was badly hurt! His head is bandaged—the linens are red—and so is the bandage on his shoulder. He is as white as a corpse, and he was lying so still, I dinna ken if he was even conscious.”
Margaret leapt up from the bed, pacing wildly. “Damn that Wolf of Lochaber! He said they had tended my brother! I must attend him!”
Peg seized her arm. “If ye seduce him tonight, he will let ye do anything ye want tomorrow—I am certain of it!”
How could she make love to Alexander, when he was keeping her brother prisoner, and denying him care? Oh, she was so angry!
“Ye canna let him see how much ye hate him,” Peg warned.
Peg was right. She had to control her emotions, as rampant as they were.
Peg walked to her and clasped her arm. “I ken yer nervous and worried. I have more news, and some of it is good—I overheard William’s guards speaking. Sir Ranald was one of our knights who escaped after the battle in the ravine.”
“Thank God for that!” Margaret cried. “He must be a day’s riding ahead of Sir Neil!” And she did not think Sir Ranald would try to reach Argyll or Red John—he had known she was sending word to them already. But he would never think to ride all the way to Buchan for rescue. He would probably ride for Fowliss; one of her aunts was married to the Earl of Strathearn.
“Do ye want to hear the rest of it?” Peg asked.
She flinched, for she did not like Peg’s tone—or her distraught look.
Peg barreled grimly on. “Sir Ranald will not be a day ahead of Sir Neil.”
“What are you telling me?” Sir Neil could not be dead!
“Sir Neil is in the dungeons below—he was captured shortly after he tried to flee here.”
Margaret walked to the bed and sank down on it. He wasn’t dead, and she thanked God for that, but he would die tomorrow with the others—if her plan failed.
Peg came and sat down beside her. They hugged. Peg said softly, “Ye canna let Sir Neil hang. He is so young, so handsome, and so loyal to ye.”
“No, I can’t.” And as they stared at one another, it truly struck her—she must seduce her enemy, in order to save her men. She heard the door open adjacent her room.
Alexander had gone to his chamber. Apprehension filled her.
She strained to hear—they both strained to hear—his quiet tones as he spoke with the guard. His voice sounded calm as he spoke.
Margaret remained unmoving, thinking about how cold and ruthless Alexander MacDonald was. She thought about the battle they had waged against one another, and she thought about the legends about him.
Would she really beguile, play and outwit the Wolf of Lochaber? Could she really go up against such a warrior and win?
Hadn’t women seduced men for their own ends, throughout the course of time?
And then she had the oddest recollection—of how dearly her parents had loved one another, and how they were so open about stealing off to make love.
But their marriage had been an unusual one. Few married couples cared for one another. Although most were deeply bonded for political and familial reasons, love was a different matter. Love affairs abounded, and so often defied not just politics and family, but common sense.
This love affair would be entirely political—a seduction meant to save the lives of the men of Castle Fyne.
Margaret stood. “Wish me well.”
Peg seized her hand. “Forget he is the enemy. He is big and handsome—think about that!”
Margaret wished she could, but she could not. As she walked to the door she thought about her uncle Buchan. After what she meant to do, she would probably be sent to a nunnery for the rest of her life. But she had to save her people.
Margaret opened her door and the guard leapt to his feet. “I wish a word with Alexander,” she said with what dignity she could muster. And ignoring any response he might mean to make, as well as his surprise, she walked over to the Wolf’s open door.
He was standing in the center of the chamber, and he had just shed his boots and sword belt. The latter hung on the back of the room’s single chair; the boots were on the floor. He stood barefoot on a fur rug—the stone floors were freezing cold in winter—and he turned to face her, his hands on his waist belt.
Margaret had paused in the doorway. As their eyes met, his gaze did not even flicker, he was so still—and so watchful.
She knew she flushed—her cheeks felt warm. Did he know what she intended?
The bedchamber was strikingly silent now. She stepped inside, aware that he was watching her with the kind of care one reserved for the enemy, and that he hadn’t said a word in response to her appearance.
Margaret closed the door. Then she turned back to the Wolf. “Are you well fed, my lord? Have you had enough to drink?”
He began to smile, now unfastening his belt and tossing it aside, onto the bed. As he did, Margaret stared at the sheathed dagger on it.
“Do ye really wish to play this game?” he asked softly. But his gaze had slipped to her mouth.
He did want her, she thought, stunned. Peg had been right. “It is time for me to accept the fact that I am your prisoner, and in your care. We should not be rivals.” She thought she sounded calm—an amazing feat.
His smile remained, and even as cynical as it was, it changed his hard face. Even she had to admit that he was a striking man. “And now ye wish fer my company?”
“I wish to do what I must do to make my stay with you as pleasant as possible,” Margaret said tersely. There was no point in playing him for a fool—he was hardly that. But he might believe she had decided to make the best of their situation—and seek opportunity in her captivity, through a relationship with him.
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.”
