She flinched. “I will never be an English wife—I will be an Englishman’s wife.”
He laughed, but the sound was mirthless. “’Tis the same. If ye wed Sir Guy, ye will become his wife, and ye’ll lose all yer rights—ye’ll be as English as he is, fighting his wars, against me, against Bruce.”
Margaret did not speak, for he had just verbalized her worst fears.
He then hardened. “Do ye really believe he can defeat me?”
Margaret hugged her mantle closer. A terrible battle loomed—in the midst of a terrible war. She was frightened—but there was more than just her fear of the siege to come. She simply couldn’t identify her emotions as she stared at him. “I will pray for your defeat.”
“And will ye pray for my death?”
“I pray for no man’s death,” she said. But hadn’t she once wished him dead, before the siege?
She should wish him dead now—but she simply couldn’t. Shaken, she whispered, “When will Sir Guy attack?”
“He will not attack. I ride out at dawn, lady.”
“What?”
“He will not attack here—I will attack him—at Loch Riddon.”
CHAPTER SIX
MARGARET PACED, ALONE in her bedchamber, aware of darkness settling over the hills and forests outside. When Peg slipped into the chamber, she whirled and rushed to her. “Sir Guy is marching on us,” she cried. “Clearly, he intends to free Castle Fyne.”
Peg paled. “Will there be another siege?”
“Alexander intends to meet him at Loch Riddon—he intends to be the attacker, not the attacked.” This was why he was such a mighty warrior, she thought grimly, turning and pacing again. She did not have to know very much about warfare to realize that attacking gave one an advantage.
“I am glad we won’t have to suffer another siege,” Peg said. “And ye may have yer English husband, after all.”
Margaret looked sharply at her—her tone was strange. Peg was opposed to the union, and she had been blunt about it the other day.
So much had happened since she had arrived at Castle Fyne—her entire life had been turned upside down. She was a dutiful woman—a dutiful daughter and niece. Of course she meant to do as her uncle ordered. She knew she was fortunate, that he had arranged a good marriage for her. But she was reluctant to wed Sir Guy, though he might be the one to liberate her.
She suddenly wondered if deep within herself, a tiny part of her wished for his defeat.
There would never be a union, then.
“Does he ride for war at dawn on the morrow?” Peg asked, interrupting her thoughts.
She jerked. “Yes.” She shook herself free of such absurd feelings. She wanted Castle Fyne back, even if it meant that she would marry an Englishman. She was the lady of Castle Fyne—and that was more important than anything else.
Margaret picked up her mantle. “Is he in the hall, still?”
Peg hesitated, seeming uncertain. “Yes. Why?”
“I wish to speak with William. If we did not have that guard outside, I would simply wait for him to go to bed, and attempt to steal into Will’s chamber. But Alan remains—so I will have to ask him for permission.”
“He will deny you,” Peg said, taking off her shoes and sitting on the bed. She began to unbraid her long auburn hair.
Margaret was afraid of that, as well. “William needs to know what passes, and I need to see him now that he is better.” She also needed to confide in him.
“Maybe ye should just rest, and retire for the night? Ye can speak with Will another time.” Peg began finger combing her curls, not looking at her.
Peg’s behavior was odd. “Is something amiss?”
The maid flinched. “No.” She smiled, but it seemed strained.
