“Will!” Margaret rushed inside to kneel beside him, taking his hands.
Peg said, “I will get warm water and lye soap.”
“Bring clean linens,” Margaret said, not looking away from her brother.
His lashes fluttered and she called out to him again, now holding his hand and stroking his face. “Dear brother, it is I, Margaret. Wake up!”
William moaned and looked blearily at her. “Meg?”
“You are awake! I am here to take care of you now.” She was so afraid that when she removed the bandages, she would find an infection. She could not bear it if Will died.
“Where am I? What happened?” he asked hoarsely.
“The Wolf has taken Castle Fyne. We are his prisoners.”
His eyes flew wide now. “Are you all right?”
“He hasn’t hurt me, nor will he—I am his hostage. But I lost, Will, I lost this place, and it is now in MacDonald hands.” She did not want to tell him about the impending executions. He was ill, and she wanted him to use his strength to heal, not worry.
“We will retake it. Buchan will come, or maybe, Sir Guy.” His lashes fluttered, as if he did not have the strength to keep his eyes open. “He did not hurt you?”
“Don’t worry about me—I am under guard, but otherwise, I have been treated with the utmost respect.” That was actually the truth, she thought.
“I know you—stubborn, and now defiant.” He opened his eyes again and stared. “Don’t defy him, Meg. Wait for Buchan to come.”
She managed a smile and it felt ghastly. She would not tell him about the death of their cousin Red John Comyn, either, or the rebellion of Robert Bruce. He needed not worry about those things. “I am not defying him,” she said. And that was the truth, too—now.
He seemed doubtful. “You are probably plotting an escape...don’t. Wait for rescue, Meg.” His voice had become so weak that she had to lean close to hear him. Eyes closed, he said, “Did we get a messenger out before the castle fell?”
She was aware now of Alan, hovering some small distance behind her and listening to their every word. “Malcolm sent two young Scots, just before the siege.”
“Good!” His eyes opened and his words were hard with satisfaction as he spoke. “Argyll and Buchan will come, sooner, not later.”
Margaret managed to smile, still holding his hand. “You shouldn’t speak, you should rest.” Peg finally returned, rushing into the room with soap, a bowl of water and linens. “I am going to clean your wounds and change the bandages.”
William did not respond, and Margaret set to work.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER, Margaret hurried into the great hall, where she found Alexander. Both tables were entirely occupied by his men; they were finishing breakfast. The tables were littered with plates piled with unfinished crusts, fish carcasses and meat bones. Conversation was rampant. As she rushed in, every man present turned her way and the room silenced.
She slowed her urgent stride, aware of thirty or more pairs of eyes upon her—the gazes of his men, her foes. From the head of one table, Alexander regarded her also, his expression impassive and impossible to read.
She approached him and curtsied.
“How fares your brother?”
“Not well.” She met his gaze, unsmiling. “He lost far too much blood. I cleaned both wounds, and I am very concerned. He is weak, my lord, and while there is no infection yet, we both know that one could set in shortly. The next few days are crucial.”
“I am sorry he was wounded.”
She tensed, because she was fairly certain he did not care about her brother, except as another useful hostage. “I am excellent with herbs and potions. I learned how to attend a great many maladies and war wounds from my mother. Now I must hope that the salves I have used were not used too late.”
He studied her. “Is that an accusation? My own man tended him yesterday, Lady Margaret, and as ye have said, he has no infection.”
She had been accusatory, but that would not get her anywhere. “I am grateful you had someone clean his wounds and bandage them. I am grateful you did not leave him to die.”
“Ye remain the worst liar. Yer not grateful, and yer sick with fear.”
