Chapter Eighteen.html #2
She turned back to Bruce and saw him embracing Elisabeth, the way a husband hugs his wife after a long period of separation. Elisabeth actually smiled at him, and touched his cheek, a simple caress.
Margaret glanced back at Isabella, who appeared furious. “She is his wife,” Margaret stressed.
Isabella wisely did not answer, but her color was high.
Suddenly a woman began crying out. “John! John!”
Margaret saw Marjorie running across the camp. Atholl was rushing toward her from the other side of the camp, his arms open.
She watched them embrace. Atholl held her, hard, for a long time, and then they kissed as if they were lovers, not man and wife.
Feeling so happy for them, she no longer believed Atholl a spy for King Edward. His life had been at risk at Methven. He would have fled to the English ranks during the massacre, had he been their agent.
As she watched them hugging one another, Margaret realized she was being closely watched, as well.
Alexander was staring at her. She felt her cheeks flame. Did he know that she yearned to be embraced in just such a manner?
He rode his warhorse over to her. “Two tents have been made for the women.” He slid from his horse, handing the reins to a young Highland lad, and approached, reaching up for her.
Her heart continued to race. He was going to realize that he still affected her in a great many ways.
Margaret let him help her dismount, and then he turned to aid Isabella.
He gestured to them both to follow. Margaret fell silently into step behind him with Isabella, who clearly was reluctant.
Margaret knew she wished to veer away and attempt to see Bruce.
She so hoped Isabella would behave sensibly now.
She gazed at Alexander’s broad shoulders, at his unruly dark hair. She hated the awkwardness between them. Inhaling, she said, “Do you know how long we will be here?”
He turned and paused, allowing her to fall into step with him. They walked past a large cook fire and several tents. Young boys were playing with a stick and a ball of rope. “No, I dinna ken. But Bruce plans to send the women to the Orkney Islands.”
Margaret gasped. She had no wish to live in the Orkney Islands!
Her dismay must have shown, because he said, “He needs to keep the queen safe, Lady Margaret. His sister Isabel is the Dowager Queen of Norway. He has already sent emissaries ahead.”
Margaret’s head began to ache. She wished to remain behind—the Orkney Islands were so far away from Alexander.
He said, “That tent is for ye and six other ladies.”
She did not look at it. “Will I be forced to go to the Orkney Islands?”
“Where else could ye go? ’Tis no secret that ye have joined Queen Elisabeth, defying Buchan. All of Scotland knows ye refused to marry Sir Guy when ye ran from Castle Fyne.”
He was right. If the queen went, taking her ladies with her, she would have to go with them. She had nowhere else to go. “I am afraid, Alexander.”
“I ken. Margaret...” He stopped.
“What? If you have something to say, please, say it!” she cried.
“I have so many questions,” he said sharply. “And even now, I dinna like it when yer afraid.”
What did that mean? She knew she must stop being emotional. But she wanted to cry—and rush into his arms—and demand her own answers. “I will answer all your questions—you must merely ask them,” she managed to answer.
He took her arm and guided her away from the tent, toward the outskirts of the camp. Margaret realized Isabella had already wandered away from them. She did not look back to see where she was, as she could guess. “I do not like this awkwardness,” she said. “How can we have become strangers?”
He glanced at her as they approached a pair of majestic fir trees. “It has been three months since we last spoke.”
“I wrote you a letter. You did not reply.” She cringed at hearing her own desperation!
“I dinna ken what yer asking me, Margaret,” he said abruptly.
“You were fond of me. You once wished to marry me. Is there another woman you wish to wed—one with a real dowry?” She could not look away from him now.
“No. We’re at war,” he said, quite unnecessarily.
“Bruce wanted us wed, once. Has he changed his mind?”
He stared for a moment. “Castle Fyne remains my ambition.”
What did that mean? And he hadn’t answered her question.
“And what of ye, Margaret? Have ye decided to fall in love with someone—Sir Neil, perhaps?”
There is only one man I love, she thought, but she was surprised that he would ask her such a thing. “No,” she said.
He flushed. Then, “If ye dinna love someone else, then why did ye write me such a letter?”
“I am uncertain of your meaning, Alexander.”
“Ye wrote me as if we were strangers! I hardly believed ye wrote it.”
She inhaled, struck by his words. “Is that why you did not write me back?”
“The lady who wrote me was not the same woman I held in my arms,” he said with finality.
She began shaking her head. “Should I have written to you, proclaiming my eternal love? Begging you to return my affections when you left me so angrily? I am a proud woman, Alexander. Without my dowry, I have no value as a bride and we both know it. Most men would have lost interest in taking me to wife once Sir Guy conquered Castle Fyne. You are not most men, yet surely, you wish a bride with lands.”
“Is that what ye wished to ask me—if I cared still? If I still wanted ye as a bride?”
“Yes.”
His eyes widened. A long moment ensued, and he said slowly, “And do ye love me—eternally?”
She trembled. “I do love you, Alexander. Of course I do.”
A fierce look covered his face. “I have missed ye, Margaret.”
And before she could utter another word, Alexander crushed her in his arms, his mouth upon hers. Margaret held on to him, as tightly as she could, kissing him back. They stood that way for a very long time.
And when the kiss had ended, he looked down at her. “I will come to ye tonight.”
* * *
“I HAD FORGOTTEN,” Alexander said, “how beautiful ye truly are.”
Margaret lay in his arms, their naked bodies entwined. He had said he would come to her in the middle of the night, but it was later that afternoon, and they were in Alexander’s tent. He shared it with several other men, but he had obviously instructed them to give them an hour of privacy.
She had missed him so much. “I did not forget how handsome you are,” she said teasingly. Then she sobered. “I have been so afraid for you.”
“I have worried about you, as well.” He shifted so they could look at one another more easily. “I have heard that yer uncle has disavowed his wife—and that he is furious with ye, too.”
“He has threatened Isabella. I pray they never see one another again.”
“Ye were so loyal to yer family fer so long. Ye were so loyal to Buchan. What happened at Castle Fyne?”
Her tension spiraled. She felt ill in the pit of her belly.
She had not thought about Sir Guy’s attempt to rape her in months—she had deliberately buried the memory.
Now, images tried to emerge within her mind, along with grotesque tactile sensations, of being brutally gripped and violently kissed, and she remembered how fear had clawed at her.
“Did Sir Guy hurt ye?” Alexander asked.
She pushed away from him and sat up, unable to breathe. She did not want to look at Alexander now—she did not want to have this conversation. But their gazes met.
“Why won’t ye answer?”
She inhaled, shaking. “He wanted to consummate the marriage—I refused.”
“What happened—exactly?”
She pulled away. “A messenger came, interrupting us. I was fortunate.”
Alexander also sat up, the covers falling to his waist. “Did he try to rape ye, Margaret?”
She met his gaze, and somehow she nodded.
Alexander did not move, except for his chest, which slowly rose and fell. “I am going to kill him.”
Margaret whispered, “It is over, Alexander.” But it did not feel over, not at all.
“It is over when he is dead.” He pulled her unyielding body close. “I was not there to protect ye, Margaret. What he tried to do will haunt me till I die.”
She felt tears of grief arising.
He stroked her hair for a moment. “If the queen and her women are captured before they reach the Orkney Islands, they will suffer a terrible fate. And ye could be captured with them.”
She stiffened, aware that what he said was true, but wondering at his declaration.
If she was ever captured, Sir Guy might come for her. He might demand she be handed over to him certainly wanting some kind of revenge for her actions. “If I am captured, I might be handed over to Sir Guy.”
“If yer captured, ye will shout to anyone who listens that yer Buchan’s niece.”
“Everyone knows I fled Sir Guy—and I swore fealty to Bruce.”
“Ye will deny ever paying homage to King Robert. And yer still Buchan’s niece—the most powerful Comyn lord alive.
” He clearly saw her surprise and misgivings.
“I have not changed my mind about our marriage, Margaret. But I will never marry ye while the king’s proclamation against the women stands.
I will never marry ye if doing so puts yer life at risk.
Ye have some protection now, being Buchan’s ward and niece, if everyone believes yer still loyal to him. ”
She was shaken. “I don’t know if Buchan will try to save my life. Sir Guy might even let me hang.”
“Sir Guy will seek to marry ye—for the sake of Castle Fyne, for the sake of his alliance with Buchan.”
Could that be true? “I cannot marry him,” she said tersely.
“If yer captured, ye might have no choice—and it is a better choice than death.” He was sharp. “If we marry now, ye’ll be hanged as a traitor the moment yer captured—for ye’ll be the Wolf of Lochaber’s wife.”
He had no doubt, she saw that, and he was so much worldlier than she was, especially when it came to matters of war and politics.
“And you, Alexander?” she whispered. “Who will save you, if you are ever captured?”
“I live by the sword, Margaret. One day I will die a warrior’s death.”