Suddenly a squire tapped upon Isabella’s shoulder. Isabella whirled, relief written all over her face. “Will you come with me, Countess?” the boy asked politely.
Bruce was sending for her, Margaret thought, amazed. Never mind that he was upstairs—as was his queen.
“I must go,” Isabella cried, hugging her. Her eyes were bright—shining. Then she dashed off, the squire behind her.
Dread began. There would be no discretion then, between the king and his lover?
Christina Seton paused before her, unsmiling. “You are a very fortunate woman.”
“It is late, Lady Seton. Can we spar another time?”
“My brother is a fool, to allow you to return to Buchan after you have been with us! But Alexander has somehow convinced him you will not harm us. I do not believe it, not for a moment!”
Margaret realized Christina wasn’t hateful, she was afraid. “I have no secrets to tell,” she said.
“I worry for my husband and my brother every day.” She whirled and hurried away.
Margaret bit her lip, suddenly filled with compassion and understanding—how could she not be? She worried every bit as much about Alexander. And as she had that thought, he caught her arm from behind.
She turned, her heart slamming. “My leaving doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“One day, ye will realize ye changed yer loyalties long ago, and ye now live a charade.” He was unsmiling and grim. “Let us hope that day isn’t a day too late.”
She took his unyielding hand. “Is it true? Did you have to convince Bruce to let me return home?”
“He wants us wed.” He glanced down at their locked hands. “He thinks I’m a fool.”
“Then how did you ever manage to persuade him?”
“He needs my sword and he needs my men. He needs my brothers and their armies.” His grasp suddenly tightened. “I am trying not to be angry, because I ken ye so well. It is late. Let’s go to bed. We leave early on the morrow.”
Her heart raced. Even such a strong disagreement could not diminish the attraction and affection they shared. And they had so little time, she thought, gripping his hand more tightly. She didn’t want to even ask when she would next see him again.
She heard rushed footsteps, and then someone was calling Alexander’s name as the front doors to the abbey slammed. Padraig’s son and the messenger, Seoc, rushed into the hall, his brat dusted with snowflakes.
She felt frozen. Hadn’t Seoc come from Castle Fyne?
Alexander hurried to him. “What has happened?” he demanded.
Seoc was muddy, damp and breathing hard. “My lord! Castle Fyne is under attack.”
Margaret felt the floor tilt. Sir Guy had finally attacked.
“Is it Sir Guy?” Alexander demanded.
“Aye, and he has two or three thousand men and perhaps a hundred knights!”
Margaret could not breathe. Sir Guy was no fool, oh, no! He probably knew she was with Alexander, and perhaps even at Scone with Scotland’s new king!
Alexander was already striding past her, toward the stairs. Margaret rushed after him, tripping in her haste. He did not stop for her, hurrying up them with long strides. Lifting her skirts, she followed.
And at the top of the steps, two huge Highlanders barred his way. Both were heavily armed.
“I must speak with the king,” Alexander said. “I have urgent news.”
Panting, Margaret paused behind Alexander as one guard went to the first closed door and knocked upon it. “A messenger has come, Your Majesty, and Alexander MacDonald says he must speak with you!”
A brief moment passed. But then the door opened, revealing Bruce, barefoot and in a simple leine. His hair was disheveled, his color high. Margaret could see past him into a large chamber, illuminated by the fire within. Isabella lay there in its bed, amidst the blankets, which were loosely draped about her obviously naked body, her long hair loose and flowing about her bare shoulders.
