“Ye should rest. Go lie down, Margaret, as I have a great deal to do.”
“How can I rest—when I am so worried?”
“I will turn the English back,” he said fiercely. “Sir Guy is a coward, and tomorrow, ye will see as much.”
Once again, she thought of how much the two men hated one another, and of the vows they had made. “If only there were a way to negotiate!” she cried. “If only there were a way to avoid all the bloodshed and death!” And if only there was a way to ensure that Alexander and Sir Guy did not come face-to-face. Yet that was unlikely, and she knew it.
“This is war. I must take Castle Fyne back.” His blue eyes had never been as hard, as dark.
She stared unhappily at him.
“Come, Margaret. We both ken ye dinna wish to marry him now. We both ken ye’d rather I win the keep.”
In that moment, she knew what her heart wished—it finally, truly wished for Alexander to defeat Sir Guy, for him to retake her castle! “Yes,” she whispered.
“Of all of us, ye ken how much Sir Guy lusts fer Castle Fyne. No matter the size of my army, he willna surrender now. There is nothing to negotiate,” Alexander added, his expression hard and set, his tone final. Then, “Yer dismayed. Why?”
“You always speak the truth.” She could not smile. “What if the battle does not go well?”
“It will go well.” He was even more adamant now. “I won Castle Fyne and it is mine. And I want ye, Margaret, as my wife. I will have both.”
She met his intent gaze. Just then, it was impossible to think he would not succeed in attaining his ambitions.
Alexander suddenly stiffened. Margaret realized that he was listening to the sounds of the impending night, and then she heard approaching hoofbeats. A rider was coming into their camp at a reckless gallop—but why?
Alexander’s expression changed and he turned toward the sound, as did Margaret. A horseman approached from the west. The direction of Castle Fyne.
“I sent my spies ahead this morning,” Alexander said tersely. He started toward the horseman, who was now trotting through the makeshift tents and standing men.
Margaret quickly followed Alexander, although she could not keep up with him. Padraig appeared from some other corner of the camp, as did several more of his most trusted Highlanders. She tried to increase her pace, now outdistanced, as Alexander reached up and seized the spy’s bridle.
She lifted her skirts and ran, staggering somewhat. By the time she reached the group of men, Alexander’s face was dark with anger. “What is it? What has happened?”
He slowly turned, his blue eyes aflame. “We’re too late.”
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“He breached the gates hours ago—Castle Fyne has fallen.”
Margaret felt as if she had been struck in the chest. Her mind began to race.
Sir Guy had Castle Fyne—finally. She trembled, suddenly ill. Oh, God, now what should she do? She could not marry him, not for her family, and not even to get her legacy back! But he had just positioned himself in such a manner that she might have no choice. She flinched, tears arising, and met Alexander’s burning gaze.
“I will not let ye go to him.” His tone was hard, but controlled. It was a warning. “Ye will not return to Balvenie.”
She breathed hard. She didn’t want to go to Sir Guy! But did he deny her freedom now?
She rubbed her temples, trying to sort through this new, terrible crisis. “Will we now attempt a siege? You besieged the keep once—and you triumphed.”
It was a moment before he spoke. “We besieged the keep when there were but forty or fifty men within. Sir Guy has a huge army.”
His meaning dawned. “You will not attempt a siege?” She was disbelieving.
“There is no time,” he said, fists clenched.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
Alexander strode to her. “I was to defend the castle—and return to join Bruce. He needs me and my army in the north.”
