His stare darkened. “We’re on opposing sides of a great war, but yer not my enemy.”
She inhaled, their gazes locked. She simply could not comprehend him, but he was fierce. It suddenly occurred to her that, if he hadn’t attacked her castle, even though on opposing sides of such a war, they could be friends. But she did not say so.
“And yer in my care. If I can advise ye, I will.” He had softened. “I must go, Lady Margaret.” He hesitated, his stare piercing. “It would please me greatly if ye dinna wish me dead.”
She stiffened. He was going to war. He might be defeated. He might even be killed. And that prospect should thrill her. Instead, she felt nothing but worry and dismay.
She said, very slowly, and choosing her words with great care, “I cannot wish you well, Alexander.”
He did not make a sound, but she thought she saw disappointment flaring in his eyes.
She added, “But I do not wish you ill.”
* * *
MARGARET STOOD ON the bottom steps, gazing out into the great hall. How empty it now was.
Alexander had ridden out of the keep hours ago, astride his gray stallion, followed by his forty mounted knights. Margaret had watched from a window in the south tower as they rode through the entry tower and then the barbican, the MacDonald colors waving high above them. Outside the castle’s walls, the rest of his army had fallen into place behind him—first several more columns of mounted knights, and then hundreds upon hundreds of Highland foot soldiers.
She had watched him until he disappeared from view, as the path they traveled vanished into the forest, and then she had watched for another two hours, until his entire army was gone. And only then had she turned away from the window.
She stared into the empty great room. It was almost as if something were amiss with them gone. She almost expected to hear the clatter of spurs and the clank of swords and shields, as Alexander and his men filed in.
But they would not be returning from battle at this early evening hour. Alexander had probably attacked that afternoon—the march to the northernmost tip of the loch was only a few hours—or he might have decided to wait and attack tomorrow in the morning. Margaret wished she had asked. But he probably would not have told her his battle plans, anyway—no matter what he had said, she was his enemy.
Peg came into the hall and glanced at her, carrying a platter. Margaret had banished her to the kitchens before Alexander had even ridden away, so she could spend the day slaving over the hot ovens—so she could repent her sins. Thus far, Margaret had been ignoring the pain of her betrayal all day. It wasn’t that easy at this late hour.
They had been close for most of their lifetimes. There were memories now, of the times they had shared as children—of running barefoot through a hillside blooming with wildflowers, or riding double, bareback, and falling off, of skipping over wet stones in a bubbling brook.
And they had grown to womanhood together, through both the trials and triumphs of emerging from adolescence. There had been laughter and tears. Peg had always been there, when her brothers had not come home from war, when Mary had become sick and passed away, when her father had gone out riding, never to return.... When Margaret had received the news that Buchan had arranged a marriage for her to an English knight, Peg had helped her get to her room, for Margaret had been overcome by shock.
The ache in Margaret’s chest had been there all day, but it was bubbling up now, more insistently.
“Will ye eat?” Peg asked, her tone and manner subdued.
Margaret glanced at her and nodded. Peg had been reduced from being a great lady’s maid to a kitchen maid— a great fall, indeed. Yet Margaret felt no satisfaction. For a part of her hated seeing Peg like this. A part of her wanted for them to embrace, and she would then forgive her, take her back—trust her.
But Margaret knew better. She could not ignore her disloyalty. She could not pretend that it hadn’t happened. She had to protect herself from any such future betrayal. Alexander had been right.
“Will ye forgive me, now?” Peg asked. “I am hot, dirty, tired, I have suffered greatly, all day, as ye have wished for me to do.”
Margaret looked up and their gazes met. “Even if I forgive you, I cannot take you back.”
“How can ye be so cruel?” Peg cried.
“I am not trying to be cruel. You were disloyal to me.”
Peg shook her head. “Yer mother would forgive me! She would have understood!”
Margaret set the knife she had picked up aside. She would not let Peg use Mary to manipulate her now. “You betrayed me. I cannot trust you. I cannot allow you to serve me as my maid.”
“Maybe, if ye ever wanted a man, ye would not be so noble.” Peg turned and rushed out.
She wanted to cry, feeling crushed by heartache and loss. Instead, she sipped her wine. She knew the wine would eventually dull the grief.
Sometime later, another maid came into the hall, a small, dark-haired girl with very fair skin, who was probably close to Margaret in age. Margaret recognized her as one of the kitchen maids and she was asked if the plate could be removed.
“Yes, I am finished.”
