“I am afraid! Two great men—each seeking to kill the other!”
He stood, his stance wide, a warrior braced for attack. “He took Castle Fyne, he took you. And once, not long ago, we were friends! That bastard does not know the meaning of honor. So I will teach him the meaning of revenge.”
Sir Guy was angry—his gaze blazed. She decided not to speak.
“Surely, Lady Margaret, you wish for revenge, too?”
She tensed. What should she say? “I despise war. I have suffered through too many wars to count! War only brings death. So no, I do not wish for revenge, as it only brings death, too.”
“Then you will have to change your mind, lady. If I seek revenge, it must please you, too.”
She looked down at her hands as they lay on the table. Most men thought as Sir Guy did, so she should not be dismayed. But she was both. “Of course,” she murmured.
His gaze narrowed. “I will make certain,” he said, after a pause, “that you are with me when we hang the mighty Wolf.”
She trembled, looking up, wondering if fear was written all over her face.
* * *
EVENING HAD FINALLY fallen. Margaret thought that the day had been one of the longest of her life. She slowly went up the stairs, aware of the tension within her that she had not been able to shake all day. How she yearned for the privacy of her own chamber now.
She had caught Sir Guy watching her closely a dozen times that day. His enigmatic stare was so disconcerting! She could not imagine what he was thinking, but she had the terrible inkling that he suspected her of some grave failing.
But what was worse was that she did not care for him—not at all. In fact, she did not even like him. And she did not know how to change her thoughts. She did not know what to do.
Will had asked her if she were being sent to the gallows, would she meekly go? She had said no. Her impending marriage now felt like the gallows. Margaret paused by a ledge in the hall outside her door, a window above it. Outside, the night was a pale, soft purple, with many winking stars just beginning to emerge in the sky.
If she married Sir Guy, she would be told how to think. She would be told what to do. She would be criticized if she did not conform to his expectations of her. Margaret was certain.
Did she dare be honest with herself? She no longer wanted this marriage!
She thought of Alexander and felt a terrible pang—as if she missed him. But she must not miss him. What they had done was wrong. And even if she never married Sir Guy, Alexander remained a mortal enemy—in possession of both her brother and Castle Fyne.
Did she dare speak with her uncle about the marriage? He was so pleased with her now. Could she somehow convince him to change his mind about it?
Margaret instantly knew better than to try. Now that the Comyn family fought with King Edward against Bruce, her marriage had become more important than ever.
Despair immobilized her. She almost felt like crying. Instead, she lifted her face to the cool night air.
“I hope you are thinking about me.”
She had been so immersed in her anguished thoughts, that she had not heard Sir Guy approaching. Slowly, with dread, she turned. “I did not hear you come up the stairs.”
He smiled at her, pausing beside her. “I am a soldier, Lady Margaret. If I cannot steal silently upon you, how could I ever surprise the enemy?” His gray gaze slid over her slowly.
Margaret hugged her wool mantle more closely to her body.
“Are you cold?” He reached for her shoulders.
Margaret tensed. His hands covered her shoulders, slid down her arms, and adjusted the mantle for her.
Her body was now entirely in a coil. She did not like this man’s touch.
He dropped his hands. “You fear me,” he said softly.
She said slowly, “We are strangers.”
“It is not the same.” He slid the tip of his finger along her jaw. “You are so beautiful. I am pleased.”
