“You call him Alexander now—you must have become somewhat friendly.”
She hoped her cheeks were not pink—they felt warm. Yet she knew Isabella’s question was innocently asked. She could hardly suspect that they had had an affair. “I do not know when I began to call him by name, but he remains the enemy. He is a MacDonald.”
Isabella studied her. “You must hate him,” she finally said. “He kept you prisoner, he holds Will even now and he has conquered Castle Fyne.”
“Sir Guy already tried to take the keep back. He will undoubtedly try again. And now that I am home, I will send a letter to Argyll, seeking his aid.”
“So you will not accept the loss of the castle?” Isabella cried.
“No, I will not. Would you?”
“I would not write letters to my kin, asking them to go to war for me! But then, I would have never thought to try to defend the castle in the first place. You are so brave!”
“It was a very foolish decision, Isabella. And I was terrified, and because I chose to fight, not surrender, many good men died.”
“He must have been so angry with you,” Isabella said after a pause. “If I had ever defied John in such a way, and attempted to battle against him, oh, he would hurt me terribly. Did he seek to punish you?”
Margaret rubbed her arms. Most men would have angrily punished such defiance, even though it came from a woman. “No, he did not seek to punish me. He was very angry but he was also reasonable. I did not suffer very much in his care.”
Isabella blinked. “A warrior who is reasonable? Are we speaking of the same man? Is he then not like the legends?”
Margaret smiled a bit. “He is exactly like the legends, Isabella. He is strong, mighty and brave, a great warrior. I have wondered if he will ever be defeated in battle.”
“You sound admiring!”
Margaret hesitated. “In some ways, I have come to admire him, and I certainly respect him.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Is he as dark and handsome as is claimed?”
Margaret decided to dissemble. “He is dark, but if he is handsome, I never noticed.”
Peg now returned, carrying a trencher with two mugs of wine. She gave each woman one, and Margaret thanked her. She sipped, aware of the extent of her lie. She thought Alexander one of the most attractive men she had ever seen.
“If he is as mighty as you say, you may never win Castle Fyne back,” Isabella said.
Margaret felt her momentary pleasure fade. “I am afraid of that. He has left a large garrison there.”
Isabella made a harsh sound. “John is furious over Red John’s murder, and he is spending all of his time planning war against Bruce. But my husband is very pleased with you. He has done little but boast about you since we first heard of the siege and your part in defending the keep. You may trust me when I tell you that you are high in his good graces.”
“Buchan isn’t here, is he?”
“No. He left weeks ago—to speak with our every friend, to raise men, to prepare for war—he fights with King Edward!” Her eyes darkened. “How he hates Robert Bruce.”
Isabella was one of the least political women Margaret knew, but like the entire family, she despised the English.
“I have news of the war, Isabella. I must speak with my uncle. It is important.”
“Can you write him?”
“No. I must speak with him in person,” Margaret said. She was not going to describe Bruce’s meeting with Alexander in a letter that could be intercepted by almost anyone.
“The information you have must be dear, indeed.” Isabella did not seem curious as she sipped her wine.
“It is.” This was as good a time as any to speak frankly with her sister in marriage. “Bruce spent a night at Castle Fyne.”
Isabella sat up in surprise, spilling some of her wine. Her entire demeanor had changed. Clearly, she was interested now. “You saw him?”
“I met him, yes.”
