“I want to come with you,” she said.
“Why would you wish to come?” he demanded.
He hadn’t refused. She said tersely, “He has Will. And he has my castle. I also want to hear what he will say.” She boldly approached and touched his arm. Suddenly nothing had ever been as important; suddenly, she had to see Alexander. “Uncle. I fought almost to the death to defend my dowry. I fought him for an entire day, at times, throwing burning oil on his soldiers. I stabbed a MacDonald man. I have earned the right to join you. If you negotiate with him, perhaps, I can help.”
His eyes widened. A brief but terrible silence fell. No one in the hall moved. Perhaps she had been too bold, gone too far—she was but a woman!
But Buchan finally said, “You have earned a great many rights, Margaret.”
She nodded, barely able to draw a breath.
“In fact, I want you to come to the red rocks with us.”
* * *
THE POUNDING RAIN had stopped, but the skies were so dark they were almost black, indicating that more rain would come. Margaret rode just behind her uncle, Sir Ranald at her side, as their horses walked slowly down a narrow, muddy path toward the river.
Ahead, she saw a shadowy cluster, just barely formed against the dark sky, but then the images began to take on the shape and appearance of horses and men. She could now see the red boulders that designated their meeting spot; she could make out the white water of the swollen river, as it rushed torrentially through the glen.
And she finally saw Alexander.
He sat his gray steed at the forefront of his men, neither horse nor man moving.
Margaret felt her heart lurch and then thunder. She had not seen him in almost three weeks. She could not look aside now. Her cheeks began to burn.
He was staring at her, too. She felt certain—though he was still too far away, and she could not see his eyes....
He had asked for her in marriage, but she could not imagine how he truly felt about her having escaped.
They continued to slowly approach, the ground dangerously slick beneath their horses’ hooves. Her uncle finally paused his horse, a small distance separating him from Alexander. Margaret halted her mare beside him.
Their gazes met. Alexander’s expression was hard, but it was also impassive—it was impossible to discern any of his emotions. He nodded slightly at her.
Oddly, the small gesture seemed too intimate and Margaret tensed, glancing at her uncle, who was observing them. She did not nod in return, or in any way acknowledge the salutation. She was suddenly so afraid that her uncle would guess at the intimacy they had shared.
Buchan’s heated regard was on Alexander. “You hold my nephew, you hold my castle—and you’ve taken me out of my fine hall in the middle of a storm. What do you want, MacDonald?”
Alexander’s gaze was cool. “I suggest ye reconsider my proposal, Buchan.”
“There is nothing to reconsider! I gain nothing from such a trade!”
Margaret tensed, horrified—surely, her uncle did not consider Will nothing.
“I dinna think ye had any care fer yer nephew. He is fine, by the way. Angry, but fine.”
Briefly, Margaret felt a great relief.
“I have a great care for Will,” Buchan flared. “Is this why you have called me outside in such weather? To berate me for my refusal to give you my niece? To accuse me of not caring about my nephew?”
“I have called ye here,” he said, staring at Margaret now, “to make a second offer.”
She froze. Their gazes locked. He would offer for her another time?
Alexander tore his gaze from her and said to her uncle, “I’ll add Glen Carron Castle to the trade.”
Buchan started.
Margaret began to tremble. When he did not speak, she wondered if her uncle was considering trading her to Alexander—for her brother and a castle.
