She trembled. Surely he meant that Sir Guy stood between him and Castle Fyne; surely he did not mean that Sir Guy stood between them.
And Alexander vanished into the night.
* * *
MARGARET REALIZED THAT she had finally dozed off. Instantly awake, she stared at the ceiling of the tent, as instantly aware that she was huddled up in Alexander’s covers upon his bed pallet.
It had been impossible to sleep once he had left. She had slid into his bed, and been consumed with his scent, and perhaps, what lingered of his presence. She had expected him to return with another pallet and share the tent with her, but he hadn’t done so. Although exhausted, she could not stop thinking about their conversation, the kiss they had shared and the impending battle.
But she had eventually dozed off. Now she realized that the camp outside his tent was coming to life; undoubtedly, his army was rousing itself and preparing for the battle to come. Margaret threw aside the covers, used a chamber pot, finger combed her hair and then braided it. A small pitcher of water was on the table, and she used a bit to wash her face and brush her teeth.
All this was done within minutes, as the sounds of horses and men outside the tent escalated. Her heart raced. Today was war.
Margaret threw on her mantle and fur and stepped outside. The dawn was gray and light, the camp a hive of activity, with men coming and going, horses being saddled and wagons being loaded, but she saw Alexander instantly.
He stood beside the huge fire pit outside his tent with three other men. He wore a chain mail tunic and mail leggings, his brat draped and pinned over his shoulders. Padraig and another Highlander stood with him, also clad in mail, furs draped upon their shoulders, and the third man was an armor-clad English soldier.
Her gaze veered across the fire pit to where another English soldier, also clad in armor and mail, held the first knight’s horse. Had Sir Guy sent a messenger to Alexander? And if so, why?
As she rushed forward, she wondered if word had gotten out that she was in the camp—and if Sir Guy was demanding her freedom.
Alexander turned before she reached him, either hearing or sensing her approach. His gaze skimmed over her, a habit she was now accustomed to.
“Good morning,” he said politely. “Did ye sleep well?”
“I slept perfectly well,” she lied. She turned to stare openly at the English knight. His helmet was down, and she met dark eyes set in a craggy and pale face.
“My opponent wishes fer a parley,” Alexander said.
Her eyes widened.
“Apparently he fears to engage me in battle a second time.” He gave her a significant look and placed his large body between her and the Englishman. “Tell Sir Guy I look forward to our meeting.”
The Englishman nodded, not even glancing at Margaret again before he strode to his horse. Her heart sank as he mounted—he did not suspect who she was. Clearly, Sir Guy had not been alerted to her presence, much less demanded her freedom. The pair of riders galloped off.
Alexander was speaking to Padraig very rapidly, in the land’s native tongue. Margaret spoke Gael, but his dialect was foreign to her—she could not really discern his words. Padraig nodded and he and the other Highlander hurried off.
Alexander slowly faced her. “I will bring a dozen knights, as he will, and we will meet in an hour in the glen just south of the mountain.”
Margaret did not even think about it, she seized his hand. “You must let me come with you!”
“So he can be stirred to undying loyalty by yer wit and beauty?” With sharp scrutiny, he pulled away.
“That would be a boon and I will not deny it, but you already know I do not wish to remain your prisoner,” she said. “But surely you wish to avoid further warfare? Surely, you do not want him to attack Castle Fyne. Maybe I can be of some help.”
“Ye will be of help, for I have already decided how to use ye, Lady Margaret. As it turns out, I want him to see ye—but for my ends, not yers.” He strode past her toward his tent.
He was going to allow her to attend the parley—and she would meet the man she would marry in June! Oh, what did he intend? Concerned, she rushed after him, all elation gone.
Alexander was outside his tent, sharpening one of his huge swords on a stone. She halted, instantly rigid, watching him. The blade screamed as he sawed it back and forth across the stone. She trembled as he straightened, sheathing the sword, finality in the motion. He then unsheathed his right-hand sword and sharpened it in an identical manner.
Watching him prepare for war was frightening. “How will you use me?” She heard how tremulous her tone sounded.
“Ye need to quickly eat, we are leaving shortly,” he said, striding past her.
Clearly, he had no intention of answering. She followed him but he was moving so quickly now that she could not keep up. He ordered someone to give her food, and a moment later she found herself with bread and cheese in hand, Alexander gone. A young Scot about her age faced her.
Margaret looked at him, unsmiling. All around them Alexander’s men were moving to and fro, most loading wagons and carts with canon, catapults, rocks and missiles.
