“If he wants you, you have become more trouble than you are worth!” With that, he spurred his horse and began to gallop up the muddy hill.
Margaret was ready to collapse. Sir Ranald reached out and caught her as she swooned, dragging her from her small mount to his larger one. “Lady! I will have you safely home.”
Hot, blistering tears arose. Margaret nodded, now in Sir Ranald’s arms.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EILIDH WAS STOKING the fire in the hearth in Margaret’s chamber when Sir Ranald led her in. She was trembling. On the way back to the castle, it had rained torrentially, and she was soaking wet. But she was not shaking from the cold. She was not on the verge of collapse because of the rain.
Eilidh blanched. “Lady?”
“She has had a trying afternoon,” Sir Ranald said. “You must help her into dry clothes, sit her before the fire and bring her warm wine.”
Margaret felt shocked. And she was terrified.
Did Buchan suspect that she and Alexander had been lovers?
But there was even more. Did Alexander mean to marry her, no matter the consequences—and would he attack her uncle to do so?
“Please sit down, Lady Margaret, before you fall over,” Sir Ranald said kindly.
Margaret had been guided to the chamber’s sole chair, which had been placed before the blazing fire. Somehow, she did as asked; somehow, she looked up at him and smiled. “Thank you, Sir Ranald. I am fine.”
“You are not fine.” His green gaze was searching. Then he dropped abruptly to one knee and took both of her hands in his. “I wish to protect you, Lady Margaret! I wish to aid you! But if you play a dangerous game, then you must tell me.”
What did Sir Ranald think? She had not considered what everyone else who had been present at the red rocks might think of the encounter. But Sir Ranald had caught her eavesdropping at Strathbogie; he had seen her exchange with Alexander.
As she stared at him, terribly uncertain now, Peg and Isabella ran into the room.
“What happened?” Isabella cried. “John is vowing to murder the Wolf the next time they meet! He is furious, and already in his cups!”
Margaret looked back at Sir Ranald. “We will talk another time, when I have had a chance to think,” she said. If Sir Ranald meant to be her ally, she would accept him as one. She so needed allies now. But she would not make him her confidant.
He nodded and left the room.
Peg closed the door behind him. “Margaret?” she asked, eyes wide.
She could no longer contain her distress. She covered her face with her hands, trying not to cry, thinking of Alexander, who had decided he must marry her, no matter the cost, the pain. She could not imagine his motivation, other than his desire to control Castle Fyne for all of his lifetime, and to pass it down to his sons.
But what of her and her desires?
The chamber seemed to rock wildly, as if a boat in storm-tossed seas.
She thought of Buchan, who had hated Alexander before, and would hate him impossibly now. The two had been enemies for a great many reasons before this war had come between them, but now, their enmity had become personal. Alexander had threatened Buchan; Buchan had threatened him in return. It felt certain that in the end, one man must die.
It was Isabella who came to her and put her arms around her. “What did he do?”
She tried to wipe the moisture from her face, desperate to find composure. She met Isabella’s worried gaze. “He made a second offer of marriage—and when Buchan refused, he threatened to destroy him and his castles.”
Isabella said, “No, I meant what did my husband do?” Then, “He is angry with you—he told me so! I assumed you are near tears because of him.”
Margaret inhaled. “He considered trading me to Alexander, not just for Will, but for Castle Fyne and another keep.”
Isabella was dismayed. “I am sorry. But he does love you, Margaret.”
“He would give me over to the enemy if the trade was advantageous enough.” The pain stabbing through her breast felt like a knife. “He would give me over with hardly a second thought.” Hadn’t he abandoned her while she was being held hostage at Castle Fyne?
And hadn’t Will complained all along that her marriage to Sir Guy was an act beyond expedience—that she was being tossed aside, as if a thing of little worth, a thing without feelings?
