Margaret stepped back from the tower with Malcolm, her hands at her sides, fists clenched. The courtyard remained eerily silent, except for the groaning of the bridge as it was lowered.
She heard his horse’s hooves first. Then the gray steed appeared, the Wolf astride, his face hard, a dozen Highland knights behind him. The sound of their chargers echoed, and it was deafening.
He crossed the bridge and emerged from the entry tower. He halted the charger before her, leaping from it and striding over to her.
Margaret did not move as he approached, their stares locking. How she hoped to appear brave and defiant—yet how frightened she actually was.
He looked exactly as she had imagined the Wolf of Lochaber to be—he appeared a mighty, indomitable warrior—a legend among men.
There was hostility burning in his blue eyes, and it was chilling. His gaze skimmed over her, from head to toe, and then he held out his hand.
She reached down to her girdle. Her hand trembled. She could not still it so she ignored the obvious sign of her agitation. She detached and then handed him the castle’s great key ring. As she did, their gazes met again, and this time, they held.
“All of Scotland will speak of this day.”
She squared her shoulders, instantly furious. For the first time in its history, Castle Fyne had fallen. For the first time in a hundred years, it was no longer a MacDougall stronghold.
“All of Scotland will speak of the Lady of Fyne and the Wolf of Lochaber and the battle waged betwixt them,” he said.
She trembled. What was he trying to say?
His gaze never moved from her face. “Few men would dare to fight me. The bards will sing of your courage, Lady Margaret.” And grimly, he inclined his head.
Was he showing her respect? She was incredulous. “I have no care for what you think,” she said, hoping she did not spit the words out. “But I have a great care for the men, women and children here—and the wounded, who need immediate attention.”
His gaze narrowed as he studied her. “Yer hatred shows.” Then, “Come with me.” His black-and-blue plaid swinging about his shoulders, he started across the courtyard. The crowd remained silent.
Margaret hesitated, even though the command had been sharply uttered. Then she saw several women bow to him as he passed. He nodded curtly at them.
Margaret realized she must wage a careful game now, to gain his mercy. She hated him, but she must hide it. She walked after him, slowly.
He was already within the great hall, flinging off his plaid. Peg and two other women were hovering nervously there. Fires were burning. “I am hungry,” he said, pacing. “As are my men. Bring food and wine.”
Margaret stood very still, having just entered the hall, as a dozen huge Highlanders came inside. Alexander turned to several of them. “Remove all prisoners to the dungeons, including the wounded,” he said.
“Aye,” Padraig, the messenger, said.
“And inspect every room. Make certain no one is in hiding, and that no weapons are hidden, to be used against us.”
Margaret wished she had thought to hide some weapons to use against him. Padraig and four other Highlanders left.
Then she saw that he had turned his attention to her. “Stay here,” he said. Alexander jerked his head at two men, and went to the north stairwell. He gestured at three more men and vanished up it with them.
Margaret looked across the room at Peg, aware that three other huge enemy Highlanders remained—to guard her. But then, she would hardly be left alone, even if there was no means of escape. Ignoring her guards, she said, “Bring them sustenance. And do your best to keep him pleased.” Peg nodded and rushed off to obey.
MacDonald returned, clearly having gone up to the ramparts to assess it. He spoke with his men, and she heard him ordering a watch, then arranging his garrison within the castle. She hugged herself, trying to overhear him. So many of his men would sleep within the castle walls, but hundreds would be camped outside. As for the excessive watch, was he expecting an attack—perhaps from her uncle Argyll, or Red John, if he had lied about his death?
“Ye fought bravely—ye have the courage of a man—but ye should have surrendered last night.”
She stiffened. “I could not surrender. Castle Fyne was my mother’s, and it was mine.”
“Did ye truly think to best me?”
“I hoped to hold you back until my uncle arrived. This is MacDougall land!”
“’Twas MacDougall land,” he stated, pointing at her. “’Tis MacDonald land now.”
She inhaled, the sound sharp. She now hated the MacDonalds as much as her mother had. “The Lord of Argyll will never let you take this keep from me,” she said, when she could speak. “And my uncle Buchan will be furious. The one or the other, or together, they will take Castle Fyne back.”
“If they attack, I will destroy them.”
She tensed, because it was hard not to believe him. When he made a statement, it was as if he could move a mountain with his bare hands. But he was human; he was not a hero in a legend, even if a legend had been made about him.
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you attack now?” She wanted to know what moved him. “Your brothers are Alasdair Og and Angus Og! You have islands aplenty throughout the high seas! You have lands aplenty, here in Argyll. Castle Fyne has been on your borders for years.”
He folded his massive forearms and said, his gaze chilling, his tone soft, “I have always wanted Castle Fyne. Whoever commands the castle controls the route into Argyll from the sea.”
“You will cause a war.”
He laughed. “Will I? We have been at war for as long as I can recall, you and I—MacDougall against MacDonald.”
“Is this about routes from the sea—or revenge?”
“Yer clever, Lady Margaret. Of course we lust fer revenge.”
She felt ill. “So you seek vengeance now, against my uncle? For the massacre of Clan Donald? Even after all these years—even when my aunt Juliana married your brother?” She heard how high and tight her tone was, hoping to appeal to him with the reference to the marriage between their rival clans.
His chilling smile vanished. “There is more here than vengeance, lady—a kingdom is at stake.”
He was referring to Bruce, but every Highlander she knew cared more for revenge than anything else. “You told me you looked forward to fighting my uncle.”
“I do. Did I not tell ye that a great war rages in the land? That Robert Bruce is in rebellion against King Edward? Castle Fyne is even more important now.”
Her heart slammed. For years, the damned MacDonald lords of the isles had been agents of King Edward, upholding his rule. Could they have suddenly changed their allegiance? “You rebel against King Edward? You favor Bruce, all of a sudden?”
“We ride with Bruce, Lady Margaret. We war for Bruce. Bruce is Scotland’s next lawful king. King Edward will rule us no more.”
Had she seen pride in his eyes? God, what did this mean, for her, for her family? “Is my cousin, Red John Comyn, truly dead, then?”
“Aye, he is truly dead.”
Margaret’s heart thundered. “Did Bruce murder him?”
Staring relentlessly, he nodded.
“Why?” she cried. “Why would Robert Bruce kill the Lord of Badenoch—enraging half of Scotland?”
“He