A pair of fur-clad Highland knights on black steeds led the way, followed by a half a dozen other warriors, one of whom held the Donald banner. The dark-blue-and-black MacDonald flag whipped in the wind, high above their heads, with its red dragon clawing the blue field in its midst.
Then she saw his gray stallion in the middle of the cavalcade. Her grasp on the wall tightened.
They were inside the barbican now, and approaching the drawbridge, which had been lowered.
Alexander was so tall that even in the middle of his men, his head and shoulders were visible, his dark hair flying in the wind.
She realized tears had arisen. I am overtired, she thought. Surely she was not evincing undue concern for the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.
Aware of how disloyal she was being in thinking she might not have to wed Sir Guy now, she stood very still, until Alexander was on the drawbridge and passing beneath the entry tower, almost directly beneath her. She took a long moment to compose herself.
Margaret turned and went back across the ramparts to the north tower, but more slowly. As she went downstairs, she could hear the men in the hall, their conversation loud and raucous—the sounds satisfied and pleased.
She reached the great hall and looked across it. Some three dozen knights were within, a great many bearing bloodstains upon their clothes, some wearing bloody bandages, one being helped onto a pallet. No one seemed unscathed, yet everyone was smiling, mugs were raised, and the women of the castle were in attendance. Laughter was sprinkled throughout the conversations. The women were flirting wildly, the men basking in the attention.
Alexander stood by one of the great hearths with Padraig and Sir Neil, both knights seeming unharmed. So many men stood between them that she could not make him out clearly, but he seemed entirely unharmed, as well.
He suddenly turned and, across the great room, their gazes met.
Margaret felt her heart turn over hard.
He said something to both knights and started toward her.
And she realized that he was limping. Then she saw that his leine was splotched with blood, and his skirts were stiff and blackened. Margaret felt all the color in her face drain away, the sensation a sinking one.
He was removing his plaid as he approached, huge biceps bulging. “Lady Margaret.”
“You’ve been wounded.”
“I have a scratch or two.”
She was angered by his indifferent tone. “Men die from war wounds every day.”
He smiled a little. “So ye have a care, after all?”
She trembled. “I have already said that I do not wish you ill.”
“So that is aye?”
Did she flush? “You have cared for me and in return, I will not let you die.” She whirled, not about to analyze the depth of her concern. “Peg! Bring warm water, soap, my chest of potions, linens and more wine.”
“Margaret,” he said.
She turned back to him. Was he amused? “Would it please you if I did not care?”
“No. I am very pleased with my welcome here.”
They were treading dangerously, she thought. “Then you are reading too much into a simple act of compassion, my lord.”
“Mayhap.” He shrugged. “Mayhap not.”
Her cheeks burned. “Will you please sit? If you fall down, I am too small to catch you.”
He laughed, the sound warm and pleasant. “I am not going to fall down, Lady Margaret.”
“Oh, of course not. You’re too mighty to fall, even if you’ve lost so much blood.”
His smile faded as he studied her with that searching look she had become so familiar with. “The blood ye see is not mine.”
