Her tension escalated. She glanced at Alexander. A warning look filled his eyes.
Where would Bruce lead? She swallowed. “No, but I received a missive from him the other day.”
Bruce’s brows lifted. “And were you pleased to hear from your dear uncle?”
She reminded herself that Buchan hated Bruce, as had their cousin Red John. Bruce seemed indifferent, but that could not be. “Of course I hoped to hear from him.”
“But you are not smiling, my dear, thus you are unhappy. If he did not say so, I will tell you myself—he is too busy plotting revenge against me, Lady Margaret, to concern himself with you.”
Margaret tried to smile. The upward curve of her lips felt ghastly. “He must see to the interests of the entire family.”
“But you are a valuable hostage—a valuable bride—and a part of the family’s great interests.”
She became terribly uncomfortable now. She looked at Alexander, and he seemed grim. She had the oddest feeling, as if being on a hook, twirling in the wind, knowing that at any moment, she would be cut free—to crash to the ground.
“Buchan is in Liddesdale as we speak. He meets with his friends, Mowbray and de Umfraville, to plan a war against me.” Bruce sipped his wine, entirely complacent, it seemed. “Unless Sir Guy bestirs himself to attack another time, I am afraid you will have to adjust to a lengthy period of captivity. And, of course, if Sir Guy returns to fight us, he must win.”
She clasped her hands in her lap, but glanced at Alexander. He was very still, but his gaze held hers for a moment. And she was very aware that Bruce had used the plural, “us,” instead of just referring to Alexander. “Alexander has made it clear he will not ransom me now. And my uncle also made it clear that I must have patience in these times of war. I have already imagined that I might be a hostage for far longer than I ever dreamed.”
Bruce saluted her with his glass. “You are very brave, but you proved that during the siege. You know, the news of your alliance with Sir Guy surprised me.”
She felt an impossible tension now.
“Your uncle—and your father—spent his life fighting the English, with your mother’s kin at their side. Yes, a truce was made betwixt us all last year, but then, so suddenly, Buchan chose Sir Guy for you.”
Alexander set his mug down, somewhat heavily. Margaret jumped. He said, “It is all politics.”
“Aye, but to marry one’s lifelong enemy? I cannot imagine.” Bruce refilled his cup, Alexander’s and a third one. He handed the latter to Margaret.
She clasped it but did not drink. “It turned out to be a fortunate alliance, did it not? As you are in rebellion, and we now find ourselves so firmly in King Edward’s camp.”
Bruce’s eyes widened. “Hurrah! I must say, well done yet again!”
Margaret did not feel that she had done anything well. In fact, she did not feel well, and she regretted disobeying Alexander and coming to the hall. She glanced at Alexander. Why had Bruce wished to point out that she was nothing but a pawn in her uncle’s political games? Why had he wished to suggest that her uncle did not care about her, except to use her for the family’s ends? Did he want to drive the spike of misery into her? Did he think to make her waver in her loyalties?
“Do you not like wine, Lady Margaret?” Bruce asked.
Margaret took a sip. “I like it very much.” She was ready to escape the table—thinking to outwit Bruce had been insane. “Will you be staying with us for very long, my lord?”
“I go to war tomorrow.” He smiled. “Will that please you?”
“I merely asked so I might know what meals to plan.”
“And you did not answer me, either.” His smile did not waver—neither did his stare.
“You might be Scotland’s next king. You have greatly affected our household.”
“I will be Scotland’s next king,” he said easily. “Before you take your leave, lady, you must tell me one thing. How does the Countess of Buchan fare?”
Margaret had just begun to stand up; she froze. And all she could think was, why would Bruce ask about Isabella? “I last saw her at Balvenie, before we left for Castle Fyne. She was as usual, my lord, in good spirits.”
He studied her for a moment. “You’re about the same age—are you friends?”
What kind of question was this? “We are friends.”
“Then you must know why she remains at Balvenie, whilst her husband plots against me with his allies in the south.”
“I do not know why she did not go south.”
