Sir Guy looked at her, a mug of wine in his hands. He did not stand. But his gaze skimmed her bloodstained gown.
“I apologize for my appearance, Sir Guy,” Margaret said, refusing to enter the hall. Everyone else within it was sleeping upon their pallets, except for two serving maids. They hovered not far from Sir Guy.
“Is your brother alive?”
Margaret tensed. She did not think Sir Guy cared whether William lived or died. “Yes. But he has lost a great deal of blood and an infection has set in.”
“Do you think he will live?”
“He will live,” Margaret flared, and then she reminded herself to hold her emotions in check.
Sir Guy slowly stood. “If you are angry, be angry with MacDonald, not me. His men delivered the blow to your brother’s leg, not mine.”
She trembled. Of course William had been fighting with Sir Guy, against Alexander, to liberate the keep. Yet she hadn’t had time to dwell on that fact.
“And William was only here because MacDonald refused to ransom him,” Sir Guy added with a slight smile.
Was he trying to drive a wedge between her and Alexander? Yet why would he even think to do so? He did not know they were anything other than a captor and a captive. But he did speak the truth. If Alexander had ransomed William—or simply freed him—he would not have remained at Castle Fyne, and he would not be fighting for his life now. “William has been a prisoner here since February. As soon as he is well, I would like to send him home to Balvenie.”
“Are you asking my permission?” Sir Guy seemed surprised. “I am lord here, but I am not lord over your brother. I already sent word to Buchan, by the way, telling him of my conquest, and of Will being wounded.”
She wished he hadn’t done so. “Then we will hear from him in return.” She forced a smile. “Sir Guy, I must beg you to dismiss me. We rode for two days straight, and then I tended my brother. I am exhausted, I must change my clothes—and then I wish to stay with William. He needs my care.”
Sir Guy smiled oddly. “We have a great deal to discuss, Lady Margaret. If you wish to change your soiled gown, you may do so later.” He gestured. “Sit down.”
It was not a request, nor was it uttered as one. Margaret felt her heart lurch with dismay, and she slowly crossed the room. Sir Guy did not move, his stare unwavering upon her. When she sat, he poured wine from a vessel into a mug and handed it to her. Then he glanced at one of the maids, standing nervously in the corner, and ordered food for her.
Margaret stared grimly at her wine, as Sir Guy sat down on the bench beside her. “There is great talk in the land,” he said.
She tensed, but not because his big thigh was against hers. She looked up at him, praying gossip of her affair had not reached him.
His gray gaze was steady upon hers. “Bruce was crowned king at Scone,” he said flatly. It was not a question.
Was she to admit having been there? She had come with Alexander, so of course she would have been there.
“Not once, but twice,” he continued, almost softly. “Will you deny it? Will you deny being a witness to the coronation?”
She held her mug now tightly with two hands. “No.”
“And the Countess of Buchan led him to the throne?”
She inhaled. So the news was out. “Yes.”
Sir Guy smiled. “They say MacDonald came for her in the middle of the night, that he took her directly from her own bed.”
She was shaking now. “Yes, that is what happened.”
“They say she was not forced—they say she was more than willing.”
She wet her lips and shook her head. “No.”
“No?” His brows lifted.
She must lie for Isabella, she thought, feeling desperate. “Bruce meant to use her no matter what, Sir Guy. She decided to cooperate. She did not have a choice!”
He studied her. “The gossip is vicious, Lady Margaret, truly vicious. They say she was thrilled to crown him...and that she shares his bed.”
Margaret looked helplessly at him.
