“I am not a lackey to be bullied about,” she said tartly. Then she softened. “Will. Poor Isabella. She has ruined her life. I am her friend. She needs me!”
He sighed. “She is a fool as well as a strumpet.”
“Will!”
“It’s the truth.” Then his stare became searching. “Is that the only letter you are writing?”
“I already wrote Buchan.” She had written their uncle the day Sir Guy had left—and not just to defend Isabella. She had asked him if she could return to Balvenie with William. Remaining at Castle Fyne, awaiting—and dreading—Sir Guy’s return, was impossible. And once there, she would reveal that she could no longer marry Sir Guy—and perhaps, she might even reveal why.
And once at Balvenie, she would be somewhat free of Sir Guy—she would not be his prisoner—and she would be so much closer to the war...and to Alexander.
Buchan had not yet replied. But she had heard rumors of the war. Bruce was in the north, causing havoc. He had attacked Dundee, and then gone on to besiege a series of castles near Banff. He was taking hostages, holding up merchants and demanding excessive ransoms—mostly to finance his war.
And one of her uncles was a victim. The Earl of Strathearn had refused to levy men for him. Bruce and Atholl had thus captured him.
* * *
HER BROTHER WAS now studying her. “There is one subject that has not arisen since I have become well,” he finally said.
She froze in alarm. He had not asked her about Alexander, not a single time, and she had thought he had not remembered their conversation, as he had been so ill when they had spoken.
Now, she had the uncanny feeling he was about to raise the very subject. “Do you really wish to converse now, at midnight?”
He came forward, sitting down awkwardly on the bench by the table. “Yes, I do, as I have been in bed far too much these past weeks. You know, Meg, I have not been able to decide if I dreamed this very strange conversation I keep recalling.”
He did remember, she thought grimly. Margaret sat back down, picked up the vellum and blew carefully on it.
He caught her wrist. “Why do you hate and fear Sir Guy? What happened?”
Though she was relieved he was not asking about Alexander, that ill feeling instantly returned. Since Sir Guy had left, she had refused to think about that violent encounter. She refused to do so now. “You don’t like him, either, and you never have. He is English. It is that simple.”
His smile was self-deprecating. “But we need him now. We need the damned English now. We must defeat Bruce.”
Why? She wanted to ask. Would Robert Bruce be such a terrible king? But she refrained. For she knew his answer. Bruce hated the Comyn family. His gain would be their reversal.
“Did you tell me that you were in love?” William asked seriously. “Did I really have such a conversation with you?”
So he recalled it, after all. She wished she could lie to him and deny it. But she could not; Margaret nodded.
He began shaking his head. “MacDonald? Our blood enemy?”
“Our aunt Juliana married Alexander’s brother,” Margaret said.
He was dismayed. “You are not Juliana! He rides with Bruce!”
“I know. Do you think I wanted to fall in love with him?” She reached out and took his hand, gripping it tightly. “He attacked my castle. He took it from me. He held me prisoner. Of course I did not want to fall in love with him!” Margaret cried.
Her brother simply stared.
“He is a great warrior, William, and a courageous and honorable man.”
His eyes were wide. “You truly are in love.”
She nodded, then felt herself flushing. “I came here because I was afraid you would die. But I am in danger, Will. I am in danger from Sir Guy, if he ever learns the truth.”
William blanched. “You have slept with him.”
She nodded. “I love him and we were lovers.”
