Chapter Fourteen.html #5
She wondered if he would signal her to join him later, so they could spend one last night together.
Her heart hurt terribly now. Leaving him this time was so much harder than before. She cared far too much.
And she was so worried now about her return to Balvenie—and the confrontation she must have with her uncle.
Isabella also remained in the hall, having drunk a bit too much wine. She now came over to Margaret, having unsuccessfully tried to converse with the queen’s women for some time. She sighed. “You have been staring at Alexander all night!”
Margaret felt herself flush. “I am returning to Balvenie, Isabella. I intend to try to convince Buchan that you were coerced into participating in the coronation.”
Isabella shrugged. “I would not waste my breath, Margaret, but you are a dear friend.” Her gaze now settled on Alexander. “Why don’t you admit that you are smitten? Why don’t you surrender to him? Why not marry a great warrior who can keep you and your lands safe?”
Margaret tensed. What would Isabella say if she knew just how tempting such a decision was? “I do care deeply for Alexander, but my mother raised me to be loyal. How can I forget her now?”
Isabella shook her head, confused. “Your mother is dead, Margaret, but you are very much alive!”
Margaret did not bother to tell her that her mother’s legacy remained very much alive—and that it always would.
She glanced at Alexander again, now conversing with Sir Christopher Seton.
He had drunk a great deal of wine, and he was finally smiling.
But she was not deluded. He remained upset with her.
Suddenly a squire tapped upon Isabella’s shoulder. Isabella whirled, relief written all over her face. “Will you come with me, Countess?” the boy asked politely.
Bruce was sending for her, Margaret thought, amazed. Never mind that he was upstairs—as was his queen.
“I must go,” Isabella cried, hugging her. Her eyes were bright—shining. Then she dashed off, the squire behind her.
Dread began. There would be no discretion then, between the king and his lover?
Christina Seton paused before her, unsmiling. “You are a very fortunate woman.”
“It is late, Lady Seton. Can we spar another time?”
“My brother is a fool, to allow you to return to Buchan after you have been with us! But Alexander has somehow convinced him you will not harm us. I do not believe it, not for a moment!”
Margaret realized Christina wasn’t hateful, she was afraid. “I have no secrets to tell,” she said.
“I worry for my husband and my brother every day.” She whirled and hurried away.
Margaret bit her lip, suddenly filled with compassion and understanding—how could she not be? She worried every bit as much about Alexander. And as she had that thought, he caught her arm from behind.
She turned, her heart slamming. “My leaving doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“One day, ye will realize ye changed yer loyalties long ago, and ye now live a charade.” He was unsmiling and grim. “Let us hope that day isn’t a day too late.”
She took his unyielding hand. “Is it true? Did you have to convince Bruce to let me return home?”
“He wants us wed.” He glanced down at their locked hands. “He thinks I’m a fool.”
“Then how did you ever manage to persuade him?”
“He needs my sword and he needs my men. He needs my brothers and their armies.” His grasp suddenly tightened. “I am trying not to be angry, because I ken ye so well. It is late. Let’s go to bed. We leave early on the morrow.”
Her heart raced. Even such a strong disagreement could not diminish the attraction and affection they shared. And they had so little time, she thought, gripping his hand more tightly. She didn’t want to even ask when she would next see him again.
She heard rushed footsteps, and then someone was calling Alexander’s name as the front doors to the abbey slammed. Padraig’s son and the messenger, Seoc, rushed into the hall, his brat dusted with snowflakes.
She felt frozen. Hadn’t Seoc come from Castle Fyne?
Alexander hurried to him. “What has happened?” he demanded.
Seoc was muddy, damp and breathing hard. “My lord! Castle Fyne is under attack.”
Margaret felt the floor tilt. Sir Guy had finally attacked.
“Is it Sir Guy?” Alexander demanded.
“Aye, and he has two or three thousand men and perhaps a hundred knights!”
Margaret could not breathe. Sir Guy was no fool, oh, no! He probably knew she was with Alexander, and perhaps even at Scone with Scotland’s new king!
Alexander was already striding past her, toward the stairs. Margaret rushed after him, tripping in her haste. He did not stop for her, hurrying up them with long strides. Lifting her skirts, she followed.
And at the top of the steps, two huge Highlanders barred his way. Both were heavily armed.
“I must speak with the king,” Alexander said. “I have urgent news.”
Panting, Margaret paused behind Alexander as one guard went to the first closed door and knocked upon it. “A messenger has come, Your Majesty, and Alexander MacDonald says he must speak with you!”
A brief moment passed. But then the door opened, revealing Bruce, barefoot and in a simple leine.
His hair was disheveled, his color high.
Margaret could see past him into a large chamber, illuminated by the fire within.
Isabella lay there in its bed, amidst the blankets, which were loosely draped about her obviously naked body, her long hair loose and flowing about her bare shoulders.
Margaret knew she could not worry about their open affair now, but she was terribly dismayed.
“What passes?” Bruce demanded, his eyes flashing.
“Sir Guy has attacked Castle Fyne with two or three thousand men. May I have yer permission to relieve the siege and defend the keep?” Alexander asked, speaking swiftly and sharply.
“You have my permission. And Alexander—make damn certain we do not lose Castle Fyne to the English!” Bruce said harshly.
Alexander did not reply, but Margaret knew he meant to do more than keep the castle; he meant to finally kill Sir Guy. She stepped forward, trembling, aware of her own audacity now. “Take me with you.”
Both men saw her at once. In unison, they turned to regard her. Alexander seemed incredulous, but Bruce stared, his speculation obvious.
Their scrutiny was unnerving. She inhaled. “Castle Fyne is mine—it is my legacy from my mother. I must go with Alexander!” She was pleading with the king, her gaze locked with his.
She instantly saw that Alexander meant to object. But before he could speak, Bruce held up his hand.
He stepped forward, past Alexander. His relentless gaze upon her and her alone, he spoke to Alexander. “Defeat Sir Guy—kill him, if you can—and take Lady Margaret with you.” He slowly smiled at her. “After all, it is her home—and that is where she should be.”