Brenda Joyce - A Rose in the Storm

“He has attacked and taken my castle. Many of my men have died. I could hardly sing him songs and serve him sweetmeats.”

Peg rolled her eyes. “Fer such a clever lady, yer such a fool!”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that he has been looking at ye all night long as if yer a tasty morsel and he’s truly a wolf. He wants ye.”

Margaret stared, shocked. “What are you trying to say?”

“If ye pleased him, lady, he would probably go to London and back for ye—or even Rome!”

Her heart raced. “Are you suggesting...a liaison?” She could barely get the word out.

But wasn’t seduction a ploy used by women since the beginning of time?

Margaret stared as Peg got up. “I am going to bring you soup and bread,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard the question.

“No, wait,” Margaret said uneasily. “Do you really think I could change his mind if I...slept with him?”

“Aye, I do—as long as ye kiss and caress him wildly.” She gave her a look. “If ye spit at him, he’ll hardly wish to please ye tomorrow!”

Margaret shuddered. She had to save her men’s lives. But could she use her body in such a manner? Would she even be able to tolerate his touch? But now, his proud image flashed in her mind, as she had seen him standing before her castle walls. Most women would find him attractive. She might even think him handsome, if they were not mortal enemies. “I am supposed to marry Sir Guy in June,” she managed to say.

Peg shrugged. “So? Ye hate having to marry an Englishman anyway.”

She grimaced. Peg was so brutally honest! “Yes, I dread having to marry an Englishman. But that is not hatred.” She added, “If there is a man whom I hate, it is Alexander MacDonald.”

“I think it’s the same. And have ye noticed that he’s handsome?”

Margaret gave her an incredulous look. “No,” she lied. She pulled a cover up, as it was cold. She now realized she was in a small chamber adjacent to the one she had claimed as her own upon her return to Castle Fyne. MacDonald must have taken the other chamber. “Buchan will be equally furious,” she said slowly. Was Peg right? Could she seduce the mighty Wolf to her will? Would he be so pleased with her tomorrow that he would change his mind about executing her men?

“Aye, he will be angry—mayhap more than Sir Guy! But if ye want to save Malcolm and the others, what other hope is there?”

She imagined her powerful guardian in a rage. She had seen it before, and she shuddered. She wasn’t sure what he would do, but he would consider her behavior treachery.

“What will ye do?” Peg asked.

“I don’t know—but I do not have much time to think about it.” But even as she spoke, she knew there was no decision to make. Doing nothing was not a choice. She had to make another attempt to persuade her captor not to execute her men.

Margaret slid from the bed. “Peg, one more thing. Can you go to the entry tower and attempt to see William?”

Peg nodded. “I will set a soup to boil first.”

Margaret watched her leave. Then she walked to the door, and glanced into the narrow hall outside. It was lit by rushes set on sconces, against the walls. A big Highlander sat there on a stool, and he smiled at her politely when she saw him.

She had a guard.

Then she glanced at the adjacent chamber—her room. Alexander wasn’t within—he was downstairs still, in the great hall—but she stared at the bed in the center of the room, trying to imagine going to him that night.

She couldn’t.

* * *

IT WAS A good hour before Peg returned, and when she did, she held a platter in her hand, a bowl steaming in its midst. Although sick with worry and lacking any appetite, the moment Margaret smelled the savory aromas of the mutton soup, she felt a hunger pang.

Peg used her hip to push the door closed; outside, Margaret’s Scot guard was staring at them. Then she came and set the tray down on the bed.

“Thank you,” Margaret said, taking up a piece of bread and dipping it in the soup. There was no knife on the tray, but she couldn’t be surprised at that. “Is he still downstairs?”

“They have finished eating and drinking, most of his men are going to bed for the night. He will probably be up shortly,” Peg said. Her regard was questioning.

Margaret felt an immediate tension as she lifted the bowl to drink the soup. Then she set it down. “There is no decision to make. I cannot stand by and simply wait for tomorrow to come, and hope that God will bring some great cataclysm upon us, interfering with the executions.”

Peg nodded. “I think ye should go to him. Maybe ye’ll enjoy being in his arms, even if he is the enemy.”

Margaret did not want to even consider such a possibility, which was unlikely, in any case. She dipped another piece of bread in the soup. “Did you see William?”

Peg hesitated, and Margaret was instantly alarmed. She set aside her food. “Peg!”

“I saw him, Margaret, but we did not speak. They were bringing him food and water, so the door to his chamber was open.”

“What is it?” Margaret tried to hold her anxiety in check.

“He 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.