Chapter Nineteen.html #2
Angus said, “Do ye love my little brother?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip. “I love him greatly...I hope that pleases you.”
He studied her. “It would please me to know that ye have truly forsaken yer MacDougall loyalties.”
Of course he cared mostly about her loyalty to the clan he hated more than anything and anyone.
“I will always be loyal to Will—my only remaining brother. I will always be loyal to my mother and my father, God bless them, for they are dead. But—” she looked at Alexander, and tears arose “—I love Alexander. I never meant to love him, but it came to pass. When I fled the Englishman I was meant to wed, I knew I was giving up my every ancient loyalty. I am loyal to Alexander, my lord. For now and forever.”
Alexander slid his arm around her. “I have asked her to marry me—many times, actually. She has only recently agreed.”
Angus’s stare remained upon her and it was thoughtful. “The last time a MacDougall married a MacDonald, ancient loyalties were tested and torn asunder. It isn’t easy to love the enemy.”
“I know,” Margaret whispered.
“But Juliana never wavered—my older brother never wavered—and ye remind me of her.” He walked to Alexander and laid his hand upon his shoulder. “If ye love her as our brother loves Juliana, she will be fortunate, indeed.”
Margaret trembled, holding back tears. They had just been given Angus Og’s blessing.
He smiled at them then, and suddenly turned and exited the hall, leaving them very much alone.
Alexander reached out. Margaret gave him her hand.
“Will ye marry me now?”
Speechless, her heart thundering, she nodded.
He laughed and swept her into his embrace. His forehead against hers, he said thickly, “Now I can tell ye how I never thought to see this day.”
“Me neither,” she answered.
He lifted her into his arms. Margaret gasped in surprise as he carried her from the hall. “Alexander!”
“Ye said yes,” he teased, striding up a narrow stairwell and hunching over to do so.
“It isn’t noon!” she protested, clinging to his shoulders.
“So? I happen to ken well that ye like sex in the morning better than at night!”
She could not believe he would speak so openly, and she felt her cheeks flame. Fortunately, they were alone as he reached the landing and strode down the corridor. And she had no desire to protest.
The tradition of handfasting was as old as time. She had agreed to the union. As soon as they made love and consummated it, they would be man and wife.
He kicked open a door and she saw a dark bedchamber, but knew it was Alexander’s.
An old, rusted shield hung on one wall, and a coat of mail, worn and in need of repair, cloaked a straw replica of a man.
Instinctively, she knew the shield and armor had belonged to his father, the last lord of the isles, Angus Mor.
He kicked the door closed and laid her down on the bed, coming down on top of her. She met his dark, intense stare.
“Will ye marry me now?”
“Yes.”
His gaze did not waver. “Will ye be as loyal to me as Juliana is to my brother?”
“Yes.”
“Till the death?” His tone was now thick.
She could not speak then, so she nodded, then managed, “Yes.” Then, “I will love you for all time, Alexander. And you? Will you be loyal to me—will you love me—for all time?”
“Yes.” He leaned low and covered her mouth with his.
Margaret had never loved him more. She reached for his face and held him, letting him kiss her deeply. When he finally ended the kiss, she realized she was crying.
He brushed her tears away with his fingers, then untied her girdle, tossing it aside.
Margaret had become breathless. Desire had risen up, hot and hard, joining the impossible surge of love.
He removed her surcote and cote together, lifted her chemise, and then settled his hard thighs between her legs. He thrust deep, watching her, and Margaret did not move. Pleasure took her breath away. So did love.
He said, “We’re man and wife now.”
* * *
A FEW WEEKS later, Bruce arrived at Dunaverty Castle.
The news of his arrival swept the castle. Margaret was putting away clothing that had recently been washed when she heard a young maid running past her chamber, crying out to her as she did so. Bruce had come! Dropping the pile of tunics, Margaret ran after the maid.
They charged up to the ramparts, which were filled with men and women, everyone hanging over the walls. “Bruce!” a man shouted.
“The Bruce!” another cried.
“King Robert Bruce!” men and women cheered.
Margaret reached the edge of the crenellations and hung over them breathlessly.
It was a brisk autumn day, the seas beyond the beach choppy with white foam, the sky above bright and blue, clouds racing across it.
She saw six galleons beached below, and then she saw Bruce striding up the last of the road leading to Dunaverty’s front gates.
Three dozen men were behind him. Everyone carried their swords, but nothing else. Bruce was thin and gaunt, as were his men—frighteningly so. And many of the men were barefoot. Their hair was long, she now realized, their clothing in tatters. She was shocked.
When she and Alexander had left Bruce at Dalry, they had not been so lean, and he had had no more than twenty men. Tears filled her eyes. She could not imagine what had happened as they had tried to flee the mainland of Scotland to Kintyre.
But the cheers did not abate. Bruce had not changed otherwise. His head was high, his shoulders square. He did not look like a man who had suffered defeat after defeat. He smiled, holding up his hand. The crescendo increased. The crowd roared its approval.
When Bruce had disappeared from view into the entry tower, Margaret returned to the keep. She hurried inside, intent on getting down to the hall, for she wished to learn what had happened.
Bruce stood with Alexander and Angus before one hearth, the rest of his men already being given wine. Margaret slowed her pace as she approached.
The king saw her. He smiled. “Lady MacDonald. Congratulations. You have made a fortunate choice.”
Margaret bowed her head. “Your Majesty.” Then she met his piercing blue stare. The moment she did, she saw the resolve in his eyes—the strength in his demeanor.
Robert Bruce had been defeated, but nothing had changed. He was Scotland’s king.
He turned back to Angus and Alexander. As she listened, she learned about how he and his men had been reduced to surviving upon roots, berries and small game. With winter approaching, it had been terribly cold, causing everyone to suffer. They had found shelter in caves.
They had been able to avoid a dangerous journey through MacDougall lands at Loch Lommond, by finding a sunken boat to carry them across the loch, in stages.
By now, they were near starvation. Bruce divided his men into two hunting parties, as they were desperate for venison.
And by sheer good fortune, the sound of their hunting horns was heard by the Earl of Lennox, who was also out hunting that day.
A wonderful reunion ensued, as each man had thought the other to be dead.
Bruce and his men then joined Lennox at his camp, as he was in hiding, as well. There, they managed to eat and drink, and then go on to meet Neil Campbell, who had been sent ahead after Dalry and who had two galleys waiting for them.
Bruce now paused, handing his cup to a passing maid for more wine. Angus clasped his shoulder. “But ye live. The king of Scotland lives.”
“Was there ever doubt?” Bruce asked with his usual arrogance. “There can be no delay. I am sending my brother to Ireland to raise men from my estates there, and I will visit my brother’s wife, Christiana of the Isles, as she will also give me men.”
Margaret heard them discussing an invasion of Scotland in the following spring. She was in disbelief. Bruce’s army had been reduced to a handful of starving knights. Yet he intended to invade Scotland and rejoin the war against King Edward in a matter of months! Aghast, she left the men.
But as she went upstairs, she began to think of how Bruce had thus far stolen Scotland’s crown, and survived attack after attack by the mightiest army in the land. His ambition knew no bounds. If anyone could raise a mighty army now, it was Robert Bruce.
She was alone in their bedchamber, needlepoint in her hand, when Alexander came in many hours later. He smiled at her. “How can ye see to sew now?” Only two tapers were burning, while a small fire crackled in the hearth.
She set the embroidery down. Her heart had filled with warmth the moment Alexander had entered the chamber. How she loved him, for better or for worse. “Will Bruce be able to raise another army—one strong enough to fight King Edward?”
“Can ye doubt it?” Alexander came to her and took her into his arms. “I ken ye hate war.” He kissed her temple. “But ye married a warrior, Margaret. Do ye have regrets?”
She turned and put her arms around him. “I will never regret loving you or becoming your wife.” For a moment, she simply pressed her face to his chest. Then she looked up. “I am glad Bruce lives, Alexander.” And she meant it.
“Yer becoming a MacDonald, Margaret,” he warned, with a gentle smile.
“I hope so,” she said.
* * *
ALEXANDER WAS THE one to bring her the letter from her brother. It was a crisp October day, the skies bland and gray, the seas dark, the waves high. “Ye have a letter, Margaret, from William,” he said, smiling.
His smile seemed odd but she ignored it, thrilled to have a missive from her brother.
She had written to him shortly after her marriage, telling him that she was now Alexander’s wife.
She had written a lengthy and similar letter to Buchan.
She did not know if her uncle would ever reply, but she was ecstatic to hear from her brother.
She eagerly read his every word. “He is at Balvenie now,” she reported to Alexander. She read on and looked up. “He is enjoying days spent hunting and fishing.” She read more. “He does not mention Buchan’s reaction to my letter!”