sir Ranald led her in. She was trembling. On the way back to the castle, it had rained torrentially, and she was soaking wet. But she was not shaking from the cold. She was not on the verge of collapse because of the rain.
Eilidh blanched. “Lady?”
“She has had a trying afternoon,” Sir Ranald said. “You must help her into dry clothes, sit her before the fire and bring her warm wine.”
Margaret felt shocked. And she was terrified.
Did Buchan suspect that she and Alexander had been lovers?
But there was even more. Did Alexander mean to marry her, no matter the consequences—and would he attack her uncle to do so?
“Please sit down, Lady Margaret, before you fall over,” Sir Ranald said kindly.
Margaret had been guided to the chamber’s sole chair, which had been placed before the blazing fire. Somehow, she did as asked; somehow, she looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you, Sir Ranald. I am fine.”
“You are not fine.” His green gaze was searching. Then he dropped abruptly to one knee and took both of her hands in his. “I wish to protect you, Lady Margaret! I wish to aid you! But if you play a dangerous game, then you must tell me.”
What did Sir Ranald think? She had not considered what everyone else who had been present at the red rocks might think of the encounter. But Sir Ranald had caught her eavesdropping at Strathbogie; he had seen her exchange with Alexander.
As she stared at him, terribly uncertain now, Peg and Isabella ran into the room.
“What happened?” Isabella cried. “John is vowing to murder the Wolf the next time they meet! He is furious, and already in his cups!”
Margaret looked back at Sir Ranald. “We will talk another time, when I have had a chance to think,” she said. If Sir Ranald meant to be her ally, she would accept him as one. She so needed allies now. But she would not make him her confidant.
He nodded and left the room.
Peg closed the door behind him. “Margaret?” she asked, eyes wide.
She could no longer contain her distress.
She covered her face with her hands, trying not to cry, thinking of Alexander, who had decided he must marry her, no matter the cost, the pain.
She could not imagine his motivation, other than his desire to control Castle Fyne for all of his lifetime, and to pass it down to his sons.
But what of her and her desires?
The chamber seemed to rock wildly, as if a boat in storm-tossed seas.
She thought of Buchan, who had hated Alexander before, and would hate him impossibly now.
The two had been enemies for a great many reasons before this war had come between them, but now, their enmity had become personal.
Alexander had threatened Buchan; Buchan had threatened him in return.
It felt certain that in the end, one man must die.
It was Isabella who came to her and put her arms around her. “What did he do?”
She tried to wipe the moisture from her face, desperate to find composure. She met Isabella’s worried gaze. “He made a second offer of marriage—and when Buchan refused, he threatened to destroy him and his castles.”
Isabella said, “No, I meant what did my husband do?” Then, “He is angry with you—he told me so! I assumed you are near tears because of him.”
Margaret inhaled. “He considered trading me to Alexander, not just for Will, but for Castle Fyne and another keep.”
Isabella was dismayed. “I am sorry. But he does love you, Margaret.”
“He would give me over to the enemy if the trade was advantageous enough.” The pain stabbing through her breast felt like a knife. “He would give me over with hardly a second thought.” Hadn’t he abandoned her while she was being held hostage at Castle Fyne?
And hadn’t Will complained all along that her marriage to Sir Guy was an act beyond expedience—that she was being tossed aside, as if a thing of little worth, a thing without feelings?
She had refused to believe it, but it was true.
Her father would never have treated her in such a way.
He had loved her for who she was, from the time she had been born.
He would have wanted a marriage for her that was expedient, but he would have also wanted her to care for her husband. Margaret had no doubt.
He would never have bartered her away, not even in a time like this, when a kingdom was at stake.
“Of course he would seek a trade if doing so would make a good alliance—you are only a woman.” Isabella clasped her hand tightly. “We are all disposable, Margaret. You must know that.”
Margaret had not realized that Isabella was so worldly. “What if Alexander makes a third offer? What if he offers so much that Uncle John cannot refuse?”
“Will he make another offer?” Isabella asked, surprised.
“I never expected any offer!” Margaret cried.
Isabella paused. “The truth is, if Sir Guy fails to take Castle Fyne back, you will have lost your value to him—but you are a great prize for Alexander.”
* * *
“THE WOLF IS smitten,” Peg said, stepping forward. “He was smitten with Margaret from the moment he first conquered Castle Fyne.”
Isabella turned an incredulous look upon Margaret. “Is it true?”
“He is hardly smitten,” Margaret said, standing. But she wasn’t angry with Peg for speaking up. She wondered if she could be right. “Can you help me out of my clothes?”
Eilidh rushed to her chest to pull out dry garments as Peg came over, and they began to pull off her wet cotes. Isabella watched them and said, “Margaret, the Wolf has already proven he will go to great lengths to take a woman to wife.”
Margaret had just shrugged on a dry chemise and surcote. Peg began to unbraid her wet hair as she faced Isabella. “You are right. He is relentless.”
Isabella studied her. “Is he repulsive?”
Margaret laughed, somewhat hysterically. Should she confess all to her friend? Did she dare?
“He is very handsome,” Eilidh whispered. Peg nodded in agreement.
Isabella started and Margaret winced. “He is handsome—and there is more. He said he would kill Sir Guy if he had to.”
“He will not let a marriage stand in his way?”
“No.” Her gaze locked with Isabella’s. She knew that even if she married Sir Guy, Alexander would come for her.
Isabella knew it, too. Her color high, she slowly said, “He may be your savior, Margaret, in the end.”
Margaret shook her head. “Please don’t say that.”
“He has stolen Castle Fyne from you, and now, you have nothing but the hope that Sir Guy will take it back. But if he marries you, you will be lady of Castle Fyne again.”
* * *
MARGARET COULD NOT sleep. She stared up at the ceiling of her chamber, watching moonlight play across it. Her uncle had left with his great army that morning.
Buchan would take his army south to join King Edward’s as it marched north, in an attempt to stop Bruce in his westward march across Scotland.
She wondered if Bruce would attempt to be crowned in four more days; she wondered if Aymer de Valence, who now commanded most of England’s army, would learn he was marching for Scone and somehow stop him.
She turned over onto her side, hugging her pillow.
To stop Bruce, if he was intent on a coronation, would mean a battle to the death. Of that, she was certain.
She trembled. She had done her best to avoid Buchan ever since that meeting with Alexander at the red rocks. Buchan had been preoccupied with his war preparations, so it had been easy to do. Still, she knew he was not pleased with her now.
Could Alexander be smitten? If he was, wouldn’t she know? And didn’t he realize how devastating his ambitions were for her—for her entire family?
More dismay arose, as did a lump of fear. Margaret wished she knew if Atholl and the others had a plan to separate their armies. If she had, she would send word. No matter what happened—even if she married Sir Guy—she did not want Alexander to die.
Tears arose. Hugging the pillow, she rocked herself finally to sleep.
And then she was wide-awake and terrified—for a hand was clasped over her mouth, preventing her from screaming, and a viselike arm was around her waist. She was pressed hard against a muscular male chest. A man was in her chamber—in her bed!
“Dinna scream. I willna hurt ye, Margaret.”
As her eyes flew open, as her scream was choked off, she knew it was Alexander.
She looked upward, into his intense eyes, while he loosened his grasp of her mouth and his grip on her body. Her heart turned over wildly.
He slowly removed his hand, saying, “And if ye do scream, no one will hear—the watch has been rendered useless for the next few hours.”
Now she began to realize what he had done—he had stolen into an enemy fortress, one filled with Buchan’s finest soldiers! “Alexander! Are you mad? If they catch you they will hang you!”
He slowly smiled at her. “Ah, so nothing has changed, ye canna wish me ill.”
She went still, acutely aware of being in his embrace—overcome by the sensation of his hard muscles against her softer flesh, by the scent of man and pine, by the knowledge that he was there for her.
“I cannot wish you ill.” She breathed hard, almost lifting her hand to touch his face, but she must not act as if they were lovers.
They were not lovers—that one night had been long ago! “You cannot be here.”
“I can and I am.” He did not smile now. “Ye ken the man I am. I never say what I dinna mean. I’m taking ye away, Margaret, and ye’ll be my wife.”
Her mind spun, incredulously. “You will force me to marry you?”
“I dinna think there will be force involved,” he said softly. His gaze moved to her mouth.
Desire pummeled through her. Margaret did not move.
He slowly looked up and into her eyes, a slight curve to his mouth. “Dinna tell me ye remain loyal to Sir Guy and yer uncle.”
“I despise Sir Guy.”
He smiled. “As ye should.”
“But I cannot betray my uncle by marrying you.”
“Come, we must go. This discussion can wait.” He stood, taking her with him. “Get dressed.”