Chapter Fifteen.html #2
He grasped her by her arms. “If ye go to him, Sir Guy willna let ye go, ye will be his prisoner—and then ye will become his wife.”
She fought for air. She knew he was right. Sir Guy would hold her against her will. He would control her fate. She would become his wife.
But if William died, and she did not see him first, she would never be able to live with herself. “Let me go,” she managed to say. “Get me a horse. Take me to my brother.”
Roughly, he released her. He gave her one last look—his expression hard. To his men, he said, “Take her to Castle Fyne.”
And she began to realize what was truly happening. Tears fell. “Alexander,” she whispered.
But his back was turned; he walked away.
* * *
CASTLE FYNE WAS ahead. Everyone halted their horses at the edge of the woods, the castle above them, atop the hill. And then the bells in the watchtower began tolling.
Margaret felt sick. They had ridden out of the camp immediately, as she could not wait until dawn to see William. By dawn, he could be dead.
There had been no time to send a messenger, no time to do anything other than to mount up and ride out. The shadows of the late afternoon had given way to the fading light of dusk. A crescent moon was emerging in the purple sky above the keep.
A dozen Highland soldiers had accompanied her. Margaret’s mare was in their midst, Alexander astride his gray stallion at their forefront. He had not spoken to her since she had decided that she would go to William—and put herself in Sir Guy’s command.
If she were not so frightened for her brother, she would be deathly afraid of what her actions meant, not just for her, but for her relationship with Alexander. But she only knew she must see William, and that he must not die. He was the only family that she had left!
Alexander turned his stallion so he partially faced her—but he did not look at her. “Ye will ride alone from here. Identify yerself to the watch.”
She flinched, for his tone was so impassive. It was as if he had also made a decision not to care. She stared, but he would not make eye contact with her.
She lifted her reins. “Alexander.”
He signaled his men, who turned their mounts around, in preparation of returning to Loch Riddon. “Ye should hurry, while there’s still some light,” he said. He waved his men forward.
“Alexander!” she cried. But she did not know what to say, because the only words that came to mind were wildly inappropriate: I love you.
“Godspeed.” He spurred his stallion into a trot and then a canter.
She watched, incredulous, as she was left there alone, a short distance from the barbican. He had not looked at her, not even once. And that hurt so much.
But what had she expected? She was riding into a castle under Sir Guy’s command. Of course he disapproved.
But if he cared for her, wouldn’t he say something in farewell?
Alexander had caught up to his men, but he suddenly halted. He turned and, from across the glade, he looked at her.
Tears blurred her vision. And she almost considered giving up her desperate need to see William—she almost spurred her own mare and galloped back to him.
But what if Will died? She could not live with herself if she turned her back on him, and she knew her mother would feel the same if she were alive.
Margaret lifted her hand.
That brief instant stretched into an eternity. Then Alexander whirled his stallion and galloped into the forest, disappearing from her view.
She choked on her grief, staring at the woods where she had last seen him. And then she summoned up every ounce of determination she had. It was over; it was time.
Margaret turned her mare and urged her into a trot, up the hill and toward Castle Fyne. As she did, archers appeared on the ramparts above her. The bells continued to toll.
She realized she was crying—that tears were sliding helplessly down her face. She already missed Alexander. She would always miss him.
But so be it. Margaret used her sleeve to dry her cheeks, and then she drew her hood down to reveal her unusually colored hair. Cries began to sound from the castle’s walls. She had been recognized.
And by the time she reached the barbican the front gates had been opened. But before she could pass through them, a group of armed knights thundered through the entry tower, over the drawbridge and across the barbican toward her.
They were heavily armed, clad in mail, their visors down. Abruptly, she halted her mare. Her heart skidded in fear and alarm.
The dozen knights surrounded her. One lifted his visor as he trotted directly to her. It was Sir Guy, and he stared, surprised. “Lady Margaret!”
She somehow wet her lips. “Sir Guy. Good evening. I have come to see William. Is he still alive?”
His eyes wide, he studied her. “Yes. Is this a trap?” He scanned the land beyond her.
“No, this is not a trap—I am entirely alone,” she said tersely.
His gaze slammed back to hers. “He let you go.”
“Please—we can discuss this later. I am desperate to see my brother.”
His stare remained searching—and now, she did not think his expression particularly welcoming. She tensed. She hadn’t had the time to wonder if he might be suspicious of her relationship with Alexander—now that so many knew that they were, indeed, lovers.
He moved his steed against her mare and caught her arm. “This is a surprising but pleasing turn, Lady Margaret.” And before she could object, he lifted her from his horse and placed her in the saddle in front of him.
Heat exploded in her cheeks. His arm tightened around her waist, and he was galloping back over the drawbridge and through the entry tower. “I look forward to your tale, Margaret, for I cannot imagine how you persuaded Alexander to release you.”
His breath brushed her ear as she spoke. She shuddered with distaste. “I have no intention of escaping, Sir Guy, if that is why you removed me from my mare. I am here of my own free will, sir.”
“I take no chances now,” he said, sounding pleased. “My God, I have Castle Fyne—and I have you.”
She trembled again, deciding not to speak—as any response that came to mind would most likely annoy or provoke him. But one thing was clear. Twice he had referred to her having been released; he believed she had been kept against her will.
He did not know of her affair. Not yet, anyway.
“Can you take me immediately to my brother, sir? Please?” Margaret asked, as calmly as she could.
“Of course. And afterward, we will...discuss...matters.”
She closed her eyes in sheer dread. She now recalled how he had wished for a Highland handfasting at Balvenie, and she had little doubt he would wish to marry her and consummate their marriage as swiftly as possible now.
But she would worry about Sir Guy later. First, she must see Will.
And as they trotted across the courtyard, a great many men and women waved at her, calling out to her. Margaret recognized most of them.
“Wave back,” Sir Guy said softly. “They adore you. I see that now. They adore the lady of Castle Fyne.”
Margaret waved dutifully back.
“Alexander was a fool to release you to me,” he said in her ear.
They had reached the stairs leading to the great hall. Sir Guy had only halted his horse and loosened his grip upon her, but Margaret was already leaping to the ground. She did not want to consider his meaning. “Where is Will?”
“He has the chamber next to mine.”
Margaret lifted her skirts and raced up the wooden steps, running through the hall. Several maids rushed after her. “Can we help ye, Lady Margaret?”
Margaret recognized Eilidh’s sister, Marsaili. “Is my chest still here? I will need my potions, surely, to attend my brother.”
“Yes, and I will retrieve it fer ye,” the second woman said.
Margaret recognized the woman who had been beside her on the ramparts, fighting off the invaders, during Alexander’s siege.
She reached Will’s door. It was open, and she halted there. There was so much blood. Will was so pale. And he was unconscious.
Margaret steeled herself, then she strode into the chamber.
Before she woke him up, she looked at his bandaged thigh—the linen soaked through with blood. A sword had clearly sliced through an artery. If he was still bleeding, he would certainly die!
“I need more linens,” Margaret said, praying she sounded calm. “And I need a strong pair of hands—preferably male hands—in case we must stanch this again.”
Will’s lashes lifted. “Meg?” He was weak and disbelieving.
She knelt beside him, clasping his face and kissing his cheek. “Yes, I am here. I am going to take care of you, Will.”
“I can’t believe it...how did you come? And did I dream it or is Sir Guy here, as well?”
Will did not know of her divided loyalties. “Sir Guy has taken Castle Fyne from the Wolf, Will. And you must not speak, you must save your strength! I will look at your leg.”
“Thank God,” he murmured, eyes closing.
She touched his forehead, which was damp with sweat and hot with a fever. He was already fighting an infection.
Margaret waited until the maid had returned with a young Highland lad before she began to peel away the bloody bandages. To her relief, the wound had been cauterized and the bleeding had stopped. But the terrible gash was inflamed with an infection.
Marsaili returned with her chest. Margaret smiled at her grimly. “Now we will save my brother’s life,” she said.
* * *
SIR GUY WAS seated at the table in the great hall, still, when she paused on its threshold several hours later. She tried to control her dismay. She had hoped he would have gone to bed, though she had not thought that likely.
Instead, she had suspected that he would wait up for her—and she had been right.
Sir Guy looked at her, a mug of wine in his hands. He did not stand. But his gaze skimmed her bloodstained gown.
“I apologize for my appearance, Sir Guy,” Margaret said, refusing to enter the hall. Everyone else within it was sleeping upon their pallets, except for two serving maids. They hovered not far from Sir Guy.
“Is your brother alive?”