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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.