Isabella stepped into the room and closed the door. “What did you imagine?”
Margaret tensed. Isabella suspected something. But she could never know the truth. It was too dangerous. “I imagined that eventually we would war against him and take Castle Fyne back,” she finally said.
“But he has decided marriage is better than war. How interesting—but then, you are so beautiful. Is he smitten?”
“I doubt Alexander would be smitten by any woman, Isabella.”
“He was smitten by his mistress, the woman he fought to make his wife—the woman who died giving birth to his child.”
Margaret tensed. “That is legend.”
“Everyone knows it is true.”
She folded her arms. “He is not smitten with me. He wishes to keep Castle Fyne securely in his control.”
“You seem distraught, Margaret.”
Isabella was right. She was upset as never before. She could not marry Alexander, and it had more to do with the war for the throne of Scotland than it did the ancient enmity between their clans.
I would be proud if ye ever fought to defend what was mine.
She froze, having just heard Alexander as clearly as if he stood beside her. He admired her. He respected her. And he had spoken those words to her after Sir Guy had berated her for defending Castle Fyne from his attack.
Alexander had appreciated what she had done. Sir Guy had not.
And when Alexander touched her, desire swelled; when Sir Guy touched her, she was repulsed.
“Do you have some interest in the Wolf of Lochaber, Margaret?” Isabella asked, taking her hand.
Margaret jumped as if burned. “Of course not.” She felt her cheeks heat.
And then Margaret heard her uncle roar from the hall below. If she hadn’t misheard, he had shouted her name.
Isabella blanched, dropping her hand.
Margaret ran to the door and opened it, and as she did, Eilidh appeared, running as hard as she could toward her. “The earl wishes ye downstairs,” she cried, appearing pale and frightened.
“Margaret!” Buchan shouted again.
Something had happened—another message from Alexander, perhaps? As frightened as the rest of the women, Margaret lifted her skirts and ran down the hall and downstairs, Isabella and her maids on her heels.
Buchan was pacing, flushed with anger once again. As she skidded into the hall, he halted, facing her, arms akimbo. “You know him, do you not?” he asked. “You must know him well!”
Had someone betrayed them? Peg? Dughall? Did Buchan speak of her infidelity now?
“Well?” he demanded, striding to her. “What does he want? He has just demanded a meeting!”
She almost fainted; she was so relieved. Isabella steadied her and said, sharply, “John! She is distraught! You must not shout at her.”
He glanced at her and said, “I am distraught!” But he did not shout now.
Margaret caught her breath and faced him. She sought composure. “I cannot imagine what he wants. But he has Will.” Her mind began to race, frantically. He had Will; he wanted a meeting. “You must go!” She caught herself and softened her tone. “Uncle, can you please speak to him? Perhaps you can arrange Will’s release!”
“Of course I am going to speak to the bastard—he has your brother and Castle Fyne!” He whirled to Sir Ranald. “Tell him we will meet at the red rocks in two hours. He may bring ten men, no more. I will do the same. Then have a hundred of our best soldiers ready, and fifty knights. We go to the red rocks in an hour.”
Margaret tried not to tremble. As Sir Ranald left, she said, “You will deceive him—and ambush him?”
Buchan stared sharply. “I will meet him with ten knights, as I said I would, because I wish to know what he will do this time. But my small army will be close enough to protect us if he thinks to deceive us in any way. He is camped here with two hundred men, Margaret. I cannot simply meet him without a small army of my own.”
