Brenda Joyce (15 page)

Margaret trembled. He was exactly as she had thought he would be—a mighty warrior, a powerful baron, the Earl of Carrick and, just possibly, Scotland’s next king.

She started forward with as much dignity as she could muster. But there was trepidation. Alexander had seen her. She was careful not to look at him, but she felt his displeasure—and it was vast.

Margaret paused before their table as Bruce stood up, his blue eyes bright. He smiled at her. “Lady Margaret, I presume?”

Margaret curtsied deeply. “Welcome to my home.”

His smile widened, as he now gave her a thorough appraisal, from head to toe. It was blatant—he made no attempt to hide it. “The rumors do not do you justice. You are even more beautiful than your mother.”

Margaret was flustered by his open scrutiny of her figure, and also, by what she felt was a far deeper evaluation. She did not dare look at Alexander directly, but from the corner of her eye, she saw that he was angry. “You met my mother?” she asked Bruce.

“Upon a single occasion. But I am pleased you have decided to attend us. I was curious to meet the courageous lady of Castle Fyne.” He indicated that she should sit with him.

Margaret approached, having little choice but to glance at Alexander. He gave her a chilling look, making it clear that she would pay dearly for her defiance.

“Are your duties truly over, Lady Margaret?” Alexander said coldly.

“I have done my best to see to it that our guests are well fed tonight.” She smiled at him, and quickly turned her attention back to Bruce. “I hope you were not too displeased with the dinner I have served.”

“I could not eat another thing, so I am well pleased.” He glanced mildly at Alexander and then back at her. “And I am always in a good humor when a beautiful woman is present.”

Margaret did not blush as she sat down on the bench facing both men. “Then I am pleased, to serve you so well, my lord.”

He sat and laughed. “Are you, Lady Comyn?”

He had stressed her last name. “I have no wish to displease you,” she said, and she was being truthful, for the moment. “But I am curious. How could you have met my mother? The MacDougalls and the Bruces have been rivals for a great many years.”

“We met during a truce—at a wedding. I was younger then—about your age,” Bruce said. “I was instantly smitten, but your mother was not. I believe I asked her to ride with me in the forests. She struck me across the face.”

Margaret believed his every word, and she was relieved that he was so amused, as she imagined her mother striking Bruce as a young man for his impertinence. “My mother was in love with my father, as odd as that may be.”

“Your mother was a woman of great loyalty. As you take after her, I imagine you are, too.”

She hesitated, unsure of how to respond, or if she was being tested. Her glance moved between the two men. “I am as loyal as my mother,” she finally said. “I hope to emulate her in every way.”

Bruce smiled and turned to Alexander, who sat very stiffly beside him, although he drummed his fingers against the table. “You must be charmed by your hostage, Alexander. And you have not said a word about her, other than to mention her courage during the siege.”

Alexander smiled without mirth. “I find Lady Margaret to be a great many things—but around me, charming she is not.”

“Well, you have taken her castle—her dowry. And she is a MacDougall as well as a Comyn—you are one of her greatest rivals.”

“I do not consider Lady Margaret a rival—not usually,” Alexander said. He gave her another cool look.

“Yet somehow, I am sure she considers you her rival—just as she considers me her rival. Am I correct?”

Margaret was uncomfortable. “I am a prisoner here. I have no time for rivalry, just survival.”

Bruce laughed. “Well done!” he exclaimed. He turned to Alexander. “She is very charming, and it could not escape you. She is unusually beautiful, too—yet you have not extolled her beauty, not a single time.”

“I felt certain her beauty would not escape
you,
Robert,” Alexander said, taking up his wine. “There was thus no need.”

Margaret now sensed a tension between the two men. She was alarmed.

“It would certainly escape me if she were hidden in the kitchens,” Bruce said easily enough.

Her alarm increased. Had Alexander meant to keep her from Bruce, not so they might have privacy to discuss their war plans, but for other reasons? Bruce had not tried to hide his appreciation of her—and everyone knew he was a rogue when it came to the ladies.

“Lady Margaret does not know the meaning of
hide,
do ye, Lady Margaret?” Alexander murmured.

“I was hardly hiding in the kitchens.” She wanted to alleviate the tension. “I had hoped to be able to come down to dine with you, my lord,” she said to Bruce, “but preparing such a meal, in such haste, took a great deal of time.”

“It has been a long ride from Galloway, so I am pleased for every comfort, as are my men. Has Alexander allowed you to send word to Buchan?”

Her tension escalated. She glanced at Alexander. A warning look filled his eyes.

Where would Bruce lead? She swallowed. “No, but I received a missive from him the other day.”

Bruce’s brows lifted. “And were you pleased to hear from your dear uncle?”

She reminded herself that Buchan hated Bruce, as had their cousin Red John. Bruce seemed indifferent, but that could not be. “Of course I hoped to hear from him.”

“But you are not smiling, my dear, thus you are unhappy. If he did not say so, I will tell you myself—he is too busy plotting revenge against me, Lady Margaret, to concern himself with you.”

Margaret tried to smile. The upward curve of her lips felt ghastly. “He must see to the interests of the entire family.”

“But you are a valuable hostage—a valuable bride—and a part of the family’s great interests.”

She became terribly uncomfortable now. She looked at Alexander, and he seemed grim. She had the oddest feeling, as if being on a hook, twirling in the wind, knowing that at any moment, she would be cut free—to crash to the ground.

“Buchan is in Liddesdale as we speak. He meets with his friends, Mowbray and de Umfraville, to plan a war against me.” Bruce sipped his wine, entirely complacent, it seemed. “Unless Sir Guy bestirs himself to attack another time, I am afraid you will have to adjust to a lengthy period of captivity. And, of course, if Sir Guy returns to fight us, he must win.”

She clasped her hands in her lap, but glanced at Alexander. He was very still, but his gaze held hers for a moment. And she was very aware that Bruce had used the plural, “us,” instead of just referring to Alexander. “Alexander has made it clear he will not ransom me now. And my uncle also made it clear that I must have patience in these times of war. I have already imagined that I might be a hostage for far longer than I ever dreamed.”

Bruce saluted her with his glass. “You are very brave, but you proved that during the siege. You know, the news of your alliance with Sir Guy surprised me.”

She felt an impossible tension now.

“Your uncle—and your father—spent his life fighting the English, with your mother’s kin at their side. Yes, a truce was made betwixt us all last year, but then, so suddenly, Buchan chose Sir Guy for you.”

Alexander set his mug down, somewhat heavily. Margaret jumped. He said, “It is all politics.”

“Aye, but to marry one’s lifelong enemy? I cannot imagine.” Bruce refilled his cup, Alexander’s and a third one. He handed the latter to Margaret.

She clasped it but did not drink. “It turned out to be a fortunate alliance, did it not? As you are in rebellion, and we now find ourselves so firmly in King Edward’s camp.”

Bruce’s eyes widened. “Hurrah! I must say, well done yet again!”

Margaret did not feel that she had done anything well. In fact, she did not feel well, and she regretted disobeying Alexander and coming to the hall. She glanced at Alexander. Why had Bruce wished to point out that she was nothing but a pawn in her uncle’s political games? Why had he wished to suggest that her uncle did not care about her, except to use her for the family’s ends? Did he want to drive the spike of misery into her? Did he think to make her waver in her loyalties?

“Do you not like wine, Lady Margaret?” Bruce asked.

Margaret took a sip. “I like it very much.” She was ready to escape the table—thinking to outwit Bruce had been insane. “Will you be staying with us for very long, my lord?”

“I go to war tomorrow.” He smiled. “Will that please you?”

“I merely asked so I might know what meals to plan.”

“And you did not answer me, either.” His smile did not waver—neither did his stare.

“You might be Scotland’s next king. You have greatly affected our household.”

“I will be Scotland’s next king,” he said easily. “Before you take your leave, lady, you must tell me one thing. How does the Countess of Buchan fare?”

Margaret had just begun to stand up; she froze. And all she could think was, why would Bruce ask about Isabella? “I last saw her at Balvenie, before we left for Castle Fyne. She was as usual, my lord, in good spirits.”

He studied her for a moment. “You’re about the same age—are you friends?”

What kind of question was this? “We are friends.”

“Then you must know why she remains at Balvenie, whilst her husband plots against me with his allies in the south.”

“I do not know why she did not go south.”

Bruce sat back, glancing at Alexander. “Better the north than the south,” he said.

Margaret became alarmed. What did that remark mean?

“We will break the fast before dawn, Lady Margaret, but the fare should be light, as we will travel hard and fast on the morrow,” Bruce said.

It was a dismissal—and an abrupt one. Yet Margaret was relieved.

Alexander said, “Prepare my chamber for Bruce.”

Bruce would sleep in the chamber adjacent her own? She told herself she need not worry, but the reassurance felt like a hollow one. She nodded, trying to meet Alexander’s eye, but he refused to look up.

Both men were silent now. Clearly, they wanted her gone, so they could discuss the war—and the coronation.

Margaret curtsied and left. As she hurried away, a sinking feeling consumed her. Bruce had asked about Isabella, and she was afraid he meant to use her somehow, against Buchan, in his damned theft of the throne.

* * *

T
HE
FIRES
WERE
out, the kitchen cleaned. The castle had fallen silent, most of its inhabitants asleep. It was several hours after dinner, and Margaret was exhausted.

Her mind would not stop racing with all the information she had gleaned. Yet she could not form any definite conclusions. She wondered if Alexander would allow her to write Isabella. She doubted it.

And tomorrow he would berate her for her disobedience, she was certain. He might even punish her.

But if there was any chance that her friend was in danger of becoming Bruce’s pawn, she must warn her. Tomorrow she would visit William as she always did. If he had a plan to escape, it was time to learn of it.

Margaret went up the stairs toward her bedchamber. She was utterly fatigued, and she did not want to think anymore. She did not want to worry about Isabella, or Bruce, and she did not want to plot an escape. All of that could be done on the morrow.

But when she reached the upper landing, she tensed. She did not know when Bruce had gone up to his bed in Alexander’s chamber, and she had no reason to think that he might disturb her now, but she was anxious. All of Scotland knew that he was unfaithful to his wife a great deal of the time.

His door was closed; hers was open. She could see into her room—Eilidh had stoked the fire there and it blazed. Her fur coverlet had been pulled invitingly down on the bed. Exhaustion claimed her.

But before she could enter her chamber, Bruce’s door opened. Margaret froze as he stepped into the corridor.

He smiled.

She trembled.

“I can never sleep, not on the eve of war.”

“I am sorry,” she managed to say. He was clad only in his braies—the knee-length linen drawers favored by the English nobility. He was a very muscular man, with a hard, scarred body. She did not want to look at his rib cage or chest.

And from within her chamber, Eilidh turned and gaped at them.

“Why are you afraid of me? Is it because of Alexander? Or is it because I will be your king?” Bruce asked calmly.

Margaret was stricken. How should she respond? “All of Scotland speaks of you, my lord, and often. You are a legend, and rightly so.”

He grinned, leaning against the wall. “Do go on, Lady Margaret.”

“It is well-known that you adore the ladies, my lord, and that they adore you.”

He laughed. “And what is wrong with that?”

She would not point out that he had a wife! “I am intended to another.”

His smile faded. “Yes, you are—a poor deer, wide of eye, innocent and trusting, being led to the slaughter.”

Margaret was disbelieving. “I am proud to do my duty.”

“You should change your politics,” he said, his tone suddenly hard.

She stiffened.

“I will be Scotland’s next king. I will remember my friends. They will be rewarded—and well.”

She did not have to ask how he would treat his enemies. Had his statement been a threat?

“You do realize, Lady Margaret, that I can arrange for your freedom?”

She started, for such a remark was hardly insignificant. He continued, “Alexander is my vassal. I am his liege lord—I will be his king. If I command him to free you, he will do so. If I command him to return Castle Fyne to you, he will obey.”

Margaret heard her heart thundering in her ears. She wondered if Bruce heard it, too. But she already knew how much power he wielded—at least over those who followed him.

She wondered if Alexander would obey Bruce, should he order her release. She couldn’t be certain.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered.

He softened and smiled at her. “I am telling you this because I like you, Lady Margaret, just as I liked your mother. I admire courage and pride, loyalty and even defiance, in both men and women—even in the enemy.”