“I meant to protect ye, Lady Margaret. I meant to keep ye out of jeopardy.”
She had been right. He had wanted to keep her away from Bruce, but not so they could discuss their war secrets. “What will you do?”
Their gazes locked. “It gives me no pleasure, but ye’ll be confined to yer chamber till I decide otherwise.”
She tensed. How would she be able to escape, if she was confined to her chamber now? “If I tell you I am sorry—if I mean it—would you reconsider such a punishment?”
“No.”
* * *
MARGARET LAY IN her bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was late and the castle was mostly asleep and incredibly silent. The only noise was from the wind outside, moving the trees, and a lone wolf, baying from a ridge somewhere.
She could not sleep. She had spent the day in confinement in her chamber, as promised, with Dughall standing outside her door as her guard. Eilidh had not been allowed to attend her. Dughall had brought her meals. Her window faced north so she could not see into the courtyard or barbican, but all day she had heard the footsteps and voices of Alexander’s men as they provisioned the stronghold for his absence. Later, she had heard their voices from the great hall as they supped.
With nothing to do and no one to talk to, she had tried to take up her needlework, but that had been impossible. She was too worried.
She would never be able to escape now. William would have to escape alone. And tomorrow, Alexander would ride off to war.
* * *
WHY DID HE have to ride with Bruce? Why did he have to go to war against the might of England? What if he did not return from this battle, or the next one? She could tell herself a thousand times that he was a mighty warrior, that he would be fine, but three of her brothers had died in war. She knew better than anyone how feckless war was. How feckless fate was. Men like Alexander lived and died by the sword, and few lived to old age. She just hoped Fate would not take him at the battle of Dumbarton....
But they were marching to Scone. They meant to seize Scotland’s throne. There would be too many battles to count, both before and after Bruce was crowned....
Suddenly she heard a footfall on the stone stairs. She sat bolt upright, aware that it was Alexander. She stared across her chamber, which was illuminated by the fire in the hearth. Would she even be able to wish him Godspeed tomorrow?
Men were such fools, to take war so lightly!
And she was a fool, to have any care for him, when they were enemies!
She heard his door open and she flung herself back down on her bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. If only she could care this way for Sir Guy. And who knew? Maybe one day she would, but just then, she did not.
In a way, Alexander had become a significant part of her existence. In a way, he had become the center of her existence. Of course, he was her captor. One day, he would not be so significant.
But he almost felt like a mountain in the center of her world, one that was unmovable, and even insurmountable. Yet it was a mountain that was always there, a presence that was certain.
She tried to laugh at herself. He was like a mountain, but he wasn’t an unmovable part of the land—he was a man. If he died, she would be saddened, but she would recover, just as she had recovered from the deaths of her three brothers and her parents.
“But I don’t want him to die.”
Margaret stiffened, realizing that she had spoken aloud.
She slid from the bed, barefoot and clad only in her chemise. He was leaving tomorrow at dawn, and earlier, she had refused to tell him that she cared.
She threw a fur around her shoulders and went to her door, helpless to resist her own impulses now. It hadn’t been locked all day and it was not locked now. She opened it and Dughall instantly leapt to his feet. “Lady Margaret?”
He was incredulous, but then, she was barely dressed. “I wish to speak with Alexander,” she said, very unsteadily. And she did not wait for his response. Margaret went to his door and opened it.
He leapt up from the bed, dagger in hand, held poised to attack.
She froze against the door, in surprise, dropping the fur.
His eyes were startled; instantly, they slammed over her and narrowed. He put the dagger down on the bed, then faced her, his eyes warm. “Margaret.”
She was not surprised that he was alone—she was fairly certain he had been sleeping alone since the battle of Cruach Nan Cuilean.
She hadn’t known what she would say to him a moment ago, but it was so easy now. “I don’t want you to die.”
