BALVENIE SPRAWLED ABOVE them atop the hill, a massive red stone fortress.
Margaret halted her small mount. Peg and Eilidh had their own horses as well, and they also stopped, as did the three knights escorting them. She stared up at the welcome sight of Balvenie’s curtain walls crossing the hillside, its towers jutting into the bright blue sky.
“Balvenie,” she whispered, disbelieving. Three days ago she had awoken in Alexander’s bed, and now, she was home.
The River Spey was below them, churning rapidly through the forested hillside. Its frigid waters still rushed over frozen rocks. But snow was melting everywhere. Patches of new grass and thistle with small, tight, unopened blooms were emerging across the hillside and just beneath the thick castle walls.
“I will tell the watch that we have arrived,” one of their knights said. He spurred his mount forward and up the hill at a canter.
“We are home,” Peg cried, smiling. “I never thought to see the day!”
Margaret did not quite smile back at her. She was pleased to have reached Balvenie safely—she was relieved to have reached her uncle’s largest, most defensible home. But her happiness was somehow spoiled—and partly it was because Castle Fyne remained lost to the enemy, and William remained a prisoner there. But she knew that secretly, there was even more.
Secretly, she thought her homecoming spoiled by the night she had spent in Alexander’s arms.
For, at random moments in the day, and then, in her dreams at night, she recalled not just the passion they had shared, but other moments, too, moments in which he seemed like a powerful champion. Yet she did not want to think of him at all! And she especially did not want to recall how she had betrayed her uncle and her betrothed.
“It’s so grand,” Eilidh whispered, wide-eyed with awe.
“It is very grand,” Margaret agreed, and she started her mare up the hill, on the muddy road they traveled upon. Her two maids fell into line behind her, while the remaining two Highland soldiers rode abreast of her, having cast their furs aside.
They had stayed hidden in Alexander’s army for two entire days, but when it had made camp not far from Dumbarton, they had stolen away. Peg had managed to get them inside the royal fortress there, where Margaret had been warmly received by its governor, John of Menteith. Already aware of the attack about to take place the next day, he had wasted no time in sending her on, with three of his men as an armed escort. They had arrived at Dumbarton in the fading light of the late afternoon, and they left just a few hours later, as twilight stole upon the land.
Margaret saw the gates of the barbican being opened, and now, she could hear surprised cries coming from the ramparts, as the news of her arrival spread. She looked up as men, women and children appeared on the walls above her, waving eagerly, clearly jubilant over her return. She smiled and waved back, but inwardly, she was grim.
She had said that one night could not change anything, but apparently, it had changed a great deal. She could not shake an odd, lingering feeling of dismay. She was beginning to wonder if she regretted the night she had spent with Alexander, after all. Certainly, she no longer felt innocent. She had betrayed a great many loyalties, and she felt very grown up, a woman aged beyond her years.
They rode through the barbican and across the drawbridge. As Margaret entered the great cobbled courtyard, the huge door of the great hall opened. Isabella stepped outside, clutching a fur mantle, her red gown flowing about her. “Margaret!”
Margaret halted as Isabella ran down the steps and toward her. She was a tall, slim woman of nineteen, with surprisingly fair skin and thick brown hair, her eyes a stunning blue. “You are home!” she cried, beaming.
One of the soldiers helped her dismount, and before her feet even touched the ground, Isabella embraced her, hard. “Was there a ransom?” Isabella cried. “John said he did not think you would be ransomed!”
Margaret took her hand. “There was no ransom. We escaped. It is still cold out. Can we go inside?”
Isabella nodded, her eyes wide, and they hurried inside, followed by the other women and men.
The hall was filled with tables, tapestries and chairs. Rugs, not rushes, were on the floor. Fires blazed in two grand hearths.
“You must tell me everything,” Isabella exclaimed. “But first, how could you escape the Wolf of Lochaber?” She seized her hand and clasped it again.
“The plan was Will’s. We stole out the side door in disguise, and then joined Alexander’s army as it left. But he was captured before he could even cross the courtyard, and he remains a prisoner, even now. We traveled with the army until Dumbarton. No one ever looked twice at us.”
“Alexander?” Isabella’s brows rose. She pulled Margaret toward a pair of chairs in front of one fireplace.
Margaret tensed. “Alexander MacDonald—the Wolf of Lochaber.”
“It seems odd for you to call him by name. But then, you were his hostage for many weeks—for almost a month. Will you sit with me, Margaret? Will you share a glass of wine? You must be exhausted after traveling across half of Scotland! And I have missed you so!”
Margaret had missed Isabella, too. “Of course I will sit with you—we have so much to speak of.”
Isabella grinned as they both sat. “Peg, please bring us wine. And prepare a feast! We must celebrate Margaret’s safe return!”
Peg rushed off as Margaret handed her mantle to Eilidh, sighing, and stretched out her legs.
“Did you become friendly, then?” Isabella asked.
Margaret started. “I beg your pardon?”
