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A Rose in the Storm
Brenda Joyce
When rivalry becomes passionWith warfare blazing through Scotland, the fate of the Comyn-MacDougall legacy depends on one woman.Recently orphaned, young Margaret Comyn must secure her clan’s safety through an arranged marriage.But when an enemy invasion puts her at the mercy of the notorious Wolf of Lochaber, her every loyalty and secret want will be challenged.And a kingdom is at stakeLegendary warrior Alexander “the Wolf” MacDonald rides with Robert Bruce to seize the throne of Scotland.But when he takes the fiery Lady Margaret prisoner, she quickly becomes far more than a valuable hostage.For, the passion between them threatens to betray their families, their country…and their hearts."Joyce's tale of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will enchant those who like their reads long and rich." Publishers Weekly on The Masquerade


JOIN NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR BRENDA JOYCE FOR AN EPIC STORY OF UNDYING LOVE AND FORBIDDEN DESIRE IN THE HIGHLANDS…
When Rivalry Becomes Passion
With warfare blazing through Scotland, the fate of the Comyn-MacDougall legacy depends on one woman. Recently orphaned, young Margaret Comyn must secure her clan’s safety through an arranged marriage. But when an enemy invasion puts her at the mercy of the notorious Wolf of Lochaber, her every loyalty—and secret want—will be challenged.
And a Kingdom Is at Stake
Legendary warrior Alexander “the Wolf” MacDonald rides with Robert Bruce to seize the throne of Scotland. But when he takes the fiery Lady Margaret prisoner, she quickly becomes far more than a valuable hostage. For the passion between them threatens to betray their families, their country…and their hearts.
Praise for New York Times bestselling author


“As dangerous and intriguing as readers could desire. This is a tale reminiscent of genre classics, with its lush and fascinating historical details and sensuality.”
—RT Book Reviews on Surrender
“Merging depth of history with romance is nothing new for the multitalented author, but here she also brings in an intensity of political history that is both fascinating and detailed.”
—RT Book Reviews on Seduction
“Another first-rate Regency, featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama… Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Perfect Bride
“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters, Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”
—Booklist on The Perfect Bride
“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last
“Sexual tension crackles…in this sizzling, action-packed adventure.”
—Library Journal on Dark Seduction
A Rose in the Storm
Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Contents
CHAPTER ONE (#ud8cd3180-e79f-50d4-b2db-632543efe611)
CHAPTER TWO (#u25d5deb9-6013-594b-b051-6416e4825142)
CHAPTER THREE (#ufb94fee4-c536-5a00-82c9-df12cb02118b)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u24895c07-3e78-5d84-8a43-ec16b6c91f2c)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u85cc705d-0de0-56fe-b28c-6054a66b53c1)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
DEAR READER (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
Loch Fyne, the Highlands—February 14, 1306
“IT IS TOO damned quiet.”
Will’s voice cut through the silence of the Highland afternoon, but Margaret did not hear him. Mounted beside him at the head of a column of knights, soldiers and servants, surrounded by the thick Argyll forest, she stared straight ahead.
Castle Fyne rose out of the ragged cliffs and snow-patched hills above them so abruptly that when one rode out of the forest, as they had just done, one had to blink and wonder at the sight, momentarily mistaking it for soaring black rock. But it was a centuries-old stronghold, precariously perched above the frozen loch below, its lower walls stout and thick, its northern towers and battlements jutting into the pale, winter-gray sky. The forest surrounding the loch and the castle was dusted white, and the mountains in the northwest were snowcapped.
Margaret inhaled. She was overcome with emotion—with pride.
And she thought, Castle Fyne is mine.
Once, it had belonged to her mother. Mary MacDougall had been born at Castle Fyne, which had been her dowry in her marriage to William Comyn, which had filled her with great pride. For Castle Fyne was a tremendous prize. Placed on the most western reaches of Argyll, providing a gateway from the Solway Firth, surrounded by lands belonging to Clan Donald and Clan Ruari, the castle had been fought over throughout the centuries. It had been attacked many times, yet it had never once slipped from MacDougall hands.
Margaret trembled, more pride surging within her, for she had adored her mother, and now, the great keep was her dowry, and she would bring it with her in her upcoming marriage. But the anxiety that had afflicted her for the past few weeks, and during this journey, remained. Since the death of her father, she had become the ward of her powerful uncle, John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan. He had recently concluded a union for her. She was betrothed to a renowned knight whom she had never met—Sir Guy de Valence—and he was an Englishman.
“’Tis such a godforsaken place,” her brother said, interrupting her thoughts. But he was glancing warily around. “I don’t like this. It’s too quiet. There are no birds.”
She sat her mare beside Will, her only living brother. Suddenly she wondered at the silence, realizing he was right. There was no rustling of underbrush, either, made by chipmunks and squirrels, or the occasional fox or deer—there was no sound other than the jangle of bridles on their horses, and the occasional snort.
Her tension escalated. “Why is it so quiet?”
“Something has chased the game away,” Will said.
Their gazes met. Her brother was eighteen—a year older than she was—and blond like their father, whom he had been named after. Margaret had been told she resembled Mary—she was petite, her hair more red than gold, her face heart-shaped.
“We should go,” Will said abruptly, gathering up his reins. “Just in case there is more in the hills than wolves.”
Margaret followed suit quickly, glancing up at the castle perched high above them. They would be within the safety of its walls in minutes. But before she could urge her mare forward, she recalled the castle in the springtime, with blue and purple wildflowers blooming beneath its walls. And she remembered skipping about the flowers, where a brook bubbled and deer grazed. She smiled, recalling her mother’s soft voice as she called her inside. And her handsome father striding into the hall, his mantle sweeping about him, spurs jangling, her four brothers behind him, everyone exhilarated and speaking at once....
She blinked back tears. How she missed her father, her brothers and her beloved mother. How she cherished her legacy now. And how pleased Mary would be, to know that her daughter had returned to Loch Fyne.
But her mother had despised and feared the English. Her family had been at war with the English all her life, only recently coming to a truce. What would Mary think of Margaret’s arranged marriage to an Englishman?
She turned to face William, discomfited by her emotions, and in so doing, glanced back at the sixty men and women in the cavalcade behind them. It had been a difficult journey, due mostly to the cold winter and the snow, and she knew that the soldiers and servants were eager to reach the castle. She had not visited the stronghold in a good ten years, and she was eager to reach its warm halls, too. But not just to revisit her few memories. She was worried about her people. Several servants had already complained of frozen fingers and toes.
She would tend them immediately, once they reached the great keep, just as she had seen her mother do.
But the anxiety that had afflicted her for the past few weeks would not go away. She could not pretend that she was not worried about her impending marriage. She meant to be grateful. She knew she was fortunate. Her uncle controlled most of the north of Scotland, his affairs were vast, and he could have simply ignored her circumstances once both her parents had passed. He could have kept her at his home, Balvenie, in some remote tower, and established his own steward at Castle Fyne. He could have sent her to Castle Bain, which William had inherited from their father. Instead, he had decided upon an advantageous political union—one that would elevate her status, as well as serve the great Comyn family.
But another pang went through her as she walked her mare forward on the narrow path leading up to the castle. Her uncle Buchan also despised the English—until this truce, he had warred against them for years. The sudden allegiance made her uneasy.
“I think Castle Fyne is beautiful,” she said, hoping she sounded calm and sensible. “Even if it has come to some neglect since Mother’s death.” She would repair every rotten timber, every chipped stone.
“You would.” William grimaced and shook his head. “You are so much like our mother.”
Margaret considered that high flattery, indeed. “Mother always loved this place. If she could have resided here, and not at Bain with Father, she would have.”
“Mother was a MacDougall when she married our father, and she was a MacDougall when she died,” William said, somewhat impatiently. “She had a natural affinity for this land, much like you. Still, you are a Comyn first, and Bain suits you far more than this pile of rock and stone—even if we need it to defend our borders.” He studied her seriously. “I still cannot fathom why you wished to come here. Buchan could have sent anyone. I could have come without you.”
“When our uncle decided upon this union, I felt the need to come here. Perhaps just to see it for myself, through a woman’s eyes, not a child’s.” She did not add that she had wanted to return to Castle Fyne ever since their mother had died a year and a half ago.
Margaret had grown up in a time of constant war. She could not even count the times the English King Edward had invaded Scotland during her lifetime, or the number of rebellions and revolts waged by men like Andrew Moray, William Wallace and Robert Bruce. Three of her brothers had died fighting the English—Roger at Falkirk, Thomas at the battle of River Cree and Donald in the massacre at Stirling Castle.
Their mother had taken a silly cold after Donald’s death. The cough had gotten worse and worse, a fever had joined it, and she had never recovered. That summer, she had simply passed on.
Margaret knew their mother had lost her will to live after the death of three of her sons. And her husband had loved her so much that he had not been able to go on without her. Six weeks later, on a red-and-gold autumn day, their father had gone hunting. He had broken his neck falling from his horse while chasing a stag. Margaret believed he had been deliberately reckless—that he had not cared whether he lived or died.
“At least we are at peace now,” she said into the strained silence.
“Are we?” Will asked, almost rudely. “There was no choice but to sue for peace, after the massacre at Stirling Castle. As Buchan said, we must prove our loyalty to King Edward now.” His eyes blazed. “And so he has tossed you off to an Englishman.”
“It is a good alliance,” Margaret pointed out. It was true her uncle Buchan had warred against King Edward for years, but during this time of truce, he wished to protect the family by forging such an allegiance.
“Oh, yes, it is an excellent alliance! You will become a part of a great English family! Sir Guy is Aymer de Valence’s bastard brother, and Aymer not only has the ear of the king, he will probably be the next Lord Lieutenant of Scotland. How clever Buchan is.”
“Why are you doing this, now?” she cried, shaken. “I have a duty to our family, Will, and I am Buchan’s ward! Surely, you do not wish for me to object?”
“Yes, I want you to object! English soldiers killed our brothers.”
Will had always had a temper. He was not the most rational of young men. “If I can serve our family in this time of peace, I intend to do so,” she said. “I will hardly be the first woman to marry a rival for political reasons.”
“Ah, so you finally admit that Sir Guy is a rival?”
“I am trying to do my duty, Will. There is peace in the land, now. And Sir Guy will be able to fortify and defend Castle Fyne—we will be able to keep our position here in Argyll.”
He snorted. “And if you were ordered to the gallows? Would you meekly go?”
Her tension increased. Of course she would not meekly go to the gallows—and initially, she had actually considered approaching her uncle and attempting to dissuade him from this course. But no woman in her position would ever do such a thing. The notion was insane. Buchan would not care for her opinion, and he would be furious with her.
Besides, so many Scots had lost their titles and lands in the years before the recent peace, forfeited to the Crown, to be given to King Edward’s allies. Buchan had not lost a single keep. Instead, he was marrying his niece to a great English knight. If a bargain had been made, it was a good one—for everyone, including herself.
“So, Meg—what will you do if after you are married, Sir Guy thinks to keep you at his estate in Liddesdale?”
Margaret felt her heart lurch. She had been born at Castle Bain in the midst of Buchan territory. Nestled amidst the great forests there, Castle Bain was her father’s birthright and her home. Their family had also spent a great deal of time at Balvenie, the magnificent stronghold just to the east where Buchan so often resided.
Both of those Comyn castles were very different from Castle Fyne, but they were all as Scottish as the Highland air she was now breathing. The forests were thick and impenetrable. The mountains were craggy, peaks soaring. The lochs below were stunning in their serenity. The skies were vividly blue, and no matter the time of year, the winds were brisk and chilling.
Liddesdale was in the borderlands—it was practically the north of England. It was a flat land filled with villages, farms and pastures. Upon being knighted, Sir Guy had been awarded a manor there.
She could not imagine residing in England. She did not even wish to consider it. “I would attempt to join him when he visited Castle Fyne. In time, he will be awarded other estates, I think. Mayhap I will be allowed to attend all of his lands.”
William gave her a penetrating look. “You may be a woman, Meg, and you may pretend to be dutiful, but we both know you are exactly like Mother in one single way—you are stubborn, when so moved. You will never settle in England.”
Margaret flushed. She did not consider herself stubborn. She considered herself gentle and kind. “I will cross that bridge when I come to it. I have great hopes for this union.”
“I think you are as angry about it as I am, and as afraid. I also think you are pretending to be pleased.”
“I am pleased,” she said, a bit sharply. “Why are you pressing me this way, now? June is but a few months away! I have come here to restore the keep, so it is somewhat pleasing when Sir Guy first sees it. Do you hope to dismay me?”
“No—I do not want to distress you. But I have tried to discuss this handfast several times—and you change the subject or run away. Damn it. I have many doubts about this union, and knowing you as well as I do, I know you are afraid, too.” He said softly, “And we only have each other now.”
He was right. If she dared be entirely honest with herself, she was worried, dismayed and afraid. But she then looked away.
“He may be English but he is a good man, and he has been knighted for his service to the king.” She was echoing her uncle now. “I was told he is handsome, too.” She could not smile, although she wished to. “He is eager for this union, Will, and surely that is a good sign.” When he simply stared, she added, “My marriage will not change our relationship.”
“Of course it will,” William said flatly. “What will you do when this peace fails?”
Margaret tried not to allow any dread to arise. “Our uncle does not think this peace will fail,” she finally said. “To make such a marriage, he must surely believe it will endure.”
“No one thinks it will endure!” William cursed. “You are a pawn, Meg, so he can keep his lands, when so many of us have had our lands and titles forfeited for our so-called treason! Father would never have allowed this marriage!”
Again, William was right. “Buchan is our lord now. I do not want him to lose his lands, Will.”
“Nor do I! Didn’t you overhear our uncle and Red John last week, when they spent an hour cursing Edward, swearing to overthrow the English—vowing revenge for William Wallace!”
Margaret felt ill. She had been seated in a corner of the hall with Isabella, Buchan’s pretty young wife, sewing. She had deliberately eavesdropped—and she had heard their every word.
How she wished she had not. The great barons of Scotland were furious with the humiliation King Edward had delivered upon them by stripping all her powers—she would now be ruled by an Englishman, an appointee of King Edward’s. There were fines and taxes being levied upon every yeoman, farmer and noble. She would now be taxed to pay for England’s wars with France and the other foreign powers he battled with. He would even force the Scots to serve in his armies.
But the coup de grâce had been the brutal execution of William Wallace. He had been dragged by horse, hanged, cut down while still alive, disemboweled and beheaded.
Every Scot, whether Highlander or lowlander, prince or pauper, baron or farmer, was stricken by the barbaric execution of the brave Scottish rebel. Every Scot wanted revenge.
“Of course my marriage was made for politics,” she said, aware that her voice sounded strained. “No one marries for affection. I expected a political alliance. We are allies of the Crown now.”
“I did not say you should have a love match. But our uncle is hardly an ally of King Edward’s! This is beyond politics. He is throwing you away.”
Margaret would never admit to him that if she dared think about it, she might feel just that way—as if she had been thoughtlessly and carelessly used by her uncle for his own ends—as if she had been casually tossed away, to serve him in this singular moment before his loyalties changed again. “I wish to do my part, Will. I want to keep the family strong and safe.”
William moved his horse close, lowering his voice. “He hardly has a claim, but I think Red John will seek the throne, if not for himself, then perhaps for King Balliol’s son.”
Margaret’s eyes widened. Red John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch, was chief of the entire Comyn family, and lord even over Buchan. He was like another uncle to her—but truly he was a very distant cousin. Her brother’s words did not surprise her—she had overheard such speculation before—but now she realized that if Red John sought the throne, or attempted to put the former Scottish King John Balliol’s boy Edward upon it, Buchan would support him, leaving her married to an Englishman and on the other side of the great war that would surely ensue.
“Those are rumors,” she said.
“Yes, they are. And everyone knows that Robert Bruce still has his eye upon the Scottish throne,” William said with some bitterness. The Comyns hated Robert Bruce, just as they had hated his father, Annandale.
Margaret was becoming frightened. If Red John sought the throne—if Robert Bruce did—there would be another war, she felt certain. And she would be on the opposite side as an Englishman’s wife. “We must pray for this peace to hold.”
“It will never hold. I am going to lose you, too.”
She was taken aback. “I am getting married, not going to the Tower or the gallows. You will not lose me.”
“So tell me, Meg, when there is war, if you become loyal to him—to Sir Guy and Aymer de Valence—how will you be loyal to me?” His expression one of revulsion and anger, William spurred his gelding ahead of her.
Margaret felt as if he had struck her in the chest. She kicked her mare forward, hurrying after him, aware that he wasn’t as angry as he was afraid.
But she was afraid, too. If there was another war, her loyalty was going to be put to a terrible test. And sooner or later, there would be another war—she simply knew it. Peace never lasted, not in Scotland.
Dismay overcame her. Could she be loyal to her family and her new husband? And if so, how? Wouldn’t she have to put her new husband first?
Her gaze had become moist. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, reminding herself that she was a grown woman, a Comyn and a MacDougall, and she had a duty to her family now—and to herself. “We will never be enemies, Will.”
He glanced back at her grimly. “We had better pray that something arises to disrupt your marriage, Meg.”
Suddenly Sir Ranald, one of Buchan’s young knights—a handsome freckled Scot of about twenty-five—rode up to them. “William! Sir Neil thinks he has seen a watch in the trees atop the hill!”
Margaret’s heart lurched with a new fear as William paled and cursed. “I knew it was too damn quiet! Is he certain?”
“He is almost certain—and a watch would scare the wildlife away.”
Sir Ranald had ridden in front of them, blocking their way, and they had stopped on the narrow path. Margaret now realized that the forest surrounding them wasn’t just quiet, it was unnaturally silent—unnervingly so.
“Who would be watching us?” Margaret whispered harshly. But she did not have to ask—she knew.
MacDonald land was just beyond the ridge they rode below.
Margaret looked at Sir Ranald, who returned her gaze, his grim. “Who else but a MacDonald?”
Margaret shivered. The enmity between her mother’s family and the MacDonald clan went back hundreds of years. The son of Angus Mor, Alexander Og—known as Alasdair—was Lord of Islay, and his brother Angus Og was Lord of Kintyre. The bastard brother, Alexander MacDonald, was known as the Wolf of Lochaber. The MacDougalls had been warring against the MacDonalds over lands in Argyll for years.
She looked up at the forest-clad hillside. She saw nothing and no one in the snowy firs above.
“We only have a force of fifty men,” Will said grimly. “But there are four dozen men garrisoned at the castle—or so we think.”
“Let’s hope that Sir Neil saw a hunter from a hunting party,” Sir Ranald said. “Master William, you and your sister need to be behind the castle walls as soon as possible.”
William nodded, glancing at Margaret. “We should ride immediately for the keep.”
They were in danger, for if the MacDonald brothers meant to attack, they would do so with far more than fifty men. Margaret glanced fearfully around. Not even a branch was moving on the hillside. “Let us go,” she agreed.
Sir Ranald stood in his stirrups, half turning to face the riders and wagons below. He held up his hand and flagged the cavalcade forward.
Will spurred his bay stallion into a trot, and Margaret followed.
* * *
IT REMAINED ABSOLUTELY silent as their cavalcade passed through the barbican, approaching the raised drawbridge before the entry tower. Margaret was afraid to speak, wondering at the continuing silence, for word had been sent ahead by messenger, declaring their intention to arrive. Of course, messages could be intercepted, and messengers could be waylaid—even though the land was supposedly at “peace.” But then heads began popping up on the ramparts of the castle walls, adjacent the gatehouse. And then murmurs and whispers could be heard.
“’Tis Buchan’s nephew and niece....”
“’Tis Lady Margaret and Master William Comyn....”
Their cavalcade had halted, most of it wedged into the barbican. Sir Ranald cupped his hands and shouted up at the tower, to whomever was on watch there. “I am Sir Ranald of Kilfinnan, and I have in my keeping Lady Margaret Comyn and her brother, Master William. Lower the bridge for your mistress.”
Whispers sounded from the ramparts. The great drawbridge groaned as it was lowered. Margaret saw some children appear on the battlements above, as she gazed around, suddenly making eye contact with an older woman close to the entry tower. The woman’s eyes widened; instinctively, Margaret smiled.
“’Tis Lady Mary’s daughter!” the old woman cried.
“’Tis Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” another man cried, with more excitement.
“Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” others cried.
Margaret felt her heart skid wildly when she realized what was happening—these good folk remembered her mother, their mistress, whom they had revered and loved, and she was being welcomed by them all now. Her vision blurred.
These were her kin. These were her people, just as Castle Fyne was hers. They were welcoming her, and in return, she must see to their welfare and safety, for she was their lady now.
She smiled again, blinking back the tears. From the ramparts, someone cheered. More cheers followed.
Sir Ranald grinned at her. “Welcome to Castle Fyne, Lady,” he teased.
She quickly wiped her eyes and recovered her composure. “I had forgotten how much they adored my mother. Now I remember that they greeted her this way, with a great fanfare, when I was a child, when she returned here.”
“She was a great lady, so I am not surprised,” Sir Ranald said. “Everyone loved Lady Mary.”
William touched her elbow. “Wave,” he said softly.
She was startled, but she lifted her hand tentatively and the crowd on the ramparts and battlements and in the entry tower roared with approval. Margaret was taken aback. She felt herself flush. “I am hardly a queen.”
“No, but this is your dowry and you are their mistress.” William smiled at her. “And they have not had a lady of the manor in years.”
He gestured, indicating that she should precede him, and lead the way over the drawbridge into the courtyard. Margaret was surprised, and she looked at Sir Ranald, expecting him to lead the way. He grinned again, with a dimple, and then deferentially bowed his head. “After you, Lady Margaret,” he said.
Margaret nudged her mare forward, the crowd cheering again as she crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard. She felt her heart turn over hard. She halted her mare and dismounted before the wooden steps leading up to the great hall’s front entrance. As she did, the door opened and several men hurried out, a tall, gray-haired Scot leading the way.
“Lady Margaret, we have been expecting ye,” he said, beaming. “I am Malcolm MacDougall, yer mother’s cousin many times removed, and steward of this keep.”
He was clad only in the traditional linen leine most Highlanders wore, with knee-high boots and a sword hanging from his belt. Although bare-legged, and without a plaid, he clearly did not mind the cold as he came down the steps and dropped to one knee before her. “My lady,” he said with deference. “I hereby vow my allegiance and my loyalty to you above all others.”
She took a deep breath, trembling. “Thank you for your oath of fealty.”
He stood, his gaze now on her face. “Ye look so much like yer mother!” He then turned to introduce her to his two sons, both young, handsome men just a bit older than she was. Both young men swore their loyalty, as well.
William and Sir Ranald had come forward, and more greetings were exchanged. Sir Ranald then excused himself to help Sir Neil garrison their men. William stepped aside with him, and Margaret was distracted, instantly wanting to know what they were discussing, as they were deliberately out of her earshot.
“Ye must be tired,” Malcolm said to her. “Can I show ye to yer chamber?”
Margaret glanced at William—still in a serious and hushed conversation. She felt certain they were discussing the possibility of an enemy scout having been on the hillside above them, watching their movements. “I am tired, but I do not want to go to my chamber just yet. Malcolm, has there been any sign of discord around Loch Fyne lately?”
His eyes widened. “If ye mean have we skirmished with our neighbors, of course we have. One of the MacRuari lads raided our cattle last week—we lost three cows. They are as bold as pirates, using the high seas to come and go as they please! And the day after, my sons found a MacDonald scout just to the east, spying on us. It has been some time, months, truly, since we have seen any MacDonald here.”
She felt herself stiffen. “How do you know that it was a scout from clan Donald?”
Malcolm smiled grimly. “We questioned him rather thoroughly before we let him go.”
She did not like the sound of that, and she shivered.
He touched her arm. “Let me take ye inside, lady, it’s far too cold fer ye to be standing here on such a day, when we have so little sun.”
Margaret nodded, as William returned to her side. She gave him a questioning look but he ignored her, gesturing that she follow Malcolm up the stairs. Disappointed, she complied.
The great hall at the top of the stairs was a large stone chamber with high, raftered ceiling, a huge fireplace on one wall. A few arrow slits let in some scant light. Two large trestle tables were centered in the room, benches on their sides, and three carved chairs with cushioned seats sat before the hearth. Pallets for sleeping were stacked up against the far walls. A large tapestry of a battle scene completed the room, hanging on the center wall.
Margaret sniffed appreciatively. The rushes were fresh and scented with lavender oil. And suddenly she smiled—remembering that the hall had smelled of lavender when she had last been present as a child.
Malcolm smiled. “Lady Mary insisted upon fresh rushes every third day, and she especially liked the lavender. We hoped you would like it, too.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said, moved. “I do.”
The servants they had brought with them were now busy bringing their personal belongings, which filled several large chests, into the hall. Margaret espied her lady’s maid, Peg, who was three years older than she was and married to one of Buchan’s archers. She had known Peg for most of her life, and they were good friends. Margaret excused herself and hurried over to her. “Are you freezing?” she asked, taking her cold hands in hers. “How are your blisters?” She was concerned.
“Ye know how I hate the cold!” Peg exclaimed, shivering. She was as tall and voluptuous as Margaret was slender and petite, with dark auburn hair. She wore a heavy wool plaid over her ankle-length leine, but she was shivering anyway. “Of course I am freezing, and it has been a very long journey, too long, if ye ask me!”
“But we have arrived, and safely—no easy feat,” Margaret pointed out.
“Of course we arrived safely—there is no one at war now,” Peg scoffed. Then, “Margaret, yer hands are ice cold! I knew we should have made camp earlier! Yer frozen to the bone, just as I am!”
“I was cold earlier, but I am not frozen to the bone, and I am so pleased to be here.” Margaret looked around the hall again. She almost expected her mother to appear from an empty doorway, smiling at her as she entered the room.
She then shook herself free of such a fanciful thought. But she had never missed her more.
“I am going to light a fire in yer room,” Peg said firmly. “We cannot have ye catching an ague before ye marry yer English knight.”
Margaret met her steadfast gaze grimly. From her tone, she knew that Peg hoped she would catch a cold and be incapable of attending her own June wedding.
She did not fault her. Peg was a true Scotswoman. She hated the MacDonalds and several other rival clans, but she also hated the English bitterly. She had been aghast when she had learned of Margaret’s betrothal. Being outspoken, she had ranted and raved for some time, until Margaret had had to command her to keep her tongue.
While they were in some agreement on the subject of her wedding, Peg’s opinions simply did not help.
“I believe my mother’s chamber is directly atop the stairwell,” Margaret said. “I think that is a good idea. Why don’t you make a fire and prepare the room. And then see to supper.”
Margaret wasn’t hungry, but she wanted to wander about her mother’s home with some privacy. She watched Peg hurry away to harangue a young lad who was in charge of her chest. As they started for the stairwell leading to the north tower where her chamber was, Margaret followed.
Because the keep was so old, the ceiling was low, so low most men had to go up the stairwell hunched over. Margaret did not have to duck her head, and she went past the second landing, where her chamber was. She glanced inside as she did so, noticing the open shutters on a single window, the heavy wooden bed, and her chest, brought with them from Balvenie. Peg was already inspecting the hearth. Margaret quickly continued up the stairs, before her maid might object. The third level opened onto the ramparts.
Margaret left the tower, walking over to the crenellated wall. It was frigidly cold now, as the afternoon was late, the sun dull in an already cloudy sky. She pulled her dark red mantle closer.
The views were magnificent from where she now stood. The loch below the castle was crusted with thick ice near the shore, but the center was not frozen, and she knew that the bravest sailors might still attempt to traverse it, and often did, even in the midst of winter. The far shore seemed to be nothing but heavy forest.
She glanced south, at the path they had taken up to the keep. It was narrow and steep, winding up the hillside, the loch below it. From where she stood, she could see the adjacent glen. A wind was shifting the huge trees in the forest there.
It was breathtaking, beautiful. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly fiercely glad that she had come to Castle Fyne, even if it was on the eve of her marriage to an Englishman.
Then she stared at the glen below more sharply— it was as if the forest were moving, a solid phalanx of trees marching, up the hill, toward the castle.
A bell above her began to toll. Margaret stiffened. There was no mistaking the shrill warning sound. And suddenly there were racing footsteps behind her, going past her. Men began rushing from the tower she had just left, bows over their shoulders, slings filled with arrows. They ran to take up defensive positions upon the castle’s walls!
Margaret cried out, leaning over the ramparts, staring at the thickly forested glen—and at the army moving through it.
“Margaret! Lady Margaret!”
Someone was shouting for her from within. She could not move or respond. She was in disbelief, and the bells were shrieking madly above her.
Her heart lurched with sickening force. The forest wasn’t marching toward her—it was hundreds of men, an army, carrying huge, dark banners....
The archers were now upon the walls, taking up positions clearly meant to defend the castle from the invaders. Margaret rushed inside and down the steep, narrow stone staircase, slipping on the slick stone, but clutching the wall to prevent herself from falling.
William was in the hall, one hand on the hilt of his sword, his face pale. “We are under attack. There was a damned scout, Meg, watching us as we rode in! Were you on the ramparts? Did you see who is marching on us?”
Her heart was thundering. “I could not see their colors. But the banners are dark—very dark!”
They exchanged intense looks. The MacDonald colors were blue, black and a piping of red.
“Is it Clan Donald?” she cried.
“I would imagine so,” Will said harshly, two bright spots of color now on his cheeks.
“Will!” She seized his arm, and realized how badly she was shaking. “I hardly counted, but by God, I think there are hundreds of men approaching! They are so deep in rank and file, they could not fit upon the path we followed—they are coming up the glen below the ridge!”
He cursed terribly. “I am leaving my five best knights with you.”
It was so hard to think clearly now—as she had never been in a battle before, or in a castle about to be attacked. “What do you mean?”
“We will fight them off, Meg—we have no choice!”
She could not think at all now! “You cannot go to battle! You cannot fight off hundreds of men with our dozen knights and our few foot soldiers! And you cannot leave five knights with me! You would need every single one of them.”
“Since when do you know anything about battle?” he cried in frustration. “And our Comyn knights are worth ten times what any MacDonald brings.”
Oh, how she hoped he was right. Peg came racing into the chamber, her face so white it was ghostly. Margaret held out her hand and her lady’s maid rushed to her side, clasping her hand tightly. “It will be all right,” Margaret heard herself say.
Peg looked at her with wide, terrified eyes. “Everyone is saying it is Alexander MacDonald—the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.”
Margaret just looked at her, hoping she had misheard.
Sir Ranald rushed into the hall with Malcolm. “We will have to hurry, William, and try to entrap their army in the ravine. They cannot traverse the glen for much longer—they will have to take a smaller path that joins the one we came on. If we can get our men positioned above the ravine, there is a chance that we can pick them off, one by one and two by two—and they will not be able to get out of it alive.”
Was there hope, then? “Peg just said that it is the bastard brother.”
William became paler. Even Sir Ranald, the most courageous of their men, was still, his eyes wide and affixed to her.
One of Malcolm’s sons rushed inside, breaking the tension but confirming their fears. “It’s the Wolf,” he said grimly, eyes ablaze. “It’s Angus Mor’s bastard, the Wolf of Lochaber, and he has five or six hundred men.”
Margaret was deafened by her own thundering heartbeat. The Wolf of Lochaber was a legend in his own time. Everyone knew of Alexander MacDonald. It was said that no Highlander was as ruthless. It was said that he had never lost a battle. And it was said that he had never let his enemy live.
Dread consumed her. Margaret thought about the legend she had heard, gripping Peg’s hand more tightly.
Just a few years ago, Alexander had wished to marry his lover, the widowed daughter of Lord MacDuff, but he had been refused. So he had besieged the castle at Glen Carron in Lochaber. And when it finally surrendered, he had taken the laird prisoner, forced him to his knees, and made him watch as he coldly and ruthlessly executed those who had fought against him. He then burned Glen Carron to the ground. He had been about to hang Lord MacDuff, but his lover had begged for mercy. The Wolf had spared his future father-in-law’s life, but only after forcing him to swear fealty to him—and then he had kept him prisoner for several years. As for his lover, they were immediately married, but she died in childbirth a few months later.
If Alexander MacDonald was marching upon them, with hundreds of men, he would take Castle Fyne and he might destroy it before he was done.
“What should we do?” She did not know if she had ever been as afraid. But even as she spoke, a fierce comprehension began. Her question was foolish. They must defend the keep. Didn’t they have the combined force of about a hundred men with which to do so?
Sir Ranald was grim. “There are two choices, Lady Margaret. Surrender or fight.”
She inhaled. No Comyn and no MacDougall would consider surrender without a fight first.
“We will surprise him with an ambush at the ravine and stop him,” William said. He looked at Sir Ranald and Sir Neil, who had joined them, and Malcolm and his son. “Can such an ambush succeed?”
There was a hesitation—Sir Ranald exchanged glances with Sir Neil. “It is our only hope,” Sir Neil said.
Margaret felt her heart lurch with more dread. Peg seemed to moan at her side. Maybe the stories weren’t true, maybe God would help them—maybe, this one time, the Wolf would suffer defeat.
“We will ambush them at the ravine, then,” William said. “But Margaret—I want you to return to Bain, immediately.”
“You want me to flee?”
“You will do so with Sir Ranald and Sir Neil. If you leave now, you will be well out of any danger.”
Her mind was spinning—as if she was being whirled about while upside down. She could not leave! She glanced around at the women and children who had crowded into the hall. The menfolk, even the most elderly, were on the ramparts, preparing for battle.
Sir Ranald took her elbow. “He is right. You must be taken out of harm’s way. This castle belongs to you, which makes you a valuable bride—and a valuable prisoner.”
A chill swept over her. But she shrugged free. “I am not a coward—and I am not about to become anyone’s prisoner. I am lady of this keep! I can hardly flee like a coward, leaving you here, alone, to defend it. And what of the men, women and children here? Who welcomed me so warmly?”
“Damn it, Margaret, that is why you must go—because the castle is a part of your dowry. It makes you too damned valuable!” William shouted at her now.
She wanted to shout back. Somehow, she did not. “You go and you turn Alexander MacDonald back. In fact, do your best to make certain he never returns here! Ambush him in the ravine. Kill him, if you can!”
Peg gasped.
But Margaret’s mind was clear now. William would ride out with their men to fight the notorious Wolf of Lochaber. And if they could kill him, so be it. He was the enemy!
Sir Ranald turned. “Malcolm, send someone to the Earl of Argyll and another man to Red John Comyn.”
The Earl of Argyll—Alexander MacDougall—was her mother’s brother and he and Red John would surely come to their rescue. But both men were a day’s ride away, at least. And neither might be in residence; word might have to be sent farther afield.
Margaret stared as Malcolm rushed off, her mind racing. Sir Ranald said grimly to her, “If our ambush does not succeed, you will need help to defend the keep.”
It was hard to comprehend him now, and just as hard to breathe. “What are you saying?”
William spoke to Sir Ranald. “Should we prepare the ambush with the men we came with? And leave the castle garrison here?”
Margaret tried to think—why would they leave fifty men at the keep? And just as it dawned on her, Sir Ranald turned to face her. “You must prepare the castle for a siege.”
Her fear confirmed, she choked. She knew nothing of battles, and less of sieges. She was a woman—one of seventeen! “You will not fail!”
His smile was odd—almost sad, as if he expected the worst, not the best. “We do not intend to fail. And I hate leaving you, Lady Margaret, but we are undermanned—your brother needs me.”
She was shaking now. She prayed William and Sir Ranald would succeed in turning back Alexander MacDonald. “Of course you must go with William.”
William laid his hand on Sir Neil’s shoulder. “Stay with my sister and defend her, with your life, if need be.”
Sir Neil’s mouth hardened. Margaret knew he wanted to fight with William and Sir Ranald, but he nodded. “I will keep her safe and out of all harm,” he said harshly.
Margaret had the urge to weep. How could this be happening?
Malcolm rushed back into the hall. “I have sent Seoc Macleod and his brother. No one knows these forests the way they do.”
Suddenly Margaret thought about how bad the roads were—how thick with snow. Both men—Argyll and Red John—might be close, but reaching them would not be easy, not in the dead of winter.
“If we succeed in the ambush, we will not need Argyll or Red John,” Will said. He looked to Margaret. “If we fail, and he besieges this keep, it will be up to you to hold him off until our uncle or our cousin arrive.”
Their gazes had locked. She could only think of her utter lack of battle experience. William, who had been fighting the English since he was twelve, smiled at her. “Sir Neil will be at your side—and so will Malcolm.”
She managed to nod, fearfully. Then, wetting her lips, she said, “You will not fail, William. I have faith in you. God will see to our triumph. You will destroy MacDonald in the ravine.”
William suddenly kissed her cheek, turned and strode from the room, his huge sword swinging against his thigh. The other Buchan knights followed him, but Sir Ranald did not move, looking at her.
Margaret hugged herself. “Godspeed, Sir Ranald.”
“God keep you safe, Lady Margaret.” He hesitated, as if he wished to say more.
Margaret waited, but he only nodded at Sir Neil and Malcolm, then he ran after William and the others.
Margaret heard the heavy door slam closed and felt her knees buckle as they left. She was about to sink onto the closest bench, just for a moment, when she realized that every woman and child in the room was staring at her. The great hall was absolutely silent. Slowly, she turned around, scanning the faces of everyone present—noting each fearful and expectant expression.
She had to reassure them.
Yet what could she say, when she was so frightened? When their lives might well rest in her clumsy hands?
Margaret straightened her spine, squared her shoulders. She smiled, firmly. “My brother will succeed in driving the Wolf back,” she said. “But we will prepare for a siege. Start every fire. Bring up the casks of oil from the cellars. Begin boiling oil and water.” Peg stared at her, her mouth hanging open, and Margaret realized her tone had been oddly firm, so strangely commanding and decisive.
Margaret lifted her chin and added, “Bring up the stockpiles of rocks and stones. Prepare the catapults. And as soon as William has left, raise the drawbridge and lock it and set up the barricade.”
Murmurs of acquiescence greeted her. And as everyone left to do her bidding, Margaret prayed William would chase the Wolf of Lochaber away.
CHAPTER TWO
MARGARET STARED ACROSS the castle’s ramparts, feeling as if she had been transported to a different place and an earlier, frightening time. The battlements she had walked earlier no longer resembled any castle she had ever visited in her lifetime. Trembling, she hugged her mantle to her cold body.
The ramparts were crowded with casks of oil, piles of rock and stone, slings and catapults of various sizes, and a dozen pits for fires. All the women of the keep were present, as were a great deal of children—they had sorted through the rocks and stones, assembling the various piles by size and weight, while preparing the pits for the fires they might later light, some still coming and going with armloads of wood. Although the drawbridge was closed, a small side entrance in the north tower was being used now. Margaret had quickly realized that they could not run out of wood for the fires, or oil, or stones. Not if they were besieged.
Her archers remained at the walls. Perhaps fortunately—for so she was thinking—they only had two walls to defend. Because the keep was on the cliff overlooking the loch, two of its sides were insurmountable. They had three dozen archers on the vulnerable walls, and quivers of spare arrows were lined up behind each man. Another dozen warriors stood beside the archers, armed with swords, maces and daggers.
Margaret did not have to ask about the extra dozen soldiers. Although she had never been in a siege, she took one look at them and knew what their use might be: if the walls were successfully scaled, the archers would become useless. The battle for control of the castle would turn into hand-to-hand combat.
Margaret stared down at the glen, where the huge MacDonald army was gathered. It had not moved for the past three hours.
How she prayed that meant that William and Sir Ranald were picking off each and every enemy soldier as the Wolf attempted to traverse the ravine.
She felt a movement behind her and half turned. Malcolm smiled at her. If he was afraid, he had given no sign, but then, everyone seemed terribly brave. Margaret was so impressed with the courage of her people. She hoped that no one knew how her heart thudded, how light-headed she felt—how frightened and nervous she was.
“Has there been any word?” she whispered. Malcolm had sent two scouts out earlier to report on the ambush.
“Our watch has not returned,” he said. “But it is a good sign that the Wolf cannot move his men forward.”
She shivered. Hadn’t she also heard that the Wolf had a terrible temper? He would be furious at being thwarted. Unless, of course, he was dead.
How she prayed that was the case!
“Ye should go down, my lady,” Malcolm said kindly. “I ken ye wish to hearten the men and women, but it is growing very cold out, and if ye sicken, ye will dishearten them all.”
Margaret remarked Sir Neil, on the other side of the ramparts, as he and an elderly Highlander attempted to fix one of the catapults. Peg was with them, apparently telling them how she thought it best repaired. Had the situation not been so dire, Margaret would have been amused, for Peg was so nosy all of the time. And she was also a bit of a tease, and Sir Neil was terribly handsome with his fair complexion and dark hair.
He had been indefatigable. She did not know him well, but she was impressed with his tireless efforts on behalf of the keep—on her behalf.
Of course, if they were besieged and defeated, they would all die.
She looked at Malcolm. “Is it true?” She kept her voice low, so no one would overhear her. “That the Wolf slays all of his enemies—that he never allows the enemy to live?”
Malcolm hesitated, and she had her answer. “I dinna ken,” he said, with a shrug meant to convey ignorance.
How could such barbarism be possible? “Have you met him?”
Malcolm started. “Aye, my lady, I have.”
“Is he a monster, as claimed?”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Are such claims made? He is a powerful soldier—a man of great courage—and great ambition. ’Tis a shame he is our enemy and not our friend.”
“I hope he is dead.”
“He will not die in an ambush, he is far too clever,” Malcolm said flatly. And then his gaze veered past her and he paled.
Margaret whirled to stare down into the glen and she choked. The army was moving, a slow rippling forward, like a huge wave made of men. “What does that mean?” she cried.
Before Malcolm could answer, Sir Neil came running across the ramparts with a red-haired Highlander, Peg following them both. “Lady Margaret,” Sir Neil said. “One of our watch has returned and he wishes a word with you!”
Margaret took one look at the watchman’s frozen face and knew the news was not what she wished for it to be. And while she wanted to shout at him to declare the tidings, she held up her hand. “You are?”
“Coinneach MacDougall, my lady.”
“Please, step aside with me. Malcolm, Sir Neil, you may join us.” Her heart was thundering, aware that everyone upon the battlements was gazing at them. She led the three men down the narrow stairwell and into the great hall, where she turned to face them. “What happened?” She kept her tone quiet and calm.
“The ambush has failed, my lady. The Wolf and his army are passing through the ravine now. Within an hour, they will be at our front gates,” Coinneach said, his expression was one of dismay.
She knew she must not allow her knees to give way—not now. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Some dozen of his knights are in the pass, even now.”
Margaret stared at him, unseeingly. “My brother? Sir Ranald?”
“I dinna ken, my lady.”
She supposed no news was better than the news of their deaths. Please God, she thought, let William and Sir Ranald be alive—please!
She did not think she could bear it if she lost her brother.
“Do you know if any of our men are alive?” she asked.
“I saw a handful of yer knights, my lady, fleeing into the forest.”
She breathed hard. “They will return here, if they can.” She had no doubt.
“It might be better if they rode hard and fast for Red John or Argyll,” Sir Neil said. “We will soon be under siege, and they could attack MacDonald from the rear.”
Maybe her men were not returning, after all. She squashed her instant dismay, turning back to Coinneach. “Is the Wolf—is Alexander MacDonald—alive?”
“Aye—he is at the very front of his men,” Coinneach said, his blue eyes now reflecting fear.
She felt sick.
Footsteps pounded down the stairwell, and they all turned toward the sound. Peg skidded into the hall, her eyes wide. “A man is below, outside the barbican—with a white flag!”
Margaret was confused. She turned to Malcolm, who said quickly, “The Wolf has sent a messenger ahead, my lady, I have little doubt.”
She felt her eyes widen. “What could he possibly want?”
“Yer surrender.”
* * *
MARGARET PACED FOR the next half an hour, as she waited for Sir Neil and Malcolm to disarm the messenger—verifying that was what he was—and then bring him safely and securely to her. Peg sat on one of the benches at one of the trestle tables, staring at her, her expression aghast. Margaret was accustomed to her friend’s wit and humor, not to her silence and abject fear.
She turned as they entered through the front door, having used the narrow side entrance in the north tower. A tall Highlander in the blue, black and red plaid walked inside, between Sir Neil and Malcolm. He was middle-aged, bearded and lean. He had been disarmed—his scabbard was empty, as was the sheath on his belt where a dagger should hang.
When he saw her he smiled, but not pleasantly. Margaret shivered.
“Margaret of Bain?” he asked.
She nodded. “Do you come from the Wolf?”
“Aye, I do. I am Padraig MacDonald. He wishes to parley, Lady Margaret, and I am instructed to tell you as much. If you agree, he will bring three men, and you may bring three men, as well. He will keep his army below the barbican, and you can meet just outside its walls.”
Margaret stared, incredulous. Then she glanced at Malcolm and Sir Neil. “Is this a trap?”
“Parleys are not uncommon,” Malcolm said. “But the Wolf is canny—he doesn’t keep his word.”
“It is a trap,” Sir Neil said firmly. “You cannot go!”
Margaret could not even swallow now. She faced the messenger. “Why does he wish to parley? What does he want?” As she spoke, Peg came to stand beside her, as if protectively.
“I was told to offer you a parley, lady, that is all. I dinna ken what he will speak of.”
Parleys might not be uncommon amongst warriors, but she was not a warrior, she was a woman—and her every instinct was to refuse.
“You cannot go,” Sir Neil said again, blue eyes flashing. “He will take you hostage, lady, faster than you can blink an eye!”
It was so hard to think! She stared at Sir Neil. Then she looked at the messenger, Padraig. “Please stand aside.”
Malcolm took him by the arm and moved him out of earshot. Margaret stepped closer to Sir Neil, with Peg. Breathing hard, she said, “Is there any way I could meet him and we could take him prisoner?”
From the look in Sir Neil’s eyes, Margaret knew he thought she had gone mad.
Peg said, “Margaret! He is the Wolf! Ye will never ambush him! He will take ye prisoner, and then what?”
“Dinna even think of turning the tables on him, lady,” Malcolm said, having returned.
Margaret glanced briefly at the messenger, who was staring—and almost smirking—at them. What did he know that they did not? “Is there any way we could parley without my being in danger of being taken captive?”
“It is too dangerous,” Sir Neil said swiftly. “I swore to Sir Ranald that I would keep you safe. I cannot let you meet the Wolf!”
“Margaret, please! I am but a woman, and even I know this is a trap!” Peg cried.
“Even if it is not a trap, too much can go wrong,” Malcolm said, sounding calm in comparison to the rest of them.
He was right. And Margaret was afraid to step outside the castle walls. Besides, she would never convince the damned Wolf to retreat. She squared her shoulders and left the group, walking over to the waiting Highlander. As she approached, his eyes narrowed.
Margaret smiled coldly at him. “Tell the great Wolf of Lochaber that Lady Comyn has refused. She will not parley.”
“He will be displeased.”
She refrained from shivering. “But I wish to know what he wants. Therefore, you may return to convey his message to me.”
“I dinna think he will wish for me to speak with ye again.”
What did that mean? Would the Wolf now attack? Her gaze had locked with Padraig’s. His was chilling.
A moment later, Sir Neil and Malcolm were escorting him out. The moment he was gone, Margaret collapsed upon the bench. Peg rushed to sit beside her, taking her hands. “Oh, what are we going to do?”
Margaret couldn’t speak. Was the Wolf now preparing to attack her? He certainly hadn’t come this far to turn around and go away! And what of William and Sir Ranald? If only they were all right! “Maybe I should have met him,” she heard herself say hoarsely.
“I would never let ye meet with him!” Peg cried, now close to tears. “He is an awful man, and all of Scotland knows it!”
“If you cry now, I will slap you silly,” Margaret almost shouted, meaning her every word.
Peg sat up abruptly. The tears that had seemed imminent did not fall.
“I need you, Peg,” Margaret added.
Peg stared and attempted to compose herself. “Can I bring ye wine?”
Margaret wasn’t thirsty, but she smiled. “Thank you.” The moment Peg had left, she stood up and inhaled.
Oh, God, what would happen next? Could she possibly defend the castle—at least until help arrived? And what if help did not arrive?
Surely, eventually, her maternal uncle, Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, would come. He despised every MacDonald on this earth. He would wish to defend the keep; he would want to battle with them.
Red John Comyn would also come to her aid if he knew what was happening. He was her uncle’s closest ally and his cousin. But time was of the essence. They had to receive word of her plight now. They had to assemble and move their armies now!
Her head ached terribly. There were so many decisions to make. The weight of such responsibility was crushing. And to think that in the past, she had never made a decision greater than what she wished to wear or what to serve for the supper meal!
Booted steps sounded, and with dread—she now recognized the urgency in Sir Neil’s stride—she turned as he stormed into the hall. “He is at the bridge, below your walls—and he wishes to speak with you.”
She froze. “Who?” But oh, she knew!
“MacDonald,” he said, eyes blazing.
Her stomach churned and her heart turned over hard. Only a quarter of an hour had passed since Padraig had left. If the Wolf of Lochaber was outside her gates, clearly he had been there all along.
And suddenly, like a small, frightened child, she felt like refusing the request. She wanted to go to her chamber and hide.
“I can take you up to the ramparts,” Sir Neil said bluntly.
It crossed her dazed mind that Sir Neil would only suggest such a course of action if it was safe, and of course, if the Wolf wished to parley now, she must go. She fought to breathe. It was safe for her to be high up on the ramparts, surrounded by her knights and archers, as they spoke. She felt herself nod at Sir Neil.
But as they started for the stairwell, comprehension seized her. She halted abruptly. How could it be safe for him to come to her castle walls?
He would be exposed to her archers and knights.
She looked at Sir Neil with sudden hope. “Can our archers strike him while we speak?”
Sir Neil started. “They are waving a flag of truce.”
What she had suggested was dishonorable, and she knew Sir Neil thought so. “But is it possible?”
“He will undoubtedly be carrying a shield, and he will be surrounded by his men. The shot would not be an easy one. Will you violate the truce?”
She wondered if she was dreaming. She was actually considering breaking a truce and murdering a man. But she knew she must not stoop to such a level.
She had been raised to be a noble woman—a woman of her word, a woman of honor, a woman gentle and kind, a woman who would always do her duty. She could not murder the Wolf during a truce.
Finding it difficult to breathe evenly, Margaret went up the narrow stairwell, Sir Neil behind her. As she stepped outside onto the ramparts, it was at once frigidly cold and uncannily silent. There was light, but no sun. Her archers remained, as did her dozen soldiers and the women and children who had been present earlier. But it almost seemed as if no one moved or breathed.
Sir Neil touched her elbow and she crossed the stone battlements, still feeling as if she were in the midst of a terrible dream, trying to find her composure and her wits before she spoke with her worst enemy. Standing just a hand-span from the edge of the crenellated wall, she looked down.
Several hundred men were assembled between the barbican and the forest. In the very front they stood on foot, holding shields, but behind them the soldiers were mounted on horseback. Above the first columns a white flag waved, and beside it, so did a huge black-and-navy-blue banner, a fiery red dragon in its center.
And then Margaret saw him.
The rest of the army vanished from her sight. Frozen, she saw only one man—the Highlander called the Wolf of Lochaber.
Alexander MacDonald was the tallest, biggest, darkest one of all, standing in the front row of his army, in its very center. And he was staring up at her.
Black hair touched his huge shoulders, blood stained his leine and swords, a shield was strapped to one brawny forearm, and he was smiling at her.
“Lady Comyn,” he called to her. “Yer as fair as is claimed.”
She trembled. He was exactly as one would have expected—taller than most, broader of shoulder, a mass of muscle from years spent wielding swords and axes, his hair as black as the devil’s. His smile was chilling, a mere curling of his mouth. She stared down at him, almost transfixed.
And when he did not speak again, when he only stared—and when she realized she was speechlessly staring back—she flushed and found her tongue. “I have no use for your flattery.”
The cool smile reappeared. “Are ye prepared to surrender to me?”
Her mind raced wildly—how could she navigate this subject? “You will never take this keep. My uncle is on his way, even as we speak. So is the great Lord Badenoch.”
“If ye mean yer uncle of Argyll, I canna wait. I look forward to taking off his head!” he exclaimed, with such relish, she knew he meant his every word. “And I dinna think the mighty Lord of Badenoch will come.”
What did that mean? She shuddered. “Where is my brother?”
“He is safely in my keeping, Lady Comyn, although he has suffered some wounds.”
She was so relieved she had to grip the wall to remain standing upright. “He is your prisoner?”
“Aye, he is my prisoner.”
“How badly is he hurt?”
“He will live.” He added, more softly, “I would never let such a valuable prisoner die.”
“I wish to see him,” she cried.
He shook his head. “Yer in no position to wish fer anything, Lady Comyn. I am here to negotiate yer surrender.”
She trembled. She wanted to know how badly William was hurt. She wanted to see him. And hadn’t Malcolm said that the Wolf was a liar? “I will not discuss surrender, not until you have proven to me that my brother is alive.”
“Ye dinna take my word?”
She clutched the edge of the wall. “No, I do not accept your word.”
“So ye think me a liar,” he said, softly, and it was a challenge.
Margaret felt Sir Neil step up behind her. “Show me my brother, prove to me he is alive,” she said.
“Ye tread dangerously,” he finally said. “I will show ye Will, after ye surrender.”
She breathed hard.
He slowly smiled. “I have six hundred men—ye have dozens. I am the greatest warrior in the land—yer a woman, a very young one. Yet I am offering ye terms.”
“I haven’t heard terms,” she managed to say.
That terrible smile returned. “Surrender now, and ye will be free to leave with an escort. Surrender now, and yer people will be as free to leave. Refuse, and ye will be attacked. In defeat, no one will be spared.”
Margaret managed not to cry out. How could she respond—when she did not plan to surrender?
If only she knew for certain that Argyll and Red John were on their way with their own huge armies! But even if they were, for how long could she withstand the Wolf’s attack? Could they manage until help arrived?
For if they did not, if he breached her walls, he meant to spare no one—and he had just said so.
“Delay,” Sir Neil whispered.
Instantly Margaret understood. “You are right,” she called down. “You are known as the greatest warrior in the land, and I am a woman of seventeen.” How wary and watchful he had become. “I cannot decide what to do. If I were your prisoner and my brother were here in my stead, he would not surrender, of that I am certain.”
“Are ye truly thinking to outwit me?” he demanded.
“I am only a woman. I would not be so foolish as to think I could outwit the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.”
“So now ye mock me?”
She trembled, wishing she hadn’t inflected upon the word mighty.
“Yer answer, Lady Margaret,” he warned.
She choked. “I need time! I will give you an answer in the morning!” By morning, maybe help would have arrived.
“Ye call me a liar and think me a fool? Lady Margaret, the land is at war. Robert Bruce has seized Dumfries Castle—and Red John Comyn is dead.”
She cried out, her world suddenly spinning. “Now you lie!” What he claimed was impossible!
“Yer great Lord of Badenoch died in the Greyfriars Church at Dumfries, four days ago.”
She turned in disbelief. Sir Neil looked as stunned as she was. Could the patriarch of their family be dead? If so, Red John was not coming to her aid! “What do you mean—Red John died? He was in good health!”
Slowly, the Wolf smiled. “So ye want the facts? Ye’ll hear soon enough. He was murdered, Lady Comyn, by Bruce, although he did not deliver the final, fatal blows.”
Margaret’s shock knew no bounds. Had Robert Bruce murdered Red John Comyn?
If so, the land would most definitely be at war!
“Bruce is on the march, Lady Comyn, and yer uncle, the MacDougall, is on the march, as well—in Galloway.” He stared coldly up at her. “And do ye not wish to know where yer beloved Sir Guy is?”
Sir Neil had taken her arm, as if to hold her upright.
“He was also at Dumfries, sent there to defend the king.”
She had not given her betrothed a thought since that morning. Had Sir Guy fought Bruce at Dumfries? If so, he was but two days away. She did not know what the Highlander was implying, but Sir Guy would surely come to her rescue. “This castle is a part of my dowry. Sir Guy will not let it fall.”
“Sir Guy fights Bruce, still. Argyll is in battle in Galloway. The Lord of Badenoch is dead. Ye have no hope.”
Now she truly needed time to think—and attempt to discover if his claims were true. For if they were, she was alone, and Castle Fyne would fall.
“He could be lying,” Sir Neil said, but there was doubt in his tone.
She met his gaze and realized he was frightened after all. But then, so was she. She turned back to the Highlander standing below her walls. “I need a few hours in which to decide,” she said hoarsely.
“Yer time is done. I demand an answer, lady.”
She began shaking her head. “I don’t want to defy you.”
“Then accept my generous terms and surrender.”
She bit her lip and tasted her own blood. And she felt hundreds of pairs of eyes upon her—every man in his army stared at her—as did every man, woman and child upon the ramparts. She thought she heard Peg whisper her name. And she knew that Sir Neil wanted to speak to her. But she stared unwaveringly at the Wolf of Lochaber. As she did, she thought of her mother—the most courageous woman she had ever known. “I cannot surrender Castle Fyne.”
He stared up at her, a terrible silence falling.
No one moved now—not on the ramparts, not in his army.
Only Margaret moved, her chest rising and falling unnaturally, tension making it impossible to breathe normally.
And then a hawk wheeled over their heads, soaring up high into the winter sky, breaking the moment. And disgust covered the Wolf’s face. Behind him, there were murmurs, men shifting. More whispers sounded behind her. The sounds were hushed, even awed, from behind and below.
Finally, he spoke, coldly. “Yer a fool.”
She did not think she had the strength to respond. Sir Neil flinched, his hand moving to his sword. She had to touch him, warning him not to attempt to defend her. She then faced the dark Highlander below her again. “This castle is mine. I will not—I cannot—surrender it.”
She thought that his eyes now blazed. “Even if ye fight alone?”
“Someone will come.”
“No one will come. If Argyll comes, it will be after the castle has fallen.”
She swallowed, terrified that he was right.
It was a moment before he spoke again, and anger roughened his tone. “Lady Margaret, I admire yer courage—but I dinna admire defiance, not even in a beautiful woman.”
Margaret simply stared. She had given him her answer, there was nothing more to say.
And he knew it. The light in his eyes was frightening, even from this distance. “I take no pleasure in what I must do.” He then lifted his hand, but he never removed his eyes from her. “Prepare the rams. Prepare the siege engines. Prepare the catapults. We will besiege the castle at dawn.” And he turned and disappeared amongst his men, into his army.
Margaret collapsed in Sir Neil’s arms.
* * *
PEG SHOVED A cup of wine at her. Margaret took it, desperately needing sustenance. They were seated at one of the trestle tables, in the great hall. Night was falling quickly.
And at dawn, the siege would begin.
Sir Neil sat down beside her, not even asking permission. Malcolm took the opposite bench. Peg cried, “Ye should have surrendered, and it isn’t too late to do so!”
Margaret tensed, aware that Peg was terrified. When she had left the ramparts, she had gazed at some of the soldiers and women there—everyone was frightened. And how could they not be?
Alexander MacDonald had been forthright. If they did not surrender, he would defeat the castle and spare no one.
She hugged herself, chilled to the bone. Should she have surrendered? And dear God, why was such a decision hers to make?
She inhaled and set the cup down. “Is it possible he is telling the truth? Is it possible that Red John is dead—and that Robert Bruce has seized the royal castle at Dumfries?”
Sir Neil was pale and stricken. “Bruce has always claimed the throne, but I know nothing of this plot!”
“Even the Wolf would not make up such a wild tale,” Malcolm said. “I believe him.”
She could barely comprehend what might be happening. “Is Bruce seeking the throne of Scotland? Is that why he attacked Dumfries?” And did that mean that Sir Guy was there with his men? Sir Guy was in service to King Edward. He was often dispatched to do battle for the king. Was that why MacDonald had claimed no one would come—because Sir Guy would be occupied with his own battles for King Edward?
Sir Neil shook his head. “Bruce is a man of ambition, but to murder Red John? On holy ground?”
“If the damned Wolf is telling us the truth,” she said, “if Red John has been murdered, Buchan will be furious.” The Comyns and Bruces had been rivals for years. They had fought over the crown before—and the Comyns had won the last battle, when their kin, John Balliol, had become Scotland’s king. “A great war will ensue.” She was sickened in every fiber of her being—these events were too much to bear.
“Lady Margaret—what matters is that if this is true, Red John will not be coming to our aid. Nor will Sir Guy.”
Margaret stared at Malcolm as Peg cried, “We can still surrender!”
She ignored her maid. “But Argyll will come to our aid if he can.”
“If the land is at war, he might not be able to come,” Sir Neil said grimly. “And MacDonald claims he has the means to stop him.”
She looked at Sir Neil and then Malcolm. “I am frightened. I am unsure. So tell me, truly, what you think I should do?”
Malcolm said, “Your mother would die defending Castle Fyne.”
Sir Neil stood. “And I would die to defend you, my lady.”
God, these were not reassuring answers!
“But, my lady, if you decide you wish to surrender, I will support you,” Malcolm said.
Sir Neil nodded in agreement. “As would I. And no matter what MacDonald has said, you can decide to surrender at any time—and sue him for the terms he has already said he would give you.”
But that did not mean the Wolf would give her such terms. He had been very angry when they had last parted company.
Margaret closed her eyes, trying to shut out the fear gnawing at her. She tried to imagine summoning MacDonald and handing him the great key to the keep. And the moment she did so, she knew she could not do such a thing, and she opened her eyes. They all stared at her.
“We must fight, and pray that Argyll comes to our aid,” Margaret said, standing. If they were going to fight, she must appear strong, no matter how terrified.
The men nodded grimly while Peg started to cry.
* * *
MARGARET DID NOT sleep all night, knowing what would begin at dawn. And because Peg kept telling her that she must surrender, and that she was a madwoman to think to fight the Wolf of Lochaber, she had finally banned the maid from her chamber. Now, she stood at her chamber’s single window, the shutters wide. The black sky was turning blue-gray. Smoke filled the coming dawn. The sounds of the soldiers and women above her on the ramparts, speaking in hushed tones as they stoked the fires and burned pots of oil, drifted down to her.
She could not bear the waiting, and she had never been as apprehensive. She heard footsteps in the hall on the landing, and she picked up her mantle, threw it on and hurried out. Sir Neil stood there, holding a torch.
“Are we ready?” she asked.
“As ready as we can be. If they think to scale our walls, they will be badly burned, at the least.”
And that was when she heard a terrible sound—a huge and crushing sound—accompanied by the deep groaning of wood.
“It has begun,” Sir Neil said. “They are battering the first gates on the barbican.”
“Will they break?”
“Eventually,” he said.
Margaret hurried past him, heading for the stairwell that went up to the crenellations. He seized her arm from behind. “You do not need to go up!” he exclaimed.
“Of course I do!” She shook him off and raced upstairs, stepping out into the gray dawn.
Smoke filled the air from the dozen fire pits, as did the stench of burning oil. The sky was rapidly lightening, and Margaret saw men and women at the walls, but no one was moving. “What’s happening?” she asked.
Malcolm stepped forward and said, “They are just moving their ladders to our walls.”
Margaret had to see for herself, and she walked past him.
She stared grimly down. Dozens of men were removing ladders from carts drawn by horses and oxen, pushing them toward her walls. She could not tell what the hundreds of men behind them were doing, and she glanced south, toward the barbican. Several dozen men were pushing a huge battering ram forward. She held her breath as the wheeled wooden machine moved closer and closer to the gates, finally ramming into it.
The crash sounded. Wood groaned.
In dismay, she realized the gates of the barbican would not hold for very long. A slew of arrows flew from her archers upon the entry tower, toward those men attacking her barbican. Two of the Wolf’s soldiers dropped abruptly from their places by the battering ram.
Instantly, other soldiers ran forward, some to drag the injured away, others to replace them.
“It isn’t safe for you to remain up here,” Sir Neil said, and the words weren’t even out of his mouth before she saw more arrows flying—some toward the men below, who were erecting the ladders upon her walls, and others coming up toward her archers and the women on her ramparts. Sir Neil pulled her down to her knees, arrows flying over them and landing on the stone at their backs.
“You are the mistress of this castle,” Sir Neil said, their faces inches apart. “You cannot be up here. If you are hurt, or God forbid, if you die, there will be no one to lead us in this battle.”
“If I am hurt, if I die, you must lead them.” Just then, the arrows had not hit their targets, but she was not a fool. When the Wolf’s archers were better positioned, they would strike some of her soldiers, and perhaps some of the women now preparing to throw oil on the invaders. And as she thought that, she heard a strange and frightening whistling sound approaching them.
Instinctively, Margaret covered her head and Sir Neil covered her body with his. A missile landed near the tower they had come from, exploding into fire as it did. More whistles sounded, screaming by them, rocks raining down upon the ramparts now, some wrapped in explosives, others bare. Two men rushed to douse the flames.
Margaret got onto her hands and knees, meeting Sir Neil’s vivid blue gaze. “You must tell me what is happening—when you can.”
* * *
THE SOUNDS OF the Wolf’s siege became worse, and did not cease. The battering of the front gate, the screams of missiles and explosives, the locustlike whirring of arrows. But other screams accompanied these sounds—the frightened whinnies of horses, the cries of the men who were shot, and worse, the screams of those in agony as boiling oil scorched their heads, shoulders and arms.
Margaret now stood in the south tower, not far from the entry tower and the barbican. From her position at the uppermost window on the third floor, she could watch the battle. Thus far, no MacDonald soldier had made it over her walls, and the gates of the barbican were holding. Her archers were great bowmen, she now knew, and a great many of the Wolf’s men had been shot by them, both as they climbed the ladders and as they wielded the ram.
But his men were not the only casualties. His archers were causing damage, too.
She had seen three of her men struck by their arrows and missiles on the wall adjacent to the south tower. He had hundreds of men in this battle, while she had less than fifty. She could not afford to lose even three of her archers.
And he commanded his army by riding back and forth amongst his men. He was never alone, and he rarely rode out of the column of his knights and foot soldiers. Still, she had espied him the moment she had come to stand at the tower window. He was an unmistakable figure, powerful and commanding, even from a distance.
She had never hated and feared anyone more.
And she refused to admire his courage as her archers were continually firing upon him.
“How can ye watch?” Peg asked.
Margaret did not face her. “I do not have a choice.”
“There is always a choice,” Peg said bitterly.
Margaret turned. “You have been very clear, Peg, and while I have valued your opinions in the past, they are not helpful now.”
“We will all die here,” Peg said, bursting into tears.
Margaret grimaced, finally leaving the window. “We will not die,” she said, taking her into her arms. “Not if my uncle Argyll comes to our rescue.”
Peg sniffed. “You are as brave as your mother, and now, the whole world will know it.”
Margaret knew she wasn’t brave—she was sick with fear, but she would never tell her maid that.
She began to worry that the tides of battle were changing. The cadence of the striking battering ram quickened—more men had been added to its service. Fewer men were being struck by her archers—she did not see wounded soldiers dropping to the ground as she had at the start of the battle, and more were climbing up. Fewer arrows flew from her walls at the Wolf’s army while the hail of arrows and missiles from below had become a constant barrage.
She saw one of her archers fall from her walls, very close by the window where she stood, an arrow protruding from his chest. She could not stand it. She ran from the tower, and as she did she heard a great crash from outside, from the barbican, and the huge sound of splintering wood.
Margaret rushed onto the ramparts and paused, trying to adjust to the chaos around her. MacDonald soldiers were literally atop the crenellations now. Dozens of women stood throwing oil at them. Arrows and stones were a constant hail, raining down upon them. Explosives intermittently landed, detonating.
“They have breached the barbican!” someone shouted.
A woman her own age was heaving a pot of burning oil at a soldier who was now standing on her ramparts. As she threw the cauldron at him, he thrust out his arm, knocking the pot aside. Hot oil spilled, but he only grunted. Then he seized the woman by the hair.
A dagger flashed in his hand.
Margaret did not think twice. From behind, she stabbed him in the back.
He roared, turning, enraged. Before she could strike again—now to defend herself—Sir Neil struck him through with his sword from behind. His eyes widened in shock, and then he fell, clutching his bleeding midsection.
“You cannot be here,” Sir Neil said to her.
She ignored him, seizing the pot the woman had thrown and rushing to the fire pit with it. For an instant she paused, uncertain of how to put the hot oil into her pot.
The young blonde woman, whose life she had saved, now held a ladle and she scooped the boiling oil into her cauldron. Their eyes met.
Margaret smiled grimly, turned and found herself flinging oil onto another soldier climbing across her walls. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sir Neil wielding his sword against an enemy soldier, the two men exchanging frightening blows.
Her oil struck the man on his face, neck and shoulders. He screamed, falling off her walls.
But another man was behind her. Margaret whirled, throwing the contents at the next man. As he fell, she thought, This is impossible. We will never keep this up.
But for the next few minutes, or perhaps the next few hours, that is exactly what she and the blonde woman did. Even as the invaders fell from the ladders and the walls, others succeeded in landing upon the ramparts, where Sir Neil, Malcolm and his men engaged them with their swords, maces and daggers.
“Lady,” she heard Sir Neil call.
Margaret had just thrown oil over the side of the ramparts, at a very young boy, whom she had missed. He now hung to his ladder, grinning at her, a dagger clenched in his teeth. Arrows rained past him, over her.
She had become accustomed to the barrage and she did not flinch or even duck. She glanced at Sir Neil, who was bleeding from his shoulder. “They are about to scale the walls below the first tower, and once they are within, they will lower the drawbridge,” he panted.
For an instant, she simply stared at him.
“It is over, we have lost—you must flee.”
Their gazes were locked. Then Sir Neil took his sword, raising it threateningly. The boy she had been fighting ducked, and then raced back down his ladder.
Margaret tried to comprehend him. Dying men littered the floor of the ramparts, alongside the already dead. Some were MacDonald soldiers, others were her own archers and men. Two women, one elderly, also lay as corpses.
Margaret had never known such despair—or such desperation. “Is there any chance we could hold them off below?”
“We have lost most of our archers. No.”
She inhaled, hard.
“It is a matter of hours, or even less, Lady Margaret, and they will have breached our walls entirely. We do not have enough men to fight them now. Your horse is ready. I will take you to safety.”
Sir Neil was in earnest now—he meant to rush her away. They had lost.
She knew she must not fall into the Wolf’s hands. But she stared across her ramparts. The women continued to boil oil and throw it at the enemy, but they were so clearly exhausted. The blonde stared at her now, her mouth pursed. Had she heard? Did she know that Sir Neil wished for her to flee? A few of her soldiers were fighting the enemy with daggers, not far from her. And she had only four archers left, but they were not even firing their arrows now. Instead, they were staring at her, too, as was Malcolm.
How could she leave them now? When the Wolf intended to execute them all?
“I am not abandoning my people,” she heard herself say.
Sir Neil choked.
She had no will to explain. But the men and women who had survived were her responsibility.
She must beg for the Wolf’s mercy, she thought.
“It is time to surrender,” she said tersely.
“Lady Margaret,” said Sir Neil, “he will not accept your surrender now, when victory is but hours away!”
God, was he right? She knew nothing of warfare! “If we try to surrender now, maybe he will show mercy later.”
Sir Neil was aghast. “You will be his captive, Lady Margaret, and you’re too valuable to be taken hostage. We must go! I swore to keep you safe!”
He was right—she would be taken prisoner. In that moment, Margaret knew she would rather be a hostage for the rest of her life than flee her people, leaving them to be slain by the Wolf of Lochaber. She must fight him tooth and nail, she thought, until he showed them mercy.
One battle had ended, now, another had begun.
“Raise the white flag,” she said.
CHAPTER THREE
MARGARET STARED UP at the gray sky, watching the white flag of surrender as it was hoisted high above the south tower. It slowly unfurled.
Tears blurred her vision as the hail of arrows lessened, as the barrage of missiles and stones ceased. The clang of swords was silenced, as were the whistling screams from the projectiles, the whirring from the arrows, the shouts of men being burned and falling to their deaths.
Castle Fyne was lost. The Wolf had won.
Pain stabbed through her chest. It was over.
She glanced around carefully. A great many women had survived the battle for the keep, but only four archers, three soldiers, Malcolm and Sir Neil remained from amongst her men. Dismay sickened her.
She did not want to count the dead, which littered the ramparts. But there were dozens of wounded who needed care.
But no one moved. The women simply held their pots; her four archers their bows. Malcolm had come to stand beside her with Sir Neil. The enemy hung on to their ladders, while the other MacDonald soldiers, already atop the ramparts, remained unmoving.
It had become silent and still below, too. The sounds of the battle in the barbican were gone. She glanced across the army below her, which was still, and she heard a bird chirp. She scanned his hundreds of men, looking for him. Then she heard another bird, and another one.
“Where is he?” she spoke in a terse whisper.
“There,” Sir Neil said.
Margaret looked back down at the assembled army, but still, she did not see him. “Sir Neil, it is time for you to go. You must tell Buchan what has happened.”
Sir Neil hesitated; she knew he did not wish to leave her.
“You must go, I am commanding you to do so!” She did not know if the MacDougalls would attempt to take the castle back from MacDonald, but Buchan would be furious, and he would assemble an army. Or would he?
“Very well,” Sir Neil said. He ran into the north tower.
And then she heard Alexander MacDonald. “Lady of Fyne!” It was a harsh, unfriendly shout.
Her gaze veered to the sound as he now rode his gray stallion forward, appearing alone in front of his hordes of men. Margaret gripped the edge of the wall and leaned over it. Revulsion began.
It was laced with anger, replacing the fear, and for that she was grateful.
He halted the steed. A wind whipped his long dark hair as he stared up at her. A lengthy, terrible moment passed.
Margaret could not see his expression, but she knew he was angry—she felt it.
“So ye surrender now,” he said to her.
Their gazes had locked, even from this small distance. “Yes.” She trembled, realizing that she clutched her dagger still. Aware of how close he was, and that her archer stood just above him, she stared.
“Ye should have surrendered last night.”
She looked at his hard face. He had high cheekbones, a strong jaw. Most women probably thought him attractive.
She looked at his broad shoulders. His leine was bloodstained. Had he been wounded? How she hoped so! He wore two swords, both sheathed. Another dagger was in his belt. A shield remained strapped to his left forearm. His thighs were bare, his boots muddy and wet.
She lifted her gaze back to his. “I am a woman, not a warrior. I made a choice, and it was the wrong one.” She realized she clutched her dagger. She lifted it, showing it to him, and then, symbolically, she dropped it over the wall.
It twirled as it fell down to the ground, not far from him.
“No, Lady Comyn, yer a warrior, and ye have proven it this day.” His eyes blazed. “Have yer men open the front gates.”
She thought about Sir Neil, who was probably just slipping out of the side entrance in the north tower, which could accommodate a single man and a single horse. She hoped to give him as much time as possible to escape. “I will come down and open it for you, myself,” she said.
His gaze narrowed.
“My lord.” She looked quickly away.
* * *
THE CASTLE WAS shockingly silent as Margaret descended to the courtyard. Only an infant could be heard mewling, and some horses snorted outside, amidst Alexander’s army. Malcolm walked with her, past the elderly men, women and children who had gathered, to the raised drawbridge beneath the entry tower. Great bolts locked it into place, and everyone had come to watch her open it and admit their conqueror.
Margaret was using all of her strength to appear calm and dignified—and unafraid.
“Ye may not be able to draw the bolts back by yerself,” Malcolm said.
Good, she thought. For she wished for Sir Neil to be long gone by the time she let the damned Wolf in.
Margaret strained to pull one bolt back. In the end, she could not manage, and Malcolm had to help her. Then they went to the winch, which she would never be able to move. They exchanged glances. Margaret pulled on the lever with all of her weight. When it did not move, she tried for a few more minutes, until she had no choice but to signal her few remaining men. They leapt forward, and slowly, the great bridge began to come down.
Margaret stepped back from the tower with Malcolm, her hands at her sides, fists clenched. The courtyard remained eerily silent, except for the groaning of the bridge as it was lowered.
She heard his horse’s hooves first. Then the gray steed appeared, the Wolf astride, his face hard, a dozen Highland knights behind him. The sound of their chargers echoed, and it was deafening.
He crossed the bridge and emerged from the entry tower. He halted the charger before her, leaping from it and striding over to her.
Margaret did not move as he approached, their stares locking. How she hoped to appear brave and defiant—yet how frightened she actually was.
He looked exactly as she had imagined the Wolf of Lochaber to be—he appeared a mighty, indomitable warrior—a legend among men.
There was hostility burning in his blue eyes, and it was chilling. His gaze skimmed over her, from head to toe, and then he held out his hand.
She reached down to her girdle. Her hand trembled. She could not still it so she ignored the obvious sign of her agitation. She detached and then handed him the castle’s great key ring. As she did, their gazes met again, and this time, they held.
“All of Scotland will speak of this day.”
She squared her shoulders, instantly furious. For the first time in its history, Castle Fyne had fallen. For the first time in a hundred years, it was no longer a MacDougall stronghold.
“All of Scotland will speak of the Lady of Fyne and the Wolf of Lochaber and the battle waged betwixt them,” he said.
She trembled. What was he trying to say?
His gaze never moved from her face. “Few men would dare to fight me. The bards will sing of your courage, Lady Margaret.” And grimly, he inclined his head.
Was he showing her respect? She was incredulous. “I have no care for what you think,” she said, hoping she did not spit the words out. “But I have a great care for the men, women and children here—and the wounded, who need immediate attention.”
His gaze narrowed as he studied her. “Yer hatred shows.” Then, “Come with me.” His black-and-blue plaid swinging about his shoulders, he started across the courtyard. The crowd remained silent.
Margaret hesitated, even though the command had been sharply uttered. Then she saw several women bow to him as he passed. He nodded curtly at them.
Margaret realized she must wage a careful game now, to gain his mercy. She hated him, but she must hide it. She walked after him, slowly.
He was already within the great hall, flinging off his plaid. Peg and two other women were hovering nervously there. Fires were burning. “I am hungry,” he said, pacing. “As are my men. Bring food and wine.”
Margaret stood very still, having just entered the hall, as a dozen huge Highlanders came inside. Alexander turned to several of them. “Remove all prisoners to the dungeons, including the wounded,” he said.
“Aye,” Padraig, the messenger, said.
“And inspect every room. Make certain no one is in hiding, and that no weapons are hidden, to be used against us.”
Margaret wished she had thought to hide some weapons to use against him. Padraig and four other Highlanders left.
Then she saw that he had turned his attention to her. “Stay here,” he said. Alexander jerked his head at two men, and went to the north stairwell. He gestured at three more men and vanished up it with them.
Margaret looked across the room at Peg, aware that three other huge enemy Highlanders remained—to guard her. But then, she would hardly be left alone, even if there was no means of escape. Ignoring her guards, she said, “Bring them sustenance. And do your best to keep him pleased.” Peg nodded and rushed off to obey.
MacDonald returned, clearly having gone up to the ramparts to assess it. He spoke with his men, and she heard him ordering a watch, then arranging his garrison within the castle. She hugged herself, trying to overhear him. So many of his men would sleep within the castle walls, but hundreds would be camped outside. As for the excessive watch, was he expecting an attack—perhaps from her uncle Argyll, or Red John, if he had lied about his death?
“Ye fought bravely—ye have the courage of a man—but ye should have surrendered last night.”
She stiffened. “I could not surrender. Castle Fyne was my mother’s, and it was mine.”
“Did ye truly think to best me?”
“I hoped to hold you back until my uncle arrived. This is MacDougall land!”
“’Twas MacDougall land,” he stated, pointing at her. “’Tis MacDonald land now.”
She inhaled, the sound sharp. She now hated the MacDonalds as much as her mother had. “The Lord of Argyll will never let you take this keep from me,” she said, when she could speak. “And my uncle Buchan will be furious. The one or the other, or together, they will take Castle Fyne back.”
“If they attack, I will destroy them.”
She tensed, because it was hard not to believe him. When he made a statement, it was as if he could move a mountain with his bare hands. But he was human; he was not a hero in a legend, even if a legend had been made about him.
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you attack now?” She wanted to know what moved him. “Your brothers are Alasdair Og and Angus Og! You have islands aplenty throughout the high seas! You have lands aplenty, here in Argyll. Castle Fyne has been on your borders for years.”
He folded his massive forearms and said, his gaze chilling, his tone soft, “I have always wanted Castle Fyne. Whoever commands the castle controls the route into Argyll from the sea.”
“You will cause a war.”
He laughed. “Will I? We have been at war for as long as I can recall, you and I—MacDougall against MacDonald.”
“Is this about routes from the sea—or revenge?”
“Yer clever, Lady Margaret. Of course we lust fer revenge.”
She felt ill. “So you seek vengeance now, against my uncle? For the massacre of Clan Donald? Even after all these years—even when my aunt Juliana married your brother?” She heard how high and tight her tone was, hoping to appeal to him with the reference to the marriage between their rival clans.
His chilling smile vanished. “There is more here than vengeance, lady—a kingdom is at stake.”
He was referring to Bruce, but every Highlander she knew cared more for revenge than anything else. “You told me you looked forward to fighting my uncle.”
“I do. Did I not tell ye that a great war rages in the land? That Robert Bruce is in rebellion against King Edward? Castle Fyne is even more important now.”
Her heart slammed. For years, the damned MacDonald lords of the isles had been agents of King Edward, upholding his rule. Could they have suddenly changed their allegiance? “You rebel against King Edward? You favor Bruce, all of a sudden?”
“We ride with Bruce, Lady Margaret. We war for Bruce. Bruce is Scotland’s next lawful king. King Edward will rule us no more.”
Had she seen pride in his eyes? God, what did this mean, for her, for her family? “Is my cousin, Red John Comyn, truly dead, then?”
“Aye, he is truly dead.”
Margaret’s heart thundered. “Did Bruce murder him?”
Staring relentlessly, he nodded.
“Why?” she cried. “Why would Robert Bruce kill the Lord of Badenoch—enraging half of Scotland?”
“He did not mean to kill him. They argued,” Alexander said, watching her closely. “Christopher Seton stepped into the fray, defending Bruce. In truth, Roger de Kirkpatrick delivered him to God.”
Margaret had to sit down. Suddenly it felt as if her entire world had been turned upside down. The patriarch of her family had been murdered, and his bitter rival was on the march, seeking the throne, intending to win it by war. Dear God, Robert Bruce was in open rebellion against England.
And, apparently, Alexander MacDonald and his clan were his allies.
And Bruce surely approved of the attack on Castle Fyne. The great Comyn family had always been his enemy. He would be seizing what castles and garrisons he could. He would want MacDonald, his ally, to control a major route into Argyll from the south and the islands.
Margaret walked past him and sat down at the table, shaken. What did all of this mean? How did this affect her, her family and Castle Fyne? Especially now that she was his hostage?
In one fell swoop, all the alliances and allegiances of the past decade had changed. As for rescue, he had said her uncle Argyll would not come now. Was it possible? He had always hated the English. But he would never ally himself and his kin with his blood enemy—Clan Donald. Was her family truly on England’s side, as well?
She considered Buchan now—her uncle would be furious over his cousin’s murder. He had always despised Robert Bruce—he had despised his father. Her powerful guardian would be plotting revenge against him. Of that she had no doubt. He would never stand idly by and allow Bruce to become Scotland’s king. Saving her would be the last thing on the Earl of Buchan’s mind.
She shivered. William’s words from the day before echoed. He is throwing you away!
Her heart lurched as she thought of Sir Guy—her only ally.
They had never met. They had exchanged two letters. In them, he had been a courteous suitor, but that meant nothing now. What did this war mean for their marriage? Sir Guy was in King Edward’s service, that could not change, not when his brother Aymer de Valence was commander of Berwick. So Sir Guy would be summoned to fight Bruce.
Would Sir Guy still wish to marry her? If so, he would attempt to take Castle Fyne back!
Suddenly Alexander MacDonald settled on the bench opposite her.
She tensed, acutely aware of his proximity. “What happens now?”
He sipped from his wine and said, “Bruce will march on his enemies. He will seek to gather up allies.”
“Will you join him?”
He met her gaze. “I will join him, lady, when I am certain Castle Fyne is secure.”
She refrained from telling him that the castle would never be secure in his possession—not as long as she lived. “Where is Bruce now?” Sir Guy would probably be with the king’s men, battling against him.
“When I left Dumfries, he was riding for Castle Ayr, while others riding with him were attacking Tibbers, Rothesay and Inverskip.”
She felt more despair. With Bruce on the march, she could not count on rescue from Sir Guy, either.
“Ye have not asked about yer future husband, lady. Surely ye wonder if he will come to rescue ye?”
She knew this was a trap. And she did not like his guessing her thoughts. “How can he come? He fights for the king. He must be at Castle Ayr now.”
“Have you no care for his welfare? Do ye wish to ask if he is hurt or unharmed?”
She tensed. “How would you know if he has been wounded?”
“I fought him at Dumfries. Ye will be pleased—he rode away with nary a scratch.” His gaze was steady upon her face.
She was acutely aware of the fact that she had not given a single thought to her betrothed’s welfare. “I am pleased,” she finally said. She suddenly blinked back hot tears, as much from frustration as despair. There was another reason Sir Guy might not come to her rescue—without Castle Fyne, she had no dowry, and she had no value as a bride.
She felt a moment of panic; she forced it aside. Buchan would pay her ransom, sooner or later. “When will you seek to ransom me and William?”
He leaned against the wall. “I haven’t decided what I wish to do with ye.”
She gasped. She had assumed he would ransom her—it was the most common course of action, in such an instance. “I am a valuable hostage.”
He could have refuted her claim. Instead, he said, “Yer a very valuable prize, lady. I have yet to decide what will be best for me.”
She was reeling. If he did not ransom her, she could be his prisoner for months—for years! “Am I now to be your pawn, in the years of war that will come?”
“Perhaps,” he said.
She was so distraught that more tears were arising. She fought them, aware of how exhausted she was. She had already fought this man once that day, in real battle, and it had been the longest day of her life. Yet now, she fought him again. “And what of the other prisoners? What of my brother?”
“What of them?” He shifted in his seat, signaling Peg for more wine.
Peg hurried over. As she poured the wine, Margaret said, “When can I see William? I would like to tend his wounds.”
“Tend his wounds? Or plot and plan against me?”
She tensed. “I do not even know how badly he was hurt. Where is he?”
“I am having him moved to a chamber in the entry tower,” Alexander said. “He will remain there, under guard.”
She hadn’t expected him to be removed to the dungeons with the other prisoners, as he was a nobleman. “When will he be moved?”
He slowly smiled the smile she had come to hate. It was so cold. “Ye cannot see him, Lady Margaret. I will not allow it.”
She was in disbelief. “You would deny me the chance to attend my brother—when he has been wounded?”
He stared at her. “Aye, I would.”
She gasped. “I have lost three brothers, as well as both my parents. He is my only brother, and I beg you to reconsider. I do not even know how badly he was hurt!”
“Then ye need ask and I will tell ye. He suffered a gash from a sword on his leg, lady, as well as a blow to his head. And he has been properly attended.”
“But I am accustomed to taking care of the wounded! Please—let me attend him!”
“So will ye give me yer word that ye will not plot against me? That ye will not plan on how best to overthrow me?”
She tensed. Of course they would discuss how to best overthrow him, damn him!
“I dinna think so.”
Margaret could not move, still stunned by his refusal. “And if I beg?”
“Yer pleas will not be heard.” He was final. “Sit down, Lady Margaret, before ye fall down.”
Margaret was so angry she shook, but she knew she must hold her tongue now—when she wished to accuse him of cruelty, when she wished to curse him for all he had done. “And what of the rest of your prisoners? What of my archers and soldiers and Malcolm? What of Buchan’s knights whom you captured in the ravine?”
He now stood up. “They hang tomorrow at noon.”
She did not cry out. She had expected such an answer. In war, the enemy was often executed. And he had told her, point-blank, that if she did not surrender, he would spare no one. “And if I beg you for mercy for them? If I beg you to spare their lives?”
“Mercy,” he said softly, “makes a warrior weak.”
She inhaled, staring; he stared back. “I cannot allow you to execute my people.”
“You cannot allow or forbid me anything. I am lord and master here.”
She needed to control her temper. She needed to overcome her fear. She needed to persuade this man to have mercy on her kin. Margaret looked down at the table, which she clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. How could she get him to change his mind?
She somehow softened and glanced up. “My lord, forgive me. I am but a woman, and a weary woman, at that. I have never had to defend a castle before. I have never had to engage in battle, and I have never been in the midst of a siege. And I have never had to make so many decisions, decisions that should have been made by men.” Tears filled her eyes. She welcomed them. “I have never been so frightened! The last thing I would ever wish is to command a keep against a siege, much less against the Wolf of Lochaber!”
“Ye refused to surrender,” he said softly, a potent reminder of her sins.
“I was foolish, but then, I am a woman.”
He slowly shook his head. “Dinna think to outwit me, lady, when we both ken yer no fool.”
“My choice was a foolish one!”
“And ye will pay the price for the choice ye made. Only a fool would allow his enemy to live to fight another day—they hang tomorrow at noon.”
She had lost. His mind was made up. She began to shake, her fury erupting. “Damn you!”
“Have a care,” he warned.
“No,” she said, tears falling. “I will not have a care, you have stolen my castle from me, mine, and now, you will execute my people, mine!”
“I have defeated ye, Lady Margaret, fairly, in battle. The spoils are mine.”
“There is nothing fair about my having been attacked so rudely, by the mighty Wolf of Lochaber!” She knew she should not be shouting at him, but she could not stop now. “You may have won the day, Wolf. But this is my castle. This is MacDougall land. No matter what happened today, this will always be MacDougall land!”
“War changes everything.”
“I will never let you keep this place!”
His eyes widened. “What do ye say?”
She knew she should become quiet. She knew she must control her rage. She must not cry in front of him. But could not stop herself from doing any of those things. “If no one comes to fight you, MacDonald, then I will fight you!”
“But ye have already fought—and lost.”
“Yes, I have fought—and I have lost. But I have learned a great deal. The next time, I will be prepared. And there will be a next time.”
“Ye dare to threaten me?”
“I make a vow—to defeat you!” And she was so exhausted and so overcome, that shouting at him now caused her knees to buckle. And then the floor tilted wildly, the hall spun...
And then there was only darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE FIRST THING Margaret saw when she opened her eyes was Peg, who sat by her hip on the bed, holding her hand tightly. The next thing she saw was Alexander MacDonald, who stood in the doorway of the chamber, staring at her, his face hard and set. As she blinked, realizing she had fainted and been carried into a bedchamber, he turned and strode away.
She trembled, so exhausted she sank back down into the pillows, instead of attempting to get up.
“Ye swooned! Ye never swoon,” Peg cried. “Ye have fought a war today, as if ye were a man, but yer a lady!”
Margaret felt tears of exhaustion and despair arise. He was gone, so she did not need to hide them. “Oh, Peg, what are we going to do? He will hang Malcolm and the others at noon tomorrow!” And their deaths would be her fault.
Peg, who was so loquacious, now simply sat there. Her face remained pale with distress.
Margaret realized that something of great significance was on her mind, and she sat up. “What is it?”
Peg shook her head, as if in denial. “Ye fought him earlier with arrows and swords, but just now, ye fought him with words, Margaret, and that will not serve yer cause.”
“He has attacked and taken my castle. Many of my men have died. I could hardly sing him songs and serve him sweetmeats.”
Peg rolled her eyes. “Fer such a clever lady, yer such a fool!”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that he has been looking at ye all night long as if yer a tasty morsel and he’s truly a wolf. He wants ye.”
Margaret stared, shocked. “What are you trying to say?”
“If ye pleased him, lady, he would probably go to London and back for ye—or even Rome!”
Her heart raced. “Are you suggesting...a liaison?” She could barely get the word out.
But wasn’t seduction a ploy used by women since the beginning of time?
Margaret stared as Peg got up. “I am going to bring you soup and bread,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard the question.
“No, wait,” Margaret said uneasily. “Do you really think I could change his mind if I...slept with him?”
“Aye, I do—as long as ye kiss and caress him wildly.” She gave her a look. “If ye spit at him, he’ll hardly wish to please ye tomorrow!”
Margaret shuddered. She had to save her men’s lives. But could she use her body in such a manner? Would she even be able to tolerate his touch? But now, his proud image flashed in her mind, as she had seen him standing before her castle walls. Most women would find him attractive. She might even think him handsome, if they were not mortal enemies. “I am supposed to marry Sir Guy in June,” she managed to say.
Peg shrugged. “So? Ye hate having to marry an Englishman anyway.”
She grimaced. Peg was so brutally honest! “Yes, I dread having to marry an Englishman. But that is not hatred.” She added, “If there is a man whom I hate, it is Alexander MacDonald.”
“I think it’s the same. And have ye noticed that he’s handsome?”
Margaret gave her an incredulous look. “No,” she lied. She pulled a cover up, as it was cold. She now realized she was in a small chamber adjacent to the one she had claimed as her own upon her return to Castle Fyne. MacDonald must have taken the other chamber. “Buchan will be equally furious,” she said slowly. Was Peg right? Could she seduce the mighty Wolf to her will? Would he be so pleased with her tomorrow that he would change his mind about executing her men?
“Aye, he will be angry—mayhap more than Sir Guy! But if ye want to save Malcolm and the others, what other hope is there?”
She imagined her powerful guardian in a rage. She had seen it before, and she shuddered. She wasn’t sure what he would do, but he would consider her behavior treachery.
“What will ye do?” Peg asked.
“I don’t know—but I do not have much time to think about it.” But even as she spoke, she knew there was no decision to make. Doing nothing was not a choice. She had to make another attempt to persuade her captor not to execute her men.
Margaret slid from the bed. “Peg, one more thing. Can you go to the entry tower and attempt to see William?”
Peg nodded. “I will set a soup to boil first.”
Margaret watched her leave. Then she walked to the door, and glanced into the narrow hall outside. It was lit by rushes set on sconces, against the walls. A big Highlander sat there on a stool, and he smiled at her politely when she saw him.
She had a guard.
Then she glanced at the adjacent chamber—her room. Alexander wasn’t within—he was downstairs still, in the great hall—but she stared at the bed in the center of the room, trying to imagine going to him that night.
She couldn’t.
* * *
IT WAS A good hour before Peg returned, and when she did, she held a platter in her hand, a bowl steaming in its midst. Although sick with worry and lacking any appetite, the moment Margaret smelled the savory aromas of the mutton soup, she felt a hunger pang.
Peg used her hip to push the door closed; outside, Margaret’s Scot guard was staring at them. Then she came and set the tray down on the bed.
“Thank you,” Margaret said, taking up a piece of bread and dipping it in the soup. There was no knife on the tray, but she couldn’t be surprised at that. “Is he still downstairs?”
“They have finished eating and drinking, most of his men are going to bed for the night. He will probably be up shortly,” Peg said. Her regard was questioning.
Margaret felt an immediate tension as she lifted the bowl to drink the soup. Then she set it down. “There is no decision to make. I cannot stand by and simply wait for tomorrow to come, and hope that God will bring some great cataclysm upon us, interfering with the executions.”
Peg nodded. “I think ye should go to him. Maybe ye’ll enjoy being in his arms, even if he is the enemy.”
Margaret did not want to even consider such a possibility, which was unlikely, in any case. She dipped another piece of bread in the soup. “Did you see William?”
Peg hesitated, and Margaret was instantly alarmed. She set aside her food. “Peg!”
“I saw him, Margaret, but we did not speak. They were bringing him food and water, so the door to his chamber was open.”
“What is it?” Margaret tried to hold her anxiety in check.
“He was badly hurt! His head is bandaged—the linens are red—and so is the bandage on his shoulder. He is as white as a corpse, and he was lying so still, I dinna ken if he was even conscious.”
Margaret leapt up from the bed, pacing wildly. “Damn that Wolf of Lochaber! He said they had tended my brother! I must attend him!”
Peg seized her arm. “If ye seduce him tonight, he will let ye do anything ye want tomorrow—I am certain of it!”
How could she make love to Alexander, when he was keeping her brother prisoner, and denying him care? Oh, she was so angry!
“Ye canna let him see how much ye hate him,” Peg warned.
Peg was right. She had to control her emotions, as rampant as they were.
Peg walked to her and clasped her arm. “I ken yer nervous and worried. I have more news, and some of it is good—I overheard William’s guards speaking. Sir Ranald was one of our knights who escaped after the battle in the ravine.”
“Thank God for that!” Margaret cried. “He must be a day’s riding ahead of Sir Neil!” And she did not think Sir Ranald would try to reach Argyll or Red John—he had known she was sending word to them already. But he would never think to ride all the way to Buchan for rescue. He would probably ride for Fowliss; one of her aunts was married to the Earl of Strathearn.
“Do ye want to hear the rest of it?” Peg asked.
She flinched, for she did not like Peg’s tone—or her distraught look.
Peg barreled grimly on. “Sir Ranald will not be a day ahead of Sir Neil.”
“What are you telling me?” Sir Neil could not be dead!
“Sir Neil is in the dungeons below—he was captured shortly after he tried to flee here.”
Margaret walked to the bed and sank down on it. He wasn’t dead, and she thanked God for that, but he would die tomorrow with the others—if her plan failed.
Peg came and sat down beside her. They hugged. Peg said softly, “Ye canna let Sir Neil hang. He is so young, so handsome, and so loyal to ye.”
“No, I can’t.” And as they stared at one another, it truly struck her—she must seduce her enemy, in order to save her men. She heard the door open adjacent her room.
Alexander had gone to his chamber. Apprehension filled her.
She strained to hear—they both strained to hear—his quiet tones as he spoke with the guard. His voice sounded calm as he spoke.
Margaret remained unmoving, thinking about how cold and ruthless Alexander MacDonald was. She thought about the battle they had waged against one another, and she thought about the legends about him.
Would she really beguile, play and outwit the Wolf of Lochaber? Could she really go up against such a warrior and win?
Hadn’t women seduced men for their own ends, throughout the course of time?
And then she had the oddest recollection—of how dearly her parents had loved one another, and how they were so open about stealing off to make love.
But their marriage had been an unusual one. Few married couples cared for one another. Although most were deeply bonded for political and familial reasons, love was a different matter. Love affairs abounded, and so often defied not just politics and family, but common sense.
This love affair would be entirely political—a seduction meant to save the lives of the men of Castle Fyne.
Margaret stood. “Wish me well.”
Peg seized her hand. “Forget he is the enemy. He is big and handsome—think about that!”
Margaret wished she could, but she could not. As she walked to the door she thought about her uncle Buchan. After what she meant to do, she would probably be sent to a nunnery for the rest of her life. But she had to save her people.
Margaret opened her door and the guard leapt to his feet. “I wish a word with Alexander,” she said with what dignity she could muster. And ignoring any response he might mean to make, as well as his surprise, she walked over to the Wolf’s open door.
He was standing in the center of the chamber, and he had just shed his boots and sword belt. The latter hung on the back of the room’s single chair; the boots were on the floor. He stood barefoot on a fur rug—the stone floors were freezing cold in winter—and he turned to face her, his hands on his waist belt.
Margaret had paused in the doorway. As their eyes met, his gaze did not even flicker, he was so still—and so watchful.
She knew she flushed—her cheeks felt warm. Did he know what she intended?
The bedchamber was strikingly silent now. She stepped inside, aware that he was watching her with the kind of care one reserved for the enemy, and that he hadn’t said a word in response to her appearance.
Margaret closed the door. Then she turned back to the Wolf. “Are you well fed, my lord? Have you had enough to drink?”
He began to smile, now unfastening his belt and tossing it aside, onto the bed. As he did, Margaret stared at the sheathed dagger on it.
“Do ye really wish to play this game?” he asked softly. But his gaze had slipped to her mouth.
He did want her, she thought, stunned. Peg had been right. “It is time for me to accept the fact that I am your prisoner, and in your care. We should not be rivals.” She thought she sounded calm—an amazing feat.
His smile remained, and even as cynical as it was, it changed his hard face. Even she had to admit that he was a striking man. “And now ye wish fer my company?”
“I wish to do what I must do to make my stay with you as pleasant as possible,” Margaret said tersely. There was no point in playing him for a fool—he was hardly that. But he might believe she had decided to make the best of their situation—and seek opportunity in her captivity, through a relationship with him.
His smile vanished. “I despise liars, Lady Margaret.”
His warning was clear. “I have never been a liar,” she said, and that was true—but she was certainly lying now. “I have had a few hours in which to think. I am your prisoner and entirely dependent upon you for my welfare. Only a very foolish woman would continue to fight you, my lord.”
“So instead of fighting, ye come to my bed?”
“Why is it so strange? You are master here, I was once the lady.”
His stare had intensified. Margaret remained in front of the closed door, unmoving. Her heart was thundering so loudly that she thought he could hear it. He surely knew of the game she played; he surely knew how desperate and afraid she was.
For a long moment, he did not speak. Then, “Yer no bawd.”
How right he was. “I’m no bawdy woman, but I’m afraid, my lord,” Margaret said softly. “My uncle will be furious with me for losing the keep. So will Sir Guy. I need a protector.”
“They will be more furious if they learn ye have slept in my bed.”
He was so very right. But why was he making objections? Did he think to resist her? “They do not have to know.”
He eyed her. “If ye stay here, everyone will know.”
Margaret hadn’t thought this would be easy, but she had not expected him to object, nor could she fathom why he did not simply seize her, as most men would. She smiled tightly and walked past him to the bed.
As she did, he turned, so he continued to face her, his gaze still wary and watchful.
“I need a protector,” she said, her back to him. She untied her girdle, hoping he did not note how her hands trembled, placing it on the bed beside his waist belt and dagger. The latter winked up at her.
It was in easy reach.
“Yer uncle will disavow ye as his blood if ye sleep here tonight. Then ye will need a champion.”
She shook her head, pulling up her gown—a surcote—and removing it over her head. She heard him inhale. She did not turn, clad now in a thin cote and her chemise. “You do not know Buchan. I will be blamed for the loss of the castle, for allowing you in, for the deaths of everyone—I am afraid.” She was lying now—Buchan would not blame her for attempting to fight the great Wolf off.
He did not answer her.
What should she do next? she wondered. Continue to disrobe? If she removed her undergown, she would be wearing nothing but her shoes and her thigh-length chemise.
“I willna spare the prisoners, Lady Margaret,” he said softly, from directly behind her. “If that is the reason ye have come.”
She jumped, as he was so close now his breath feathered her ear—and he had taken a hold of her left wrist—but the movement caused her shoulders to hit his chest. His grasp on her wrist tightened, while he clasped her waist with his other hand.
Her heart somersaulted wildly. What was he doing? She was in his arms. Yet wasn’t this what she wanted of him?
Had he really just said that he would not spare her men? The intimate position they were in was making serious reflection impossible. Margaret could only feel his breath on her ear, his hard chest, rising and falling against her back, and the heat of his pelvis and loins.
Her heart was pounding. Every nerve ending she had was taut. “Am I asking you to spare them?” she gasped hoarsely. “I am coming freely, my lord.”
“Ye do not come freely. Ye despise me with yer every breath.” But he spoke in a harsh murmur, and his mouth now brushed her ear.
She gasped, because a fire was racing along her arms, and up and down her legs. Did she desire the Wolf of Lochaber? For his arms were around her, and she could not think clearly, except to note how strong and muscular he was, and how warm she was becoming. “No,” she managed to answer. “I have come freely, my lord.”
His hand on her waist tightened. “Ye think to ask me on the morrow for mercy for yer men. That is why ye seek me in my bed—not for any other reason. If ye stay with me, my answer willna change,” he warned. And his mouth was so close to her earlobe, she could feel his lips brushing her there as he spoke. It was almost a feathering kiss.
She couldn’t breathe, much less move. An explosion of sparks accompanied his words, his breath. It was as if he had set her on fire, and that fire was racing through her entire body. She was aware of how aroused he was. There was no mistaking his condition. His body was hard and heated.
What should she do? she wondered, with both panic and breathlessness.
Alexander clasped her shoulders, pulling her back even more closely against him, and he kissed the side of her neck. Margaret felt the rush of deeper desire then. It was as if her abdomen had been hollowed out, and she felt faint with the expectation of pleasure.
His hand slid from her shoulder to her breast and over it entirely, causing her erect nipples to tighten painfully. “So ye will stay, anyway?”
She almost wanted to say yes! But how could she stay with him? What was she thinking? She was Lady Margaret Comyn, the great Earl of Buchan’s niece and ward—she was Mary MacDougall’s daughter! They were the worst of enemies! And he would hang her men tomorrow anyway.
“I want to stay—I want to save my men,” she somehow breathed.
“Ye canna save them.” He turned her around abruptly, so she was no longer in his embrace, and their gazes collided. His blue eyes smoldered with lust. She wondered what her own eyes looked like. “I wish ye were a bawd.”
She hugged herself and stepped back breathlessly. What had just happened? She began to shake, still feeling feverishly hot. “I’m not a bawd,” she admitted hoarsely. “I thought I could seduce you.”
“Ye could seduce me—if ye truly wished to.”
He sounded odd, as if rueful. Margaret trembled as he paced away, and glanced again at his belt and dagger on the bed. The blade winked up at her, but she did not have the courage to seize it. She was no more a murderess than she was a seductress.
She realized he was watching her. But he knew she would never grab that knife and use it, just as he had known she was incapable of a casual lover’s tryst, no matter how much desire had just arisen between them.
“Ye should leave matters of war alone, Lady Margaret. And the prisoners are a matter of war. Buchan will forgive ye the loss of the keep, he will expect his men to be hanged, but he would never forgive ye for lying with the enemy—on the eve of yer marriage to Sir Guy.”
She suddenly wondered if he was trying to protect her. But they were enemies. Why would he do that? “I care more for my men than I do for my uncle’s approval. But it doesn’t matter now. I can’t go forward with a seduction, my men will hang even if I do, and I doubt there will be a marriage now,” she finally said, thickly.
“Why would ye think that? Buchan needs Sir Guy now more than ever. Sir Guy will wish to have Castle Fyne now more than ever.”
“You have stolen Castle Fyne,” she cried, “leaving me with nothing.”
“Sir Guy is a man of great ambition, like his brother, Aymer. I am certain he will come to take this castle back, and with it, his bride.”
Margaret wanted to believe him. The only problem was, if Sir Guy attacked Castle Fyne, how would he ever best such an opponent? And that would not help her men—they would already be dead. The implications of her failure to seduce him—and dissuade him from the executions—were settling in. She was ill.
“Ye need to leave matters of war to the men,” Alexander said again. “And ye should leave my chamber. Good night.”
She had achieved nothing. And she would never understand MacDonald. Why hadn’t he taken what she offered? Most men would have leapt at such an opportunity, especially as it would drive a wedge between her and Sir Guy, which was to his advantage. She did not want to think of him as an honorable man, so she refused to do so. But while she knew she should leave—she should flee—she did not. “Most men would not have refused my advances.”
“I’m not like most men.”
“Why? Why did you dissuade me from my folly? What have you gained tonight?”
His stare was unwavering. “Ye’d hate me more tomorrow.”
He was right, she thought, but why would that matter to him? Margaret realized that Alexander MacDonald was no simple, single-minded, bloodthirsty warrior. He was a canny man—a worthy opponent. She remained uncertain of his ambitions, outside of his desire to command Castle Fyne.
Only one fact was clear. She now had the knowledge that he lusted for her. Worse, Peg had been right—a part of her had enjoyed being in his arms. How could she use the attraction they seemed to share to her advantage? Without truly compromising herself?
Margaret walked to the bed and retrieved her clothes. She shivered, facing him. “I did not expect to enjoy being in your arms.” She was grim.
His eyes widened, filling with wariness.
“We are enemies, and you have stolen my castle and tomorrow you will hang my men. Yet we shared an embrace, one we both enjoyed.”
He stared for another moment. “Yer young, Lady Margaret, and untried. Life is filled with surprises. Especially during times of war.” He paused and then added, “But I am pleased ye want to be with me. Ye can be sure there will be more surprises for us both.”
How certain he was, she thought, her heart lurching. “No. We will never be together again, if that is what you are suggesting.”
His stare changed, becoming sharp, even speculative. “Never? That is an arbitrary word, one I rarely use.”
She did not want to debate him now, not when they remained alone together in his chamber, in the dead of the night, when her blood still raced. “You are a MacDonald. You are already my worst enemy. But if you hang the men I am responsible for, you will become my blood enemy.”
“Yer a woman,” he said swiftly, his face hardening. “Ye dinna need make blood enemies, ye dinna need to seek vengeance fer anything.”
“How wrong you are.”
“Ye amaze me, Lady Margaret, with yer boldness.” He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t appear pleased, either. Had she moved him, just a bit?
“I am not trying to amaze you, Alexander, but I am my mother’s daughter.”
“Yes, ye are,” he said grimly.
Margaret wondered then if he had known her mother. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We do not have to be the worst of enemies.” It was, perhaps, her last plea.
“Ye have decided this day that we are already the worst of enemies,” he said grimly. “They hang on the morrow.”
She turned abruptly, about to walk to the door. Then she halted. “I was on the ramparts with them. I fought you, too.”
He crossed his muscular arms and stared coldly at her.
“You should hang me tomorrow, too.”
“I am not hanging ye.”
He was furious, now. She trembled, incapable of looking away from him. “Because I am such a valuable hostage? Dowry and all?”
“Because yer such a valuable hostage—and yer a woman.”
“How can you be so ruthless?”
“I am fond of living.”
She hugged her clothes more tightly to her chest. Oddly, comprehension flashed just then, and for one instant, she did not hate him. In that instant, she understood—he was fighting just as she was for his life and the lives of his men. He was a feared and respected warrior, and rightly so. And then the moment was gone.
“Ye need to leave, Lady Margaret,” he warned.
She shook her head in refusal. “My brother is hurt. He is my only living family. I must attend him—please.”
“You can tend his wounds tomorrow.” He walked to the door and opened it and then stepped aside.
She was stunned by his acquiescence. “You will let me see him?”
“I will allow you to see him—this one time.”
Margaret nodded, tears falling, and she ran past him, escaping.
* * *
MARGARET HUDDLED UNDER the fur covers, staring out of her chamber’s window as dawn stained the sky with fingers of mauve. She had slept fitfully and uneasily all night when she was exhausted—when she had needed the kind of deep sleep that would refresh her, so she could battle another day. But every time she had dozed she had dreamed of the hangings to take place that day and had instantly awoken.
Because it was so cold and they were prisoners, Peg had shared her bed. But Margaret’s restlessness had caused her to finally make a pallet on the floor. Peg now sat up, yawning.
Margaret began to greet her when she heard a movement in the chamber next to hers. Alexander had arisen. She was careful not to allow her thoughts to revisit their encounter of the previous night. She did not want to recall the sparks of desire she had felt while in his arms.
But he had said she could see her brother. As Peg began to braid her long hair, Margaret leapt from the bed, slid on her shoes, seized her mantle and hurried to her door. As she opened it Alexander came out of the adjacent chamber and their gazes collided.
“Good morn,” he said, unsmiling. His eyes moved over her as he gestured to the guard, “Alan will take ye to William when ye wish.”
“I am ready now, thank you,” she cried. “Can Peg come to help me?”
He looked away. “Aye.” He said to Alan, “She may tend her brother’s wounds, but do not leave them alone together.” With that, he nodded at her and went downstairs.
A moment later, both women were following Alan through the keep and into the courtyard. The guard carried a small chest for Margaret, one in which she kept her herbs and potions. It was freezing cold out, and they could not cross the bailey fast enough. The horses garrisoned in the stables there were just being given fodder, the men tending them the only others present. They entered the tower’s door and hurried up its narrow winding staircase to the second floor.
A Highlander sat on a barrel outside William’s closed chamber door. Alan spoke briefly with him, and he opened the door for Peg and Margaret.
William lay upon the narrow pallet inside, and Margaret choked back a gasp of horror.
He seemed asleep—he might have been unconscious. He had clearly bled heavily, as both his head bandage and the one on his chest were entirely red. Having lost so much blood, he was as white as a corpse. Her worry knew no bounds.
“Will!” Margaret rushed inside to kneel beside him, taking his hands.
Peg said, “I will get warm water and lye soap.”
“Bring clean linens,” Margaret said, not looking away from her brother.
His lashes fluttered and she called out to him again, now holding his hand and stroking his face. “Dear brother, it is I, Margaret. Wake up!”
William moaned and looked blearily at her. “Meg?”
“You are awake! I am here to take care of you now.” She was so afraid that when she removed the bandages, she would find an infection. She could not bear it if Will died.
“Where am I? What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“The Wolf has taken Castle Fyne. We are his prisoners.”
His eyes flew wide now. “Are you all right?”
“He hasn’t hurt me, nor will he—I am his hostage. But I lost, Will, I lost this place, and it is now in MacDonald hands.” She did not want to tell him about the impending executions. He was ill, and she wanted him to use his strength to heal, not worry.
“We will retake it. Buchan will come, or maybe, Sir Guy.” His lashes fluttered, as if he did not have the strength to keep his eyes open. “He did not hurt you?”
“Don’t worry about me—I am under guard, but otherwise, I have been treated with the utmost respect.” That was actually the truth, she thought.
“I know you—stubborn, and now defiant.” He opened his eyes again and stared. “Don’t defy him, Meg. Wait for Buchan to come.”
She managed a smile and it felt ghastly. She would not tell him about the death of their cousin Red John Comyn, either, or the rebellion of Robert Bruce. He needed not worry about those things. “I am not defying him,” she said. And that was the truth, too—now.
He seemed doubtful. “You are probably plotting an escape...don’t. Wait for rescue, Meg.” His voice had become so weak that she had to lean close to hear him. Eyes closed, he said, “Did we get a messenger out before the castle fell?”
She was aware now of Alan, hovering some small distance behind her and listening to their every word. “Malcolm sent two young Scots, just before the siege.”
“Good!” His eyes opened and his words were hard with satisfaction as he spoke. “Argyll and Buchan will come, sooner, not later.”
Margaret managed to smile, still holding his hand. “You shouldn’t speak, you should rest.” Peg finally returned, rushing into the room with soap, a bowl of water and linens. “I am going to clean your wounds and change the bandages.”
William did not respond, and Margaret set to work.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, Margaret hurried into the great hall, where she found Alexander. Both tables were entirely occupied by his men; they were finishing breakfast. The tables were littered with plates piled with unfinished crusts, fish carcasses and meat bones. Conversation was rampant. As she rushed in, every man present turned her way and the room silenced.
She slowed her urgent stride, aware of thirty or more pairs of eyes upon her—the gazes of his men, her foes. From the head of one table, Alexander regarded her also, his expression impassive and impossible to read.
She approached him and curtsied.
“How fares your brother?”
“Not well.” She met his gaze, unsmiling. “He lost far too much blood. I cleaned both wounds, and I am very concerned. He is weak, my lord, and while there is no infection yet, we both know that one could set in shortly. The next few days are crucial.”
“I am sorry he was wounded.”
She tensed, because she was fairly certain he did not care about her brother, except as another useful hostage. “I am excellent with herbs and potions. I learned how to attend a great many maladies and war wounds from my mother. Now I must hope that the salves I have used were not used too late.”
He studied her. “Is that an accusation? My own man tended him yesterday, Lady Margaret, and as ye have said, he has no infection.”
She had been accusatory, but that would not get her anywhere. “I am grateful you had someone clean his wounds and bandage them. I am grateful you did not leave him to die.”
“Ye remain the worst liar. Yer not grateful, and yer sick with fear.”
She felt that fear then, as if a huge sob were about to choke her. “I have lost three brothers, brothers I dearly admired, brothers I loved. I cannot lose William, too!”
“And I hope ye do not. Will ye sit down, Lady Margaret?”
She had no appetite, but that wasn’t why she did not want to sit down at his table. A remembrance flashed in her mind, of being in his arms last night. It was a terrible recollection. “I was hoping to see my men today—before you hang them.”
He smiled grimly at her. “I will allow ye to see them, but if ye think to mount an insurrection at the last moment, be forewarned. They’ll die by my sword and it willna matter to me.”
“A rebellion at the last moment is not on my mind,” she cried. “Although I wish I was capable of mounting one.”
He studied her, his scrutiny so intense it was unnerving. “I thought we had come to some terms—last night.”
She trembled again. Last night she had glimpsed him as a powerful, sexual and handsome man. Last night, she had felt a moment of admiration and respect for him, but that moment was gone.
“We did not come to any terms. You are my captor, I am your prisoner, my brother might die in your care—and you are about to execute my good soldiers.”
He stood up abruptly. “I will take you to the dungeons.” He gestured at four men, who instantly arose, their swords clattering against the table’s edge as they did. He then pointed at Alan, too.
He led the way down to the dungeons, Margaret directly behind him, his five men behind her. Her heart raced madly now. She estimated it was half past eight in the morning. In four hours or less, Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others would die.
Little daylight came into the dungeons. One wall had two small, barred windows, set high above the prisoners’ heads. Otherwise, there was no possibility of natural light entering the cell, so burning torches had been set into the ground, which was dirt. Two of Alexander’s men had remained below, outside the single large cell where the prisoners huddled. Margaret remained directly behind Alexander now, aware of the temperature dropping dramatically. It was terribly cold belowground.
He came to an abrupt halt, and she stumbled not to crash into him from behind. Peeking past him, she saw the two guards leap to attention now.
“Open the door,” Alexander said to them.
Margaret had never been inside a dungeon before—although she had been inside the cellars at Castle Bain and Balvenie. Those cellars had had stone floors, and they had been dank and dark, too—but this was so much worse. The dungeons stank of urine and feces. She thought she could smell blood, too, and she felt so much despair.
This was all her fault.
Margaret peered past Alexander; Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others were all standing now, and staring at them. Or were they staring at her? With accusation in their eyes? Accusation she so rightly deserved?
She heard the key turning in the lock, a rusty groan. Alexander shifted to face her. “Ye may go inside.”
She met his gaze, realizing she was filled with trepidation now. How could she face her men, now? Did they even know they would soon die?
Alexander suddenly said, “Margaret, ye need not do this.”
She stiffened, condemning herself for her cowardice—when she was hardly going to hang that day. And she did not like the way he had addressed her—so intimately. But she would not dispute him now. She stepped past him.
Instantly, her gaze turned to Sir Neil and Malcolm as she entered the cell. “Are you all right?”
“Lady Margaret, you should not be here,” Sir Neil gasped.
She rushed to him and seized his hands—he had been wounded, she saw, in his shoulder, but it had been bandaged and there was not that much blood. “What happened? You were hurt!”
“Lady—I failed you!” He gripped her hands tightly. “And I beg yer forgiveness, I was to keep you safe, I failed. I was to ride for rescue, and I was captured!” Tears filled his dark blue eyes.
“Sir Neil, you could never fail me,” she cried, meaning it. “You are the bravest knight I know. You fought tirelessly for me. I want to see your wound!”
“It is a scratch,” he said. “Lady Margaret, are ye all right? Have ye been hurt?” Eyes blazing, he looked past her at Alexander with fury.
She hadn’t realized that Alexander stood behind them, openly observing them and listening to their every word. Now Sir Neil was murderous, and if looks could kill, Alexander would be dead. “I have been treated well, Sir Neil, and you must not worry about me.”
He studied her, clearly assessing if she spoke the truth. When he was reassured, he said, “I will always worry about you. I am your vassal. And you are my lady!”
She wanted to hug him, but that would be entirely inappropriate. Instead, she clung to his hands and he kissed each one. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady Margaret. I must know that I am forgiven my failures, before I die.”
“There is nothing to forgive.” She released him now, glancing at Malcolm. “Are you unhurt?”
He nodded. “Ye should not be here, Lady Margaret. The dungeons are no place for a lady.”
She looked past him at the soldiers and archers in the cell. No one was hurt, and for that, she was thankful. “Of course I came to see you. I must speak with you all.”
She took a deep breath. “I have failed you all. I refused to surrender to the mighty Wolf of Lochaber, when I am but a young, untried woman. My pride as a MacDougall knew no bounds. Pride led me to believe we could achieve the impossible—that we could defeat a superior force, that we could defeat the great Wolf.” She fought rising tears.
“Lady, we all wished to fight,” Malcolm said grimly.
“We would do so again, if we had such a choice,” Sir Neil cried.
“Aye,” the others agreed in a chorus.
She shook her head and said hoarsely, “Had I surrendered, you would all be free now. Instead, you are the Wolf’s prisoners.”
No one tried to speak now. Everyone was intent, awaiting her next words, her direction. And it amazed her that they would follow her still.
“I am not worthy of you, and certainly, I was not worthy to lead you. The Wolf said he would spare no one if I did not surrender. I should have considered that far more carefully when I chose to fight him. But I did not.” She paused, but not for effect. She hated what she must now divulge.
“I have begged him to change his mind. He will not do so.”
No one moved, and no one seemed surprised. Sir Neil said, “You were the most worthy leader a knight could have, lady, and I would follow you into battle another time.”
“Aye, I would follow ye again,” Malcolm said. “Yer the great lady of Fyne!”
“I would follow ye, lady,” one of her archers said. “We would all follow ye, a great lady like yer mother, into battle—or anywhere ye might lead!”
Everyone murmured in agreement.
Margaret could not believe the extent of their loyalty. She had never been as moved, as shaken. She whirled to face Alexander.
He stood as still as a stone statue, an arm’s length from her, his expression impossible to read.
“I cannot bear this burden, this fault of mine! If you hang them, you must hang me, too, MacDonald!” she cried. And she had never meant anything more.
Behind her, several men gasped. Alexander said, unsmiling, “Ye will not hang, Lady Margaret. I said so last night and I am saying so, now.” He was final.
Before she could argue with him, Sir Neil said, “Lady Margaret, do not prostrate yourself before him. Do not submit, do not bend. This is war. Men die in war. I am prepared to die. We are all prepared to die for you.”
Margaret hugged herself, tears now falling. She could not let them die...they would follow her into battle again...they would follow her anywhere....
She stiffened, seized with a terrible comprehension—she thought she knew how to commute their death sentences.
“You would follow me anywhere?” she asked.
“Aye,” everyone said.
Trembling, she turned to face her captor again. His gaze instantly narrowed. “You lost a great many men, yesterday,” she said.
With suspicion, he said, “Aye, I did.”
“My men have proven their loyalty—and their courage in battle.”
He waited.
“They will get down on bent knee before you, my lord, and swear their oath of loyalty to you now—if you will spare their lives.”
He stared and she felt his mind racing. After a long pause, she said, “They will be loyal in battle, my lord, and this is war. You need every soldier you can get.”
His stare had sharpened. “And ye, Lady Margaret? Will ye get down on your knee before me, will ye make an oath of fealty, too?”
She inhaled, their gazes locked. She did not dare look away now—not that she had the power to do so. It was as if time had stopped.
This was, beyond any doubt, a defining moment. She must save the lives of her men. But she was a Comyn and a MacDougall. Could she swear her allegiance to the Wolf of Lochaber—to Clan Donald?
Her mind felt frozen now. And there did not seem to be time to think. She only knew that if she refused, he would probably execute her men; if she accepted, he would spare them.
“Yes,” she said.
Sir Neil cried out. “Lady! You cannot do such a thing!”
She blinked back hot tears, thinking of her mother now. Even as she spoke, she did not look at Sir Neil—she only had eyes for Alexander. “I can, and I will. This is war, Sir Neil, and in war, men change sides all the time. Why can’t I change my loyalties, too?” But she felt a tear sliding down her cheek. Her mother would approve. She simply knew it. But she felt ill, because once she performed an act of homage to Alexander MacDonald, her family would be her enemy.
But she must not contemplate that now.
“Bring them up into the courtyard at noon,” Alexander ordered his guards, eyes ablaze. “The prisoners will make their vows before me—as will Lady Margaret Comyn.” With that, he looked at her.
Margaret was taken aback. Why was he angry?
But Alexander then whirled and strode out of the cell, across the dungeons, and vanished into the stairwell.
Margaret hugged herself, staring after him. And all eyes remained upon her.
CHAPTER FIVE
“YE’LL SWEAR YER loyalty to the Wolf of Lochaber?” Peg had spoken with both disbelief and hostility.
It was noon. Margaret stood on the topmost step of the stairs leading from the great hall into the courtyard. Her men had already assembled there—Malcolm, Sir Neil, the archers and the soldiers. They were under a heavy guard.
The sun was high, amidst blue, cloudless skies, the mountains in the distance snowcapped. But she barely noticed the beauty of the land, for she was ill—very, very ill. In her stomach, in her heart—and in her soul.
She looked at Peg as she came to stand beside her. “He will spare them if I do.”
Peg’s eyes were on fire. “Yer mother despised the MacDonalds—as we all do!”
Margaret trembled, her stomach churning. What was she about to do? Could she really get down on one knee before Alexander MacDonald, and swear to keep her faith to him and him alone, as her liege lord, for the rest of her time on this earth?
“Mother would do what she had to do, to save her people,” Margaret whispered.
“She hated the MacDonalds!” Peg cried.
She had hated Clan Donald more than she had hated the English—that was true. But Margaret was certain her mother would have sacrificed her own interests, as Margaret was doing, to save the lives of the men who had fought so courageously for her.
“How will ye go to war against yer own family? Ye’ll have to fight every Comyn now, every MacDougall. What of William? He’d never let ye do this, Margaret, if he were not so ill!”
“Hush! Enough!” Unfortunately, every word Peg had uttered was true. Alexander was at war with all of England and half of Scotland—he was at war with the great Comyn family now. It would not be long before their armies met, the one on Bruce’s behalf, the other opposed against him. And what was she to do, then?
Would she be at Castle Fyne, awaiting word of a battle, whilst knowing her kin was fighting her liege lord?
She suddenly tensed, as Alexander emerged from the entry tower. He made a tall, proud figure, the wind whipping his dark hair about his shoulders, his mantle streaming like a cape behind him, both swords riding his thighs. The stiff breeze also buffeted his linen leine against his hard body. He appeared as powerful and as indomitable as when she had first glimpsed him.
She thought of his older brother, the lord of the Islay. Alasdair Og had married her maternal aunt, in spite of the hatred between their clans. She had heard so many tales about the couple, so it was impossible to know the truth—one such legend had it that Alasdair had abducted the lady Juliana from her bed, in the middle of the night, against her furious objections—and they had been married before dawn. Other tales claimed it had been love at first sight, and she had ridden off at midnight to meet him, against the explicit command of her father—risking her life to do so. It was also said that their marriage had been arranged during a brief truce between the clans.
If Juliana had been unwilling at first, then they had a great deal in common, Margaret thought. But this was not marriage. She was merely swearing to give her loyalty to Alexander in times of both war and peace, for as long as she lived. Juliana had had to marry the enemy; she had had to sleep with him and bear his children.
She realized she was staring at him, and that he was staring back.
“Oh, he makes a fine figure of a man,” Peg said angrily. “Is that why ye’ll swear fealty now? Betray yer beloved family? Did something happen last night? Do ye yearn for his embrace another time?”
Margaret was so angry, she could not breathe properly. “How dare you! I thought we were friends. I am trying to do what is right! This is hardly an easy decision.”
“This isn’t right!” Peg cried. “Yer a great lady—a Comyn lady! Ye usually think so hard. But not this time. I think he’s turned yer head! What of Buchan? Have ye thought at all about yer uncle now? Buchan will never forgive ye for this!”
He would disown her; of that, Margaret had no doubt, just as Sir Guy would, and she would have no one as a protector, no one except for the mighty Wolf.
“Go see William, then, at least tell him what ye intend,” Peg now pleaded.
Margaret wrapped her mantle more closely about her and started down the steps, leaving Peg behind. She approached Alexander, who stood with the guards, not far from her men.
She could not smile as he turned to her. “It is noon,” she said. “I will pay you homage first.”
“No. You will stand aside, until the end.”
She started, meeting his intense blue stare. Why did he wish for her to go last?
He turned away. “Bring me the first soldier.”
One of her archers came forward, bareheaded and unarmed. He got down on one knee, clasping his hands in prayer, which he then outstretched. “My lord Alexander, mighty Wolf of Lochaber, I, Duncan MacDougall of Ardvaig, promise on my faith to ye, now and for all time, as I live and breathe, to be yer loyal man, to never cause ye harm, and if I dinna keep the faith, may God strike me down.”
Alexander took his hands and clasped them. Solemnly, he said, “I, Alexander of Clan Donald, son of Angus Mor, lord of Glencarron, Coll and now of Castle Fyne, do accept yer pledge of fealty. Ye may rise, Duncan, and take up yer arms and join my men.”
Duncan stood, smiling, and Alexander clasped him on the shoulder, smiling back. Then another archer came forward, getting down on one knee, making his oath of fealty.
Margaret stood back, somewhat behind Alexander, watching as he received each of her men in their acts of complete submission. As each man came forward, she thought about her parents, her uncles, her betrothed. She thought about her brothers, all dead, and William, who still lived. She thought about Alasdair Og and Lady Juliana.
Scotland was never at peace. Every lord, whether great or small, had rivals; every clan had friends and enemies. Fathers lost sons and wives lost husbands. Politics changed in a single breath. Widows married rivals. Battles raged daily. Stolen cows might be at stake—or stolen crowns.
The politics of the land frequently changed. Hadn’t they just done so? The Comyns hated the English—now, they would surely fight for the English, against Bruce. This great lord, Alexander MacDonald, had once kept the law for King Edward in the wilds of the western islands. Now he fought against the king, in the hopes of making a new one.
She blinked back hot tears. Alliances changed, and now, she would be in a war, and on the side opposed to her entire MacDougall and Comyn families. Her heart felt as if it were breaking in two.
Sir Neil had come forward, his gaze on her, not on Alexander. Margaret brushed her falling tears away awkwardly, wishing she hadn’t succumbed to such female weakness. She met Sir Neil’s worried gaze again, and somehow, lifted her chin proudly.
Ignoring Alexander, who stared at them both now, Sir Neil said, “Lady, are ye certain? ’Tis not too late to change yer mind!”
If Sir Neil did not perform homage and swear fealty, he would be hanged. Margaret knew one thing—she would never let that happen. “I am not changing my mind, Sir Neil.” She spoke as firmly as she could, but heard the quaver in her own tone. Worse, she felt more hot tears burning her eyes.
His eyes filled with doubt. Margaret stepped forward and clasped his arm. “Please. We will fight for the Wolf now, we will fight for Bruce—we will put a Scot on the throne.”
His eyes flickered. She realized he might not be allied with Bruce, but he thought as she did—any Scot was better than King Edward.
Sir Neil smiled grimly at her and turned. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said.
“Ye have it,” Alexander said, and Margaret wondered at the slight flush mottling his high cheekbones.
Sir Neil knelt, extended his hands, and swore to be faithful to Alexander for the rest of his life, God strike him down otherwise. Alexander took his hands and accepted the pledge. When Sir Neil had arisen to his full height, Alexander dropped his hands. He did not clasp his shoulder, as he had thus far done to the previous men. For one moment, the two men stared at one another—as if antagonists, not friends.
“I will treat ye well, as long as ye remain faithful,” the Wolf said.
“I dinna care how ye treat me. She is my lady, ye must treat her well,” Sir Neil said.
“Go and receive your weapons and join my men,” Alexander returned evenly. But he glanced at Margaret, as did Sir Neil.

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