“The fault was mine.” He looked into her eyes. “You need say nothing more. I assure you that it will not happen again.”
Something twisted in her chest. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
The truth was that she wasn’t sure anymore.
Alex moved his knight. Meg knit her brows. That was an odd move.
He leaned back in his chair a little, studying her. “I hope the news from home was not troubling.”
Meg shook her head. “There are some matters that needed my attention, and my father wanted to know whether we would be returning in a couple of weeks as we’d intended.” In other words, her father wished to know whether Meg had chosen a husband.
Alex understood. “Are you ready to return home, then? Have you made your decision?” he asked quietly.
Meg fidgeted with a pawn, betraying her discomfort with his bluntness. She peeked up at him, looking for some indication that her answer mattered. But his face was infuriatingly blank. “I thought I had.”
He stared at her, mute, his jaw set in a firm line. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead he studied the chessboard, allowing the thick waves of his golden hair to fall forward, shielding his expression. She wanted to brush his hair to the side and force him to say something. Instead, he captured her knight.
Meg frowned, surprised to have missed that particular threat.
She studied the board, suddenly having the feeling that she had missed more than just the chess move. Why did she have the feeling that she was being played? That Alex was far shrewder than he had let on? She decided to put her theory to the test. “My father sought my advice about a tacksman who would like to pay a portion of his rents this year in barley instead of oats.” Realizing her rook was vulnerable, she moved to protect it. “I told him it didn’t matter.”
“You should have told him no,” Alex countered offhandedly. “It was a wet winter. Oats will fetch a higher price at market this year.”
Which was exactly, in fact, what she’d told her father. His quick analysis impressed her. Alex took another piece, and Meg frowned. She studied the board, but it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. Either it was a coincidence or he’d utilized a brilliant strategy that she’d never seen before. In a few moves, he could have her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Meg swallowed. “No.” She moved her piece, and he immediately moved his knight into position.
“Check,” he said.
Meg moved to protect her king. Alex MacLeod was no novice, but she was not worried. She’d been suitably cautioned, but not outmaneuvered.
“Where did you learn to play chess?” she asked.
He thought for a moment, probably searching for just the right words that would tell her as little as possible. “Initially, I learned from my brother, Rory. We played together most evenings while growing up—too tired from our training to do anything else.” He paused, clearly debating whether to say more. “And I played with my men for months when I was a reluctant ‘guest’ of the MacDonalds some years back. Of course, they would hardly give prisoners use of a chess set, but we managed to play thousands of games scratched out in the dirt.” He lowered his voice so much that she barely heard him add, “I would have gone mad otherwise.”
Sensing that he had just shared something important, and personal, Meg asked carefully, “Why were you imprisoned, Alex?”
His face darkened. She thought he was not going to answer, but after a few moments he spoke. “About four years ago, I was on the losing side of the battle now known as ‘the Corrie of the Foray.’ Many of my kinsmen were killed that day. I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I survived, but only to be imprisoned in the dungeon of Dunscaith Castle.” His voice sounded hollow, utterly devoid of emotion.
“I’ve heard of it, of course, it was the last great clan battle fought on Skye. I just didn’t realize you…” She stopped when she noticed how hard his hands were gripping the arms of his chair. “How long were you imprisoned?”
“Three months.”
Meg sensed that there was more, much more, but that he would not speak of it. At least not with her. But her disappointment turned to horror when she remembered something that had been needling her since the masque, something else that he had refused to answer.
“Alex?”
He turned and met her gaze. Their eyes held, and something strange passed between them, almost an understanding. He knew where her questions were heading.
Please let me be wrong this time,Meg prayed. But Dunscaith was a MacDonald stronghold.
Her voice was hesitant. “Alex,” she said, and paused. “Is…that how you know Dougal MacDonald?”
His face darkened at the name. From the bright intensity of his eyes and the tautness of his mouth, she knew the answer before he replied.
“Yes.”
