And then he looked at her, once. The look was hard and ugly—he would return. He leapt from the bed and strode across the chamber. And then he was gone.
For one more moment, Margaret still could not move.
And then her thoughts began. She had been given a respite—and it was the miracle she had prayed for.
Margaret leapt forward, seizing and shrugging on the leine as rapidly as possible. And then, about to run for the door, she collapsed by the wall, tears blinding her. She began to shake, wildly, uncontrollably. And she began to retch.
He had meant to rape her.
She gasped and gagged, hugging herself, in a ball, on the floor.
* * *
WHEN WILLIAM’S FEVER broke, it was dawn.
Margaret was disbelieving as she clasped his damp, cool brow. For until that moment, he had been burning up with a raging fever. But he was suddenly cool now—the fever was gone.
Was it another miracle?
Silently, she closed her eyes and thanked God.
When she opened them, she saw her brother, resting peacefully. Pale morning light was streaming into the chamber. She had been sitting with him ever since she had left Sir Guy’s chamber—when Aymer’s messenger had arrived. She had spent the past few hours keeping compresses with icy lake water on his body, forcing him to drink, and alternately begging him to get better. Doing so had made it easier for her not to think about what Sir Guy had tried to do—or what he might try to do another time.
Now, she grasped her brother’s damp, cool hand, hard. “Will! You have beaten the fever!” She raised it to her mouth and kissed it.
His lashes lifted and fell.
She leaned close and kissed his temple. “It is I, Margaret. You have been ill with fever—fighting an infection. We are at Castle Fyne.”
Will’s lashes rose again, and this time, blearily and without focus, he looked at her. “Meg?”
Before she could respond, she heard the door open. She stiffened, not turning as her stomach roiled, as dread consumed her, as fear laid its icy claws upon her.
Sir Guy said, “He will live?”
She inhaled, summoning up all of the strength and courage she had. Determined to pretend their previous encounter had not happened, she turned to him. “Yes, I believe so.”
His gaze moved over her before he glanced at William briefly. He was unshaven and bleary of eye; clearly, he had been up all night, also. “King Edward has appointed my brother Lord Lieutenant of Scotland.”
Margaret stared, keeping her expression blank. There had been talk of Aymer de Valence being given command of Scotland for months. She did not know how it affected her, Alexander or the war against Bruce, but it certainly gave Sir Guy great power. Had he been called away? How she hoped so. How she prayed it was so!
“Why are you not pleased? My brother now the might of England here! I will become one of the most powerful lords in Scotland, Margaret. You will become one of its reigning ladies.”
They would never be man and wife, not if she could help it. “Then this is a fortunate turn.”
“It is very fortunate—but not unexpected. Aymer is one of King Edward’s favorites—as he should be. Bruce cannot go up against my brother and win.”
Margaret stared expressionlessly—she wanted nothing more than to have Robert Bruce defeat Aymer—and Sir Guy.
Her loyalties had changed. There was no further doubt now.
The English were the enemy; Sir Guy was the enemy.
Her tension escalated impossibly at the realization.
Sir Guy glanced briefly at William again, who was watching them both as he listened to their conversation. “I must take my army back to Berwick to join my brother and his forces there. But when you are well enough, I imagine you will wish to return to Balvenie, or join us in this war.”
She trembled, praying for another miracle—his immediate departure.
