She shivered, as it began to dawn upon her—she was not just in an army camp, and on the verge of battle, she was about to attend a meeting between the leaders of the two armies—one man her betrothed, the other, her captor. Her tension had risen when she had seen Alexander taking his blades to that stone; now, it became unbearable.
“I’m Dughall,” the blond lad said. “Ye had better eat. The Wolf said so.”
Margaret ate, not because she was hungry, but because she knew a long day was ahead. Dughall did not speak; he simply stared, very openly, as if she were a great curiosity. She wondered if Dughall had learned of her identity, but she was too preoccupied to ask.
He handed her a flask.
She shook her head. “I prefer water.”
“The water here isn’t fit for drinking.”
Margaret realized that the army had spoiled the water in the river, so she took the flask and drank what she could. The wine had been watered down previously, so it wasn’t as strong as she had expected.
She was almost finished when she heard the horses approaching, an unnerving clatter of myriad hooves upon the cold road—and a reminder of what they were about. She tensed and looked past Dughall.
Alexander was astride his gray charger, leading the cavalcade. He paused before her, his blue gaze cold and hard.
Her heart lurched. He was a warrior now, intent upon war and victory. It was hard to believe that last night they had had a sensible conversation—or shared that kiss.
But did she not already know how ruthless he was? How clever? He might be attending a parley, but he had his own ambitions. He would not be easily thwarted. She knew it for a fact.
Yesterday, when Alexander had ridden off to battle, she had not been able to wish him ill. She could not wish him ill now, either. Yet she prayed for Sir Guy’s victory.
His regard remained riveted on her. “We’re leaving, Lady Margaret. Ye can mount.”
She gazed past him. Padraig was astride a red steed just behind him. He was leading a small gray mare, which was apparently her mount. A dozen Highland knights were with them, clad in mail and fur.
Margaret tucked her uneaten portion in the pocket of her mantle, hurrying to her mare. Dughall went with her and helped her up. She took up the reins with both hands, as Padraig released them. The auburn-haired Highlander asked, “Can ye ride?”
Margaret nodded.
Alexander whirled his mount and started forward at a fast trot; everyone followed.
It was two good hours past dawn now, but the day remained gray and bright. Margaret looked from Alexander’s broad shoulders to the sky above. It was going to snow, she thought, shivering. Was that good or bad, as far as the impending battle went?
She simply did not know. And as they left the camp behind, the shadow of Cruach Nan Cuilean fell over them, making the morning darker and colder.
Her nerves made her stomach hurt and her head ache. Margaret wondered what Sir Guy wanted. Did he truly wish to negotiate a peace now, after one single battle? Surely, he had not given up on Castle Fyne—on her. Or was this treachery on his part? Perhaps he had laid a trap for Alexander.
She then realized that, if they were riding into a trap, she would be amongst Sir Guy’s victims. Of course, he did not know she was present.
Her gaze found Alexander’s tall, broad-shouldered form again. He would not be easily tricked and trapped. And she would soon find out just what Sir Guy intended—and what Alexander intended, as well.
Suddenly she saw the blur of the approaching Englishmen. Above them two banners waved. They became more visible, as did the armored knights and their horses, as they came closer. One banner was the red royal banner, the other blue and white, belonging to the great de Valence family.
Her heart thundered now. She could see the men who were approaching, although not well. Their visors were up. All eyes were trained upon them. She wondered which knight was Sir Guy.
When the distance of a great hall separated them, Alexander threw up his hand, abruptly halting them. But Sir Guy and his men had halted, too.
Margaret remained in the midst of the other men as Alexander and Padraig rode slowly forward, at a walk. Two of the Englishmen met them.
Her heart exploded as she stared at the two English knights, for one was heavyset and she instantly identified the other as Sir Guy. His beard was gray. He was of medium height and build, with a swarthy complexion so common amongst the French. He remained at a distance, but she could see he was a fine figure of a man.
She was gazing at her future husband, and he, of course, was unaware of her presence—or even of who she was. She did not know what to think.
“Good morning, Sir Guy,” Alexander said, his tone cool. “I am sorry we meet under such circumstances.”
“You’re sorry?” Sir Guy sounded angry and incredulous. “No one is sorrier than I am!”
