A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce
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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