CHAPTER TWO

      MARGARET STARED ACROSS the castle’s ramparts, feeling as if she had been transported to a different place and an earlier, frightening time. The battlements she had walked earlier no longer resembled any castle she had ever visited in her lifetime. Trembling, she hugged her mantle to her cold body.

      The ramparts were crowded with casks of oil, piles of rock and stone, slings and catapults of various sizes, and a dozen pits for fires. All the women of the keep were present, as were a great deal of children—they had sorted through the rocks and stones, assembling the various piles by size and weight, while preparing the pits for the fires they might later light, some still coming and going with armloads of wood. Although the drawbridge was closed, a small side entrance in the north tower was being used now. Margaret had quickly realized that they could not run out of wood for the fires, or oil, or stones. Not if they were besieged.

      Her archers remained at the walls. Perhaps fortunately—for so she was thinking—they only had two walls to defend. Because the keep was on the cliff overlooking the loch, two of its sides were insurmountable. They had three dozen archers on the vulnerable walls, and quivers of spare arrows were lined up behind each man. Another dozen warriors stood beside the archers, armed with swords, maces and daggers.

      Margaret did not have to ask about the extra dozen soldiers. Although she had never been in a siege, she took one look at them and knew what their use might be: if the walls were successfully scaled, the archers would become useless. The battle for control of the castle would turn into hand-to-hand combat.

      Margaret stared down at the glen, where the huge MacDonald army was gathered. It had not moved for the past three hours.

      How she prayed that meant that William and Sir Ranald were picking off each and every enemy soldier as the Wolf attempted to traverse the ravine.

      She felt a movement behind her and half turned. Malcolm smiled at her. If he was afraid, he had given no sign, but then, everyone seemed terribly brave. Margaret was so impressed with the courage of her people. She hoped that no one knew how her heart thudded, how light-headed she felt—how frightened and nervous she was.

      “Has there been any word?” she whispered. Malcolm had sent two scouts out earlier to report on the ambush.

      “Our watch has not returned,” he said. “But it is a good sign that the Wolf cannot move his men forward.”

      She shivered. Hadn’t she also heard that the Wolf had a terrible temper? He would be furious at being thwarted. Unless, of course, he was dead.

      How she prayed that was the case!

      “Ye should go down, my lady,” Malcolm said kindly. “I ken ye wish to hearten the men and women, but it is growing very cold out, and if ye sicken, ye will dishearten them all.”

      Margaret remarked Sir Neil, on the other side of the ramparts, as he and an elderly Highlander attempted to fix one of the catapults. Peg was with them, apparently telling them how she thought it best repaired. Had the situation not been so dire, Margaret would have been amused, for Peg was so nosy all of the time. And she was also a bit of a tease, and Sir Neil was terribly handsome with his fair complexion and dark hair.

      He had been indefatigable. She did not know him well, but she was impressed with his tireless efforts on behalf of the keep—on her behalf.

      Of course, if they were besieged and defeated, they would all die.

      She looked at Malcolm. “Is it true?” She kept her voice low, so no one would overhear her. “That the Wolf slays all of his enemies—that he never allows the enemy to live?”

      Malcolm hesitated, and she had her answer. “I dinna ken,” he said, with a shrug meant to convey ignorance.

      How could such barbarism be possible? “Have you met him?”

      Malcolm started. “Aye, my lady, I have.”

      “Is he a monster, as claimed?”

      Malcolm’s eyes widened. “Are such claims made? He is a powerful soldier—a man of great courage—and great ambition. ’Tis a shame he is our enemy and not our friend.”

      “I hope he is dead.”

      “He will not die in an ambush, he is far too clever,” Malcolm said flatly. And then his gaze veered past her and he paled.

      Margaret whirled to stare down into the glen and she choked. The army was moving, a slow rippling forward, like a huge wave made of men. “What does that mean?” she cried.

      Before Malcolm could answer, Sir Neil came running across the ramparts with a red-haired Highlander, Peg following them both. “Lady Margaret,” Sir Neil said. “One of our watch has returned and he wishes a word with you!”

      Margaret took one look at the watchman’s frozen face and knew the news was not what she wished for it to be. And while she wanted to shout at him to declare the tidings, she held up her hand. “You are?”

      “Coinneach MacDougall, my lady.”

      “Please, step aside with me. Malcolm, Sir Neil, you may join us.” Her heart was thundering, aware that everyone upon the battlements was gazing at them. She led the three men down the narrow stairwell and into the great hall, where she turned to face them. “What happened?” She kept her tone quiet and calm.

      “The ambush has failed, my lady. The Wolf and his army are passing through the ravine now. Within an hour, they will be at our front gates,” Coinneach said, his expression was one of dismay.

      She knew she must not allow her knees to give way—not now. “Are you certain?”

      “Yes. Some dozen of his knights are in the pass, even now.”

      Margaret stared at him, unseeingly. “My brother? Sir Ranald?”

      “I dinna ken, my lady.”

      She supposed no news was better than the news of their deaths. Please God, she thought, let William and Sir Ranald be alive—please!

      She did not think she could bear it if she lost her brother.

      “Do you know if any of our men are alive?” she asked.

      “I saw a handful of yer knights, my lady, fleeing into the forest.”

      She breathed hard. “They will return here, if they can.” She had no doubt.

      “It might be better if they rode hard and fast for Red John or Argyll,” Sir Neil said. “We will soon be under siege, and they could attack MacDonald from the rear.”

      Maybe her men were not returning, after all. She squashed her instant dismay, turning back to Coinneach. “Is the Wolf—is Alexander MacDonald—alive?”

      “Aye—he is at the very front of his men,” Coinneach said, his blue eyes now reflecting fear.

      She felt sick.

      Footsteps pounded down the stairwell, and they all turned toward the sound. Peg skidded into the hall, her eyes wide. “A man is below, outside the barbican—with a white flag!”

      Margaret was confused. She turned to Malcolm, who said quickly, “The Wolf has sent a messenger ahead, my lady, I have little doubt.”

      She felt her eyes widen. “What could he possibly want?”

      “Yer surrender.”

      * * *

      MARGARET PACED FOR the next half an hour, as she waited for Sir Neil and Malcolm to disarm the messenger—verifying that was what he was—and then bring him safely and securely to her. Peg sat on one of the benches at one of the trestle tables, staring at her, her expression aghast. Margaret was accustomed to her friend’s wit and humor, not to her silence and abject fear.

      She turned as they entered through the front door, having used the narrow side entrance