A Rose in the Storm

His smile vanished. “I despise liars, Lady Margaret.”

His warning was clear. “I have never been a liar,” she said, and that was true—but she was certainly lying now. “I have had a few hours in which to think. I am your prisoner and entirely dependent upon you for my welfare. Only a very foolish woman would continue to fight you, my lord.”

“So instead of fighting, ye come to my bed?”

“Why is it so strange? You are master here, I was once the lady.”

His stare had intensified. Margaret remained in front of the closed door, unmoving. Her heart was thundering so loudly that she thought he could hear it. He surely knew of the game she played; he surely knew how desperate and afraid she was.

For a long moment, he did not speak. Then, “Yer no bawd.”

How right he was. “I’m no bawdy woman, but I’m afraid, my lord,” Margaret said softly. “My uncle will be furious with me for losing the keep. So will Sir Guy. I need a protector.”

“They will be more furious if they learn ye have slept in my bed.”

He was so very right. But why was he making objections? Did he think to resist her? “They do not have to know.”

He eyed her. “If ye stay here, everyone will know.”

Margaret hadn’t thought this would be easy, but she had not expected him to object, nor could she fathom why he did not simply seize her, as most men would. She smiled tightly and walked past him to the bed.

As she did, he turned, so he continued to face her, his gaze still wary and watchful.

“I need a protector,” she said, her back to him. She untied her girdle, hoping he did not note how her hands trembled, placing it on the bed beside his waist belt and dagger. The latter winked up at her.

It was in easy reach.

“Yer uncle will disavow ye as his blood if ye sleep here tonight. Then ye will need a champion.”

She shook her head, pulling up her gown—a surcote—and removing it over her head. She heard him inhale. She did not turn, clad now in a thin cote and her chemise. “You do not know Buchan. I will be blamed for the loss of the castle, for allowing you in, for the deaths of everyone—I am afraid.” She was lying now—Buchan would not blame her for attempting to fight the great Wolf off.

He did not answer her.

What should she do next? she wondered. Continue to disrobe? If she removed her undergown, she would be wearing nothing but her shoes and her thigh-length chemise.

“I willna spare the prisoners, Lady Margaret,” he said softly, from directly behind her. “If that is the reason ye have come.”

She jumped, as he was so close now his breath feathered her ear—and he had taken a hold of her left wrist—but the movement caused her shoulders to hit his chest. His grasp on her wrist tightened, while he clasped her waist with his other hand.

Her heart somersaulted wildly. What was he doing? She was in his arms. Yet wasn’t this what she wanted of him?

Had he really just said that he would not spare her men? The intimate position they were in was making serious reflection impossible. Margaret could only feel his breath on her ear, his hard chest, rising and falling against her back, and the heat of his pelvis and loins.

Her heart was pounding. Every nerve ending she had was taut. “Am I asking you to spare them?” she gasped hoarsely. “I am coming freely, my lord.”

“Ye do not come freely. Ye despise me with yer every breath.” But he spoke in a harsh murmur, and his mouth now brushed her ear.

She gasped, because a fire was racing along her arms, and up and down her legs. Did she desire the Wolf of Lochaber? For his arms were around her, and she could not think clearly, except to note how strong and muscular he was, and how warm she was becoming. “No,” she managed to answer. “I have come freely, my lord.”

His hand on her waist tightened. “Ye think to ask me on the morrow for mercy for yer men. That is why ye seek me in my bed—not for any other reason. If ye stay with me, my answer willna change,” he warned. And his mouth was so close to her earlobe, she could feel his lips brushing her there as he spoke. It was almost a feathering kiss.

She couldn’t breathe, much less move. An explosion of sparks accompanied his words, his breath. It was as if he had set her on fire, and that fire was racing through her entire body. She was aware of how aroused he was. There was no mistaking his condition. His body was hard and heated.

What should she do? she wondered, with both panic and breathlessness.

Alexander clasped her shoulders, pulling her back even more closely against him, and he kissed the side of her neck. Margaret felt the rush of deeper desire then. It was as if her abdomen had been hollowed out, and she felt faint with the expectation of pleasure.

His hand slid from her shoulder to her breast and over it entirely, causing her erect nipples to tighten painfully. “So ye will stay, anyway?”

She almost wanted to say yes! But how could she stay with him? What was she thinking? She was Lady Margaret Comyn, the great Earl of Buchan’s niece and ward—she was Mary MacDougall’s daughter! They were the worst of enemies! And he would hang her men tomorrow anyway.

“I want to stay—I want to save my men,” she somehow breathed.

“Ye canna save them.” He turned her around abruptly, so she was no longer in his embrace, and their gazes collided. His blue eyes smoldered with lust. She wondered what her own eyes looked like. “I wish ye were a bawd.”

She hugged herself and stepped back breathlessly. What had just happened? She began to shake, still feeling feverishly hot. “I’m not a bawd,” she admitted hoarsely. “I thought I could seduce you.”

“Ye could seduce me—if ye truly wished to.”

He sounded odd, as if rueful. Margaret trembled as he paced away, and glanced again at his belt and dagger on the bed. The blade winked up at her, but she did not have the courage to seize it. She was no more a murderess than she was a seductress.

She realized he was watching her. But he knew she would never grab that knife and use it, just as he had known she was incapable of a casual lover’s tryst, no matter how much desire had just arisen between them.

“Ye should leave matters of war alone, Lady Margaret. And the prisoners are a matter of war. Buchan will forgive ye the loss of the keep, he will expect his men to be hanged, but he would never forgive ye for lying with the enemy—on the eve of yer marriage to Sir Guy.”

She suddenly wondered if he was trying to protect her. But they were enemies. Why would he do that? “I care more for my men than I do for my uncle’s approval. But it doesn’t matter now. I can’t go forward with a seduction, my men will hang even if I do, and I doubt there will be a marriage now,” she finally said, thickly.

“Why would ye think that? Buchan needs Sir Guy now more than ever. Sir Guy will wish to have Castle Fyne now more than ever.”

“You have stolen Castle Fyne,” she cried, “leaving me with nothing.”

“Sir Guy is a man of great ambition, like his brother, Aymer. I am certain he will come to take this castle back, and with it, his bride.”

Margaret wanted to believe him. The only problem was, if Sir Guy attacked Castle Fyne, how would he ever best such an opponent? And that would not help her men—they would already be dead. The implications of her failure to seduce him—and dissuade him from the executions—were settling in. She was ill.

“Ye need to leave matters of war to the men,” Alexander said again. “And ye should leave my chamber. Good night.”

She had achieved nothing. And she would never understand MacDonald. Why hadn’t he taken what she offered? Most men would have leapt at such an opportunity, especially as it would drive a wedge between her and Sir Guy, which was to his advantage. She did not want to think of him as an honorable man, so she refused to do so. But while she knew she should leave—she should flee—she did not. “Most men would not have refused my advances.”

“I’m not like most men.”

“Why? Why did you dissuade me from my folly? What have you gained tonight?”

His stare was unwavering. “Ye’d hate me more tomorrow.”

He was right, she thought, but why would that matter to him? Margaret realized that Alexander MacDonald was no simple, single-minded, bloodthirsty warrior. He was a canny man—a worthy opponent. She remained uncertain of his ambitions, outside of his desire to command Castle Fyne.

Only one fact was clear. She now had the knowledge that he lusted for her. Worse, Peg had been right—a part of her had enjoyed being in his arms. How could she use the attraction they seemed to share to her advantage? Without truly compromising herself?

Margaret walked to the bed and retrieved her clothes. She shivered, facing him. “I did not expect to enjoy being in your arms.” She was grim.

His eyes widened, filling with wariness.

“We are enemies, and you have stolen my castle and tomorrow you will hang my men. Yet we shared an embrace, one we both enjoyed.”

He stared for another moment. “Yer young, Lady Margaret, and untried. Life is filled with surprises. Especially during times of war.” He paused and then added, “But I am pleased ye want to be with me. Ye can be sure there will be more surprises for us both.”

How certain he was, she thought, her heart lurching. “No. We will never be together again, if that is what you are suggesting.”

His stare changed, becoming sharp, even speculative. “Never? That is an arbitrary word, one I rarely use.”

She did not want to debate him now, not when they remained alone together in his chamber, in the dead of the night, when her blood still raced. “You are a MacDonald. You are already my worst enemy. But if you hang the men I am responsible for, you will become my blood enemy.”

“Yer a woman,” he said swiftly, his face hardening. “Ye dinna need make blood enemies, ye dinna need to seek vengeance fer anything.”

“How wrong you are.”

“Ye amaze me, Lady Margaret, with yer boldness.” He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t appear pleased, either. Had she moved him, just a bit?

“I am not trying to amaze you, Alexander, but I am my mother’s daughter.”

“Yes, ye are,” he said grimly.

Margaret wondered then if he had known her mother. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We do not have to be the worst of enemies.” It was, perhaps, her last plea.

“Ye have decided this day that we are already the worst of enemies,” he said grimly. “They hang on the morrow.”

She turned abruptly, about to walk to the door. Then she halted. “I was on the ramparts with them. I fought you, too.”

He crossed his muscular arms and stared coldly at her.

“You should hang me tomorrow, too.”

“I am not hanging ye.”

He was furious, now. She trembled, incapable of looking away from him. “Because I am such a valuable hostage? Dowry and all?”

“Because yer such a valuable hostage—and yer a woman.”

“How can you be so ruthless?”

“I am fond of living.”

She hugged her clothes more tightly to her chest. Oddly, comprehension flashed just then, and for one instant, she did not hate him. In that instant, she understood—he was fighting just as she was for his life and the lives of his men. He was a feared and respected warrior, and rightly so. And then the moment was gone.

“Ye need to leave, Lady Margaret,” he warned.

She shook her head in refusal. “My brother is hurt. He is my only living family. I must attend him—please.”

“You can tend his wounds tomorrow.” He walked to the door and opened it and then stepped aside.

She was stunned by his acquiescence. “You will let me see him?”

“I will allow you to see him—this one time.”

Margaret nodded, tears falling, and she ran past him, escaping.

* * *

MARGARET HUDDLED UNDER the fur covers, staring out of her chamber’s window as dawn stained the sky with fingers of mauve. She had slept fitfully and uneasily all night when she was exhausted—when she had needed the kind of deep sleep that would refresh her, so she could battle another day. But every time she had dozed she had dreamed of the hangings to take place that day and had instantly awoken.

Because it was so cold and they were prisoners, Peg had shared her bed. But Margaret’s restlessness had caused her to finally make a pallet on the floor. Peg now sat up, yawning.

Margaret began to greet her when she heard a movement in the chamber next to hers. Alexander had arisen. She was careful not to allow her thoughts to revisit their encounter of the previous night. She did not want to recall the sparks of desire she had felt while in his arms.

But he had said she could see her brother. As Peg began to braid her long hair, Margaret leapt from the bed, slid on her shoes, seized her mantle and hurried to her door. As she opened it Alexander came out of the adjacent chamber and their gazes collided.

“Good morn,” he said, unsmiling. His eyes moved over her as he gestured to the guard, “Alan will take ye to William when ye wish.”

“I am ready now, thank you,” she cried. “Can Peg come to help me?”

He looked away. “Aye.” He said to Alan, “She may tend her brother’s wounds, but do not leave them alone together.” With that, he nodded at her and went downstairs.

A moment later, both women were following Alan through the keep and into the courtyard. The guard carried a small chest for Margaret, one in which she kept her herbs and potions. It was freezing cold out, and they could not cross the bailey fast enough. The horses garrisoned in the stables there were just being given fodder, the men tending them the only others present. They entered the tower’s door and hurried up its narrow winding staircase to the second floor.

A Highlander sat on a barrel outside William’s closed chamber door. Alan spoke briefly with him, and he opened the door for Peg and Margaret.

William lay upon the narrow pallet inside, and Margaret choked back a gasp of horror.

He seemed asleep—he might have been unconscious. He had clearly bled heavily, as both his head bandage and the one on his chest were entirely red. Having lost so much blood, he was as white as a corpse. Her worry knew no bounds.

“Will!” Margaret rushed inside to kneel beside him, taking his hands.

Peg said, “I will get warm water and lye soap.”

“Bring clean linens,” Margaret said, not looking away from her brother.

His lashes fluttered and she called out to him again, now holding his hand and stroking his face. “Dear brother, it is I, Margaret. Wake up!”

William moaned and looked blearily at her. “Meg?”

“You are awake! I am here to take care of you now.” She was so afraid that when she removed the bandages, she would find an infection. She could not bear it if Will died.

“Where am I? What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

“The Wolf has taken Castle Fyne. We are his prisoners.”

His eyes flew wide now. “Are you all right?”

“He hasn’t hurt me, nor will he—I am his hostage. But I lost, Will, I lost this place, and it is now in MacDonald hands.” She did not want to tell him about the impending executions. He was ill, and she wanted him to use his strength to heal, not worry.

“We will retake it. Buchan will come, or maybe, Sir Guy.” His lashes fluttered, as if he did not have the strength to keep his eyes open. “He did not hurt you?”

“Don’t worry about me—I am under guard, but otherwise, I have been treated with the utmost respect.” That was actually the truth, she thought.

“I know you—stubborn, and now defiant.” He opened his eyes again and stared. “Don’t defy him, Meg. Wait for Buchan to come.”

She managed a smile and it felt ghastly. She would not tell him about the death of their cousin Red John Comyn, either, or the rebellion of Robert Bruce. He needed not worry about those things. “I am not defying him,” she said. And that was the truth, too—now.

He seemed doubtful. “You are probably plotting an escape...don’t. Wait for rescue, Meg.” His voice had become so weak that she had to lean close to hear him. Eyes closed, he said, “Did we get a messenger out before the castle fell?”

She was aware now of Alan, hovering some small distance behind her and listening to their every word. “Malcolm sent two young Scots, just before the siege.”

“Good!” His eyes opened and his words were hard with satisfaction as he spoke. “Argyll and Buchan will come, sooner, not later.”

Margaret managed to smile, still holding his hand. “You shouldn’t speak, you should rest.” Peg finally returned, rushing into the room with soap, a bowl of water and linens. “I am going to clean your wounds and change the bandages.”

William did not respond, and Margaret set to work.

* * *

TWO HOURS LATER, Margaret hurried into the great hall, where she found Alexander. Both tables were entirely occupied by his men; they were finishing breakfast. The tables were littered with plates piled with unfinished crusts, fish carcasses and meat bones. Conversation was rampant. As she rushed in, every man present turned her way and the room silenced.

She slowed her urgent stride, aware of thirty or more pairs of eyes upon her—the gazes of his men, her foes. From the head of one table, Alexander regarded her also, his expression impassive and impossible to read.

She approached him and curtsied.

“How fares your brother?”

“Not well.” She met his gaze, unsmiling. “He lost far too much blood. I cleaned both wounds, and I am very concerned. He is weak, my lord, and while there is no infection yet, we both know that one could set in shortly. The next few days are crucial.”

“I am sorry he was wounded.”

She tensed, because she was fairly certain he did not care about her brother, except as another useful hostage. “I am excellent with herbs and potions. I learned how to attend a great many maladies and war wounds from my mother. Now I must hope that the salves I have used were not used too late.”

He studied her. “Is that an accusation? My own man tended him yesterday, Lady Margaret, and as ye have said, he has no infection.”

She had been accusatory, but that would not get her anywhere. “I am grateful you had someone clean his wounds and bandage them. I am grateful you did not leave him to die.”

“Ye remain the worst liar. Yer not grateful, and yer sick with fear.”

She felt that fear then, as if a huge sob were about to choke her. “I have lost three brothers, brothers I dearly admired, brothers I loved. I cannot lose William, too!”

“And I hope ye do not. Will ye sit down, Lady Margaret?”

She had no appetite, but that wasn’t why she did not want to sit down at his table. A remembrance flashed in her mind, of being in his arms last night. It was a terrible recollection. “I was hoping to see my men today—before you hang them.”

He smiled grimly at her. “I will allow ye to see them, but if ye think to mount an insurrection at the last moment, be forewarned. They’ll die by my sword and it willna matter to me.”

“A rebellion at the last moment is not on my mind,” she cried. “Although I wish I was capable of mounting one.”

He studied her, his scrutiny so intense it was unnerving. “I thought we had come to some terms—last night.”

She trembled again. Last night she had glimpsed him as a powerful, sexual and handsome man. Last night, she had felt a moment of admiration and respect for him, but that moment was gone.

“We did not come to any terms. You are my captor, I am your prisoner, my brother might die in your care—and you are about to execute my good soldiers.”

He stood up abruptly. “I will take you to the dungeons.” He gestured at four men, who instantly arose, their swords clattering against the table’s edge as they did. He then pointed at Alan, too.

He led the way down to the dungeons, Margaret directly behind him, his five men behind her. Her heart raced madly now. She estimated it was half past eight in the morning. In four hours or less, Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others would die.

Little daylight came into the dungeons. One wall had two small, barred windows, set high above the prisoners’ heads. Otherwise, there was no possibility of natural light entering the cell, so burning torches had been set into the ground, which was dirt. Two of Alexander’s men had remained below, outside the single large cell where the prisoners huddled. Margaret remained directly behind Alexander now, aware of the temperature dropping dramatically. It was terribly cold belowground.

He came to an abrupt halt, and she stumbled not to crash into him from behind. Peeking past him, she saw the two guards leap to attention now.

“Open the door,” Alexander said to them.

Margaret had never been inside a dungeon before—although she had been inside the cellars at Castle Bain and Balvenie. Those cellars had had stone floors, and they had been dank and dark, too—but this was so much worse. The dungeons stank of urine and feces. She thought she could smell blood, too, and she felt so much despair.

This was all her fault.

Margaret peered past Alexander; Sir Neil, Malcolm and the others were all standing now, and staring at them. Or were they staring at her? With accusation in their eyes? Accusation she so rightly deserved?

She heard the key turning in the lock, a rusty groan. Alexander shifted to face her. “Ye may go inside.”

She met his gaze, realizing she was filled with trepidation now. How could she face her men, now? Did they even know they would soon die?

Alexander suddenly said, “Margaret, ye need not do this.”

She stiffened, condemning herself for her cowardice—when she was hardly going to hang that day. And she did not like the way he had addressed her—so intimately. But she would not dispute him now. She stepped past him.

Instantly, her gaze turned to Sir Neil and Malcolm as she entered the cell. “Are you all right?”

“Lady Margaret, you should not be here,” Sir Neil gasped.

She rushed to him and seized his hands—he had been wounded, she saw, in his shoulder, but it had been bandaged and there was not that much blood. “What happened? You were hurt!”

“Lady—I failed you!” He gripped her hands tightly. “And I beg yer forgiveness, I was to keep you safe, I failed. I was to ride for rescue, and I was captured!” Tears filled his dark blue eyes.

“Sir Neil, you could never fail me,” she cried, meaning it. “You are the bravest knight I know. You fought tirelessly for me. I want to see your wound!”

“It is a scratch,” he said. “Lady Margaret, are ye all right? Have ye been hurt?” Eyes blazing, he looked past her at Alexander with fury.

She hadn’t realized that Alexander stood behind them, openly observing them and listening to their every word. Now Sir Neil was murderous, and if looks could kill, Alexander would be dead. “I have been treated well, Sir Neil, and you must not worry about me.”

He studied her, clearly assessing if she spoke the truth. When he was reassured, he said, “I will always worry about you. I am your vassal. And you are my lady!”

She wanted to hug him, but that would be entirely inappropriate. Instead, she clung to his hands and he kissed each one. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady Margaret. I must know that I am forgiven my failures, before I die.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” She released him now, glancing at Malcolm. “Are you unhurt?”

He nodded. “Ye should not be here, Lady Margaret. The dungeons are no place for a lady.”

She looked past him at the soldiers and archers in the cell. No one was hurt, and for that, she was thankful. “Of course I came to see you. I must speak with you all.”

She took a deep breath. “I have failed you all. I refused to surrender to the mighty Wolf of Lochaber, when I am but a young, untried woman. My pride as a MacDougall knew no bounds. Pride led me to believe we could achieve the impossible—that we could defeat a superior force, that we could defeat the great Wolf.” She fought rising tears.