in the chest. She kicked her mare forward, hurrying after him, aware that he wasn’t as angry as he was afraid.
But she was afraid, too. If there was another war, her loyalty was going to be put to a terrible test. And sooner or later, there would be another war—she simply knew it. Peace never lasted, not in Scotland.
Dismay overcame her. Could she be loyal to her family and her new husband? And if so, how? Wouldn’t she have to put her new husband first?
Her gaze had become moist. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, reminding herself that she was a grown woman, a Comyn and a MacDougall, and she had a duty to her family now—and to herself. “We will never be enemies, Will.”
He glanced back at her grimly. “We had better pray that something arises to disrupt your marriage, Meg.”
Suddenly Sir Ranald, one of Buchan’s young knights—a handsome freckled Scot of about twenty-five—rode up to them. “William! Sir Neil thinks he has seen a watch in the trees atop the hill!”
Margaret’s heart lurched with a new fear as William paled and cursed. “I knew it was too damn quiet! Is he certain?”
“He is almost certain—and a watch would scare the wildlife away.”
Sir Ranald had ridden in front of them, blocking their way, and they had stopped on the narrow path. Margaret now realized that the forest surrounding them wasn’t just quiet, it was unnaturally silent—unnervingly so.
“Who would be watching us?” Margaret whispered harshly. But she did not have to ask—she knew.
MacDonald land was just beyond the ridge they rode below.
Margaret looked at Sir Ranald, who returned her gaze, his grim. “Who else but a MacDonald?”
Margaret shivered. The enmity between her mother’s family and the MacDonald clan went back hundreds of years. The son of Angus Mor, Alexander Og—known as Alasdair—was Lord of Islay, and his brother Angus Og was Lord of Kintyre. The bastard brother, Alexander MacDonald, was known as the Wolf of Lochaber. The MacDougalls had been warring against the MacDonalds over lands in Argyll for years.
She looked up at the forest-clad hillside. She saw nothing and no one in the snowy firs above.
“We only have a force of fifty men,” Will said grimly. “But there are four dozen men garrisoned at the castle—or so we think.”
“Let’s hope that Sir Neil saw a hunter from a hunting party,” Sir Ranald said. “Master William, you and your sister need to be behind the castle walls as soon as possible.”
William nodded, glancing at Margaret. “We should ride immediately for the keep.”
They were in danger, for if the MacDonald brothers meant to attack, they would do so with far more than fifty men. Margaret glanced fearfully around. Not even a branch was moving on the hillside. “Let us go,” she agreed.
Sir Ranald stood in his stirrups, half turning to face the riders and wagons below. He held up his hand and flagged the cavalcade forward.
Will spurred his bay stallion into a trot, and Margaret followed.
* * *
IT REMAINED ABSOLUTELY silent as their cavalcade passed through the barbican, approaching the raised drawbridge before the entry tower. Margaret was afraid to speak, wondering at the continuing silence, for word had been sent ahead by messenger, declaring their intention to arrive. Of course, messages could be intercepted, and messengers could be waylaid—even though the land was supposedly at “peace.” But then heads began popping up on the ramparts of the castle walls, adjacent the gatehouse. And then murmurs and whispers could be heard.
“’Tis Buchan’s nephew and niece....”
“’Tis Lady Margaret and Master William Comyn....”
Their cavalcade had halted, most of it wedged into the barbican. Sir Ranald cupped his hands and shouted up at the tower, to whomever was on watch there. “I am Sir Ranald of Kilfinnan, and I have in my keeping Lady Margaret Comyn and her brother, Master William. Lower the bridge for your mistress.”
Whispers sounded from the ramparts. The great drawbridge groaned as it was lowered. Margaret saw some children appear on the battlements above, as she gazed around, suddenly making eye contact with an older woman close to the entry tower. The woman’s eyes widened; instinctively, Margaret smiled.
“’Tis Lady Mary’s daughter!” the old woman cried.
“’Tis Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” another man cried, with more excitement.
“Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” others cried.
Margaret felt her heart skid wildly when she realized what was happening—these good folk remembered her mother, their mistress, whom they had revered and loved, and she was being welcomed by them all now. Her vision blurred.
These were her kin. These were her people, just as Castle Fyne was hers. They were welcoming her, and in return, she must see to their welfare and safety, for she was their lady now.
She smiled again, blinking back the tears. From the ramparts, someone cheered. More cheers followed.
Sir Ranald grinned at her. “Welcome to Castle Fyne, Lady,” he teased.
She quickly wiped her eyes and recovered her composure. “I had forgotten how much they adored my mother. Now I remember that they greeted her this way, with a great fanfare, when I was a child, when she returned here.”
“She was a great lady, so I am not surprised,” Sir Ranald said. “Everyone loved Lady Mary.”
William touched her elbow. “Wave,” he said softly.
She was startled, but she lifted her hand tentatively and the crowd on the ramparts and battlements and in the entry tower roared with approval. Margaret was taken aback. She felt herself flush. “I am hardly a queen.”
“No, but this is your dowry and you are their mistress.” William smiled at her. “And they have not had a lady of the manor in years.”
He gestured, indicating that she should precede him, and lead the way over the drawbridge into the courtyard. Margaret was surprised, and she looked at Sir Ranald, expecting him to lead the way. He grinned again, with a dimple, and then deferentially bowed his head. “After you, Lady Margaret,” he said.
Margaret nudged her mare forward, the crowd cheering again as she crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard. She felt her heart turn over hard. She halted her mare and dismounted before the wooden steps leading up to the great hall’s front entrance. As she did, the door opened and several men hurried out, a tall, gray-haired Scot leading the way.
“Lady Margaret, we have been expecting ye,” he said, beaming. “I am Malcolm MacDougall, yer mother’s cousin many times removed, and steward of this keep.”
He was clad only in the traditional linen leine most Highlanders wore, with knee-high boots and a sword hanging from his belt. Although bare-legged, and without a plaid, he clearly did not mind the cold as he came down the steps and dropped to one knee before her. “My lady,”
