A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce

her hair more red than gold, her face heart-shaped.

      “We should go,” Will said abruptly, gathering up his reins. “Just in case there is more in the hills than wolves.”

      Margaret followed suit quickly, glancing up at the castle perched high above them. They would be within the safety of its walls in minutes. But before she could urge her mare forward, she recalled the castle in the springtime, with blue and purple wildflowers blooming beneath its walls. And she remembered skipping about the flowers, where a brook bubbled and deer grazed. She smiled, recalling her mother’s soft voice as she called her inside. And her handsome father striding into the hall, his mantle sweeping about him, spurs jangling, her four brothers behind him, everyone exhilarated and speaking at once....

      She blinked back tears. How she missed her father, her brothers and her beloved mother. How she cherished her legacy now. And how pleased Mary would be, to know that her daughter had returned to Loch Fyne.

      But her mother had despised and feared the English. Her family had been at war with the English all her life, only recently coming to a truce. What would Mary think of Margaret’s arranged marriage to an Englishman?

      She turned to face William, discomfited by her emotions, and in so doing, glanced back at the sixty men and women in the cavalcade behind them. It had been a difficult journey, due mostly to the cold winter and the snow, and she knew that the soldiers and servants were eager to reach the castle. She had not visited the stronghold in a good ten years, and she was eager to reach its warm halls, too. But not just to revisit her few memories. She was worried about her people. Several servants had already complained of frozen fingers and toes.

      She would tend them immediately, once they reached the great keep, just as she had seen her mother do.

      But the anxiety that had afflicted her for the past few weeks would not go away. She could not pretend that she was not worried about her impending marriage. She meant to be grateful. She knew she was fortunate. Her uncle controlled most of the north of Scotland, his affairs were vast, and he could have simply ignored her circumstances once both her parents had passed. He could have kept her at his home, Balvenie, in some remote tower, and established his own steward at Castle Fyne. He could have sent her to Castle Bain, which William had inherited from their father. Instead, he had decided upon an advantageous political union—one that would elevate her status, as well as serve the great Comyn family.

      But another pang went through her as she walked her mare forward on the narrow path leading up to the castle. Her uncle Buchan also despised the English—until this truce, he had warred against them for years. The sudden allegiance made her uneasy.

      “I think Castle Fyne is beautiful,” she said, hoping she sounded calm and sensible. “Even if it has come to some neglect since Mother’s death.” She would repair every rotten timber, every chipped stone.

      “You would.” William grimaced and shook his head. “You are so much like our mother.”

      Margaret considered that high flattery, indeed. “Mother always loved this place. If she could have resided here, and not at Bain with Father, she would have.”

      “Mother was a MacDougall when she married our father, and she was a MacDougall when she died,” William said, somewhat impatiently. “She had a natural affinity for this land, much like you. Still, you are a Comyn first, and Bain suits you far more than this pile of rock and stone—even if we need it to defend our borders.” He studied her seriously. “I still cannot fathom why you wished to come here. Buchan could have sent anyone. I could have come without you.”

      “When our uncle decided upon this union, I felt the need to come here. Perhaps just to see it for myself, through a woman’s eyes, not a child’s.” She did not add that she had wanted to return to Castle Fyne ever since their mother had died a year and a half ago.

      Margaret had grown up in a time of constant war. She could not even count the times the English King Edward had invaded Scotland during her lifetime, or the number of rebellions and revolts waged by men like Andrew Moray, William Wallace and Robert Bruce. Three of her brothers had died fighting the English—Roger at Falkirk, Thomas at the battle of River Cree and Donald in the massacre at Stirling Castle.

      Their mother had taken a silly cold after Donald’s death. The cough had gotten worse and worse, a fever had joined it, and she had never recovered. That summer, she had simply passed on.

      Margaret knew their mother had lost her will to live after the death of three of her sons. And her husband had loved her so much that he had not been able to go on without her. Six weeks later, on a red-and-gold autumn day, their father had gone hunting. He had broken his neck falling from his horse while chasing a stag. Margaret believed he had been deliberately reckless—that he had not cared whether he lived or died.

      “At least we are at peace now,” she said into the strained silence.

      “Are we?” Will asked, almost rudely. “There was no choice but to sue for peace, after the massacre at Stirling Castle. As Buchan said, we must prove our loyalty to King Edward now.” His eyes blazed. “And so he has tossed you off to an Englishman.”

      “It is a good alliance,” Margaret pointed out. It was true her uncle Buchan had warred against King Edward for years, but during this time of truce, he wished to protect the family by forging such an allegiance.

      “Oh, yes, it is an excellent alliance! You will become a part of a great English family! Sir Guy is Aymer de Valence’s bastard brother, and Aymer not only has the ear of the king, he will probably be the next Lord Lieutenant of Scotland. How clever Buchan is.”

      “Why are you doing this, now?” she cried, shaken. “I have a duty to our family, Will, and I am Buchan’s ward! Surely, you do not wish for me to object?”

      “Yes, I want you to object! English soldiers killed our brothers.”

      Will had always had a temper. He was not the most rational of young men. “If I can serve our family in this time of peace, I intend to do so,” she said. “I will hardly be the first woman to marry a rival for political reasons.”

      “Ah, so you finally admit that Sir Guy is a rival?”

      “I am trying to do my duty, Will. There is peace in the land, now. And Sir Guy will be able to fortify and defend Castle Fyne—we will be able to keep our position here in Argyll.”

      He snorted. “And if you were ordered to the gallows? Would you meekly go?”

      Her tension increased. Of course she would not meekly go to the gallows—and initially, she had actually considered approaching her uncle and attempting to dissuade him from this course. But no woman in her position would ever do such a thing. The notion was insane. Buchan would not care for her opinion, and he would be furious with her.

      Besides, so many Scots had lost their titles and lands in the years before the recent peace, forfeited to the Crown, to be given to King Edward’s allies. Buchan had not lost a single keep. Instead, he was marrying his niece to a great English knight. If a bargain had been made, it was a good one—for everyone, including herself.

      “So, Meg—what will you do if after you are married, Sir Guy thinks to keep you at his estate in Liddesdale?”

      Margaret felt her heart lurch. She had been born at Castle Bain in the midst of Buchan territory. Nestled amidst the great forests there, Castle Bain was her father’s birthright and her home. Their family had also spent a great deal of time at Balvenie, the magnificent stronghold just to the east where Buchan so often resided.

      Both of those Comyn castles were very different from Castle Fyne, but they were all as Scottish as the Highland air she was now breathing. The forests were thick and impenetrable. The mountains were craggy, peaks soaring. The lochs below were stunning in their serenity. The skies were vividly blue, and no matter the time of year, the winds were brisk and chilling.

      Liddesdale was in the borderlands—it was practically the north of England. It was a flat land filled with villages, farms and pastures. Upon being knighted, Sir Guy had been awarded