She leapt to her feet. “I cannot have gossip about us reaching Buchan and Sir Guy.”
He steadied her instantly, reached down and handed her clothing to her. He did not reply, and she wondered if that meant the gossip would soon reach Buchan and Sir Guy.
Margaret watched him for a moment as he began to don his belts and swords. Her heart was thundering, partly from desire, and partly from fear. She was afraid of the extent of the affection she felt for him.
She did not want to fall in love with Alexander MacDonald. That would be a terrible twist of fate. If she ever realized that she loved him, surely, she would have to decide where her loyalties lay—for the very last time.
“You said Will would understand if I told him how I felt.” She shook her head. “I think you are wrong. I think he would be furious.”
Alexander came over to her. “There is one way to find out.”
She gasped. “You will take me to him?”
“If he gives ye his blessing, will ye then accept me as yer husband?”
She began shaking her head. “Even if he did, we are at war!”
“If we were not at war, would ye marry me?”
Margaret went still. She owed him the truth. She owed it to herself.
In that moment, she knew that if this war ended, she would beg her uncle to accept him as her husband, never mind the feud between their clans.
“I would try to make amends with everyone first, but yes, Alexander, if we were not at war, I would wish to marry you,” she said.
He smiled at her with hard satisfaction.
“But we are at war! And we remain at an impasse, Alexander.”
“Do we? I think not.”
March 26, 1306—Scone Abbey
SCONE ABBEY ROSE so abruptly out of the mists that their horses shied.
Margaret had been riding beside Alexander, with Isabella at her other side. They were behind three Highlanders who had led the way since dawn that morning. The horses in front of them were taken by surprise at the sudden sight of the pale stone ahead, and they leapt wildly aside. Margaret’s mare reared, as the bells in the abbey watchtowers began to ring.
Alexander reached down to seize Margaret’s reins. As he halted her prancing mare, the bells kept tolling above them.
Margaret glanced at Isabella, to make certain she was well. Her mount was also at a standstill, for Dughall was with her. The three foremost men had all halted their unruly chargers, too.
“Scone,” Alexander quietly said.
Margaret had never been to Scone before, much less the centuries-old abbey. Massive walls seemed to stretch endlessly before them, behind which a huge central tower soared, a spire atop it. And alongside the spire a great yellow flag waved, a red dragon in its midst.
“It is done,” Alexander said, sounding savagely pleased. “Bruce is king.”
For one moment, Margaret stared at the yellow flag, transfixed. They were late. A terrible storm had made travel impossible for almost an entire day. Bruce had been crowned yesterday anyway.
She glanced at her friend, who had been staring up at the flag, too, her eyes wide with disbelief. Margaret suddenly realized the implications of Bruce being crowned as planned on March 25th. Isabella had not been part of the ceremony; she had not betrayed her husband, or her king!
Before elation could take hold, Alexander stood in his stirrups and signaled the fifty or so men behind him. Then he turned to face forward, but he glanced at her, briefly smiling before spurring his horse over to Isabella. “Countess. If ye will join me?”
Margaret tensed, watching as Isabella and Alexander rode together, side by side, up the road. The front doors of the entry tower were slowly opening. She suddenly worried about Bruce, remembering his intimidating presence. Would he be angry with Alexander for their late arrival?
Margaret rode through the entry tower with Dughall, keeping their mounts to a sedate walk. Their horses’ hooves echoed on the cobbled stone in the archway.
It felt eerie. She glanced up at the vaulted ceilings above them, feeling trapped.
