A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce

had to sit down. Suddenly it felt as if her entire world had been turned upside down. The patriarch of her family had been murdered, and his bitter rival was on the march, seeking the throne, intending to win it by war. Dear God, Robert Bruce was in open rebellion against England.

      And, apparently, Alexander MacDonald and his clan were his allies.

      And Bruce surely approved of the attack on Castle Fyne. The great Comyn family had always been his enemy. He would be seizing what castles and garrisons he could. He would want MacDonald, his ally, to control a major route into Argyll from the south and the islands.

      Margaret walked past him and sat down at the table, shaken. What did all of this mean? How did this affect her, her family and Castle Fyne? Especially now that she was his hostage?

      In one fell swoop, all the alliances and allegiances of the past decade had changed. As for rescue, he had said her uncle Argyll would not come now. Was it possible? He had always hated the English. But he would never ally himself and his kin with his blood enemy—Clan Donald. Was her family truly on England’s side, as well?

      She considered Buchan now—her uncle would be furious over his cousin’s murder. He had always despised Robert Bruce—he had despised his father. Her powerful guardian would be plotting revenge against him. Of that she had no doubt. He would never stand idly by and allow Bruce to become Scotland’s king. Saving her would be the last thing on the Earl of Buchan’s mind.

      She shivered. William’s words from the day before echoed. He is throwing you away!

      Her heart lurched as she thought of Sir Guy—her only ally.

      They had never met. They had exchanged two letters. In them, he had been a courteous suitor, but that meant nothing now. What did this war mean for their marriage? Sir Guy was in King Edward’s service, that could not change, not when his brother Aymer de Valence was commander of Berwick. So Sir Guy would be summoned to fight Bruce.

      Would Sir Guy still wish to marry her? If so, he would attempt to take Castle Fyne back!

      Suddenly Alexander MacDonald settled on the bench opposite her.

      She tensed, acutely aware of his proximity. “What happens now?”

      He sipped from his wine and said, “Bruce will march on his enemies. He will seek to gather up allies.”

      “Will you join him?”

      He met her gaze. “I will join him, lady, when I am certain Castle Fyne is secure.”

      She refrained from telling him that the castle would never be secure in his possession—not as long as she lived. “Where is Bruce now?” Sir Guy would probably be with the king’s men, battling against him.

      “When I left Dumfries, he was riding for Castle Ayr, while others riding with him were attacking Tibbers, Rothesay and Inverskip.”

      She felt more despair. With Bruce on the march, she could not count on rescue from Sir Guy, either.

      “Ye have not asked about yer future husband, lady. Surely ye wonder if he will come to rescue ye?”

      She knew this was a trap. And she did not like his guessing her thoughts. “How can he come? He fights for the king. He must be at Castle Ayr now.”

      “Have you no care for his welfare? Do ye wish to ask if he is hurt or unharmed?”

      She tensed. “How would you know if he has been wounded?”

      “I fought him at Dumfries. Ye will be pleased—he rode away with nary a scratch.” His gaze was steady upon her face.

      She was acutely aware of the fact that she had not given a single thought to her betrothed’s welfare. “I am pleased,” she finally said. She suddenly blinked back hot tears, as much from frustration as despair. There was another reason Sir Guy might not come to her rescue—without Castle Fyne, she had no dowry, and she had no value as a bride.

      She felt a moment of panic; she forced it aside. Buchan would pay her ransom, sooner or later. “When will you seek to ransom me and William?”

      He leaned against the wall. “I haven’t decided what I wish to do with ye.”

      She gasped. She had assumed he would ransom her—it was the most common course of action, in such an instance. “I am a valuable hostage.”

      He could have refuted her claim. Instead, he said, “Yer a very valuable prize, lady. I have yet to decide what will be best for me.”

      She was reeling. If he did not ransom her, she could be his prisoner for months—for years! “Am I now to be your pawn, in the years of war that will come?”

      “Perhaps,” he said.

      She was so distraught that more tears were arising. She fought them, aware of how exhausted she was. She had already fought this man once that day, in real battle, and it had been the longest day of her life. Yet now, she fought him again. “And what of the other prisoners? What of my brother?”

      “What of them?” He shifted in his seat, signaling Peg for more wine.

      Peg hurried over. As she poured the wine, Margaret said, “When can I see William? I would like to tend his wounds.”

      “Tend his wounds? Or plot and plan against me?”

      She tensed. “I do not even know how badly he was hurt. Where is he?”

      “I am having him moved to a chamber in the entry tower,” Alexander said. “He will remain there, under guard.”

      She hadn’t expected him to be removed to the dungeons with the other prisoners, as he was a nobleman. “When will he be moved?”

      He slowly smiled the smile she had come to hate. It was so cold. “Ye cannot see him, Lady Margaret. I will not allow it.”

      She was in disbelief. “You would deny me the chance to attend my brother—when he has been wounded?”

      He stared at her. “Aye, I would.”

      She gasped. “I have lost three brothers, as well as both my parents. He is my only brother, and I beg you to reconsider. I do not even know how badly he was hurt!”

      “Then ye need ask and I will tell ye. He suffered a gash from a sword on his leg, lady, as well as a blow to his head. And he has been properly attended.”

      “But I am accustomed to taking care of the wounded! Please—let me attend him!”

      “So will ye give me yer word that ye will not plot against me? That ye will not plan on how best to overthrow me?”

      She tensed. Of course they would discuss how to best overthrow him, damn him!

      “I dinna think so.”

      Margaret could not move, still stunned by his refusal. “And if I beg?”

      “Yer pleas will not be heard.” He was final. “Sit down, Lady Margaret, before ye fall down.”

      Margaret was so angry she shook, but she knew she must hold her tongue now—when she wished to accuse him of cruelty, when she wished to curse him for all he had done. “And what of the rest of your prisoners? What of my archers and soldiers and Malcolm? What of Buchan’s knights whom you captured in the ravine?”

      He now stood up. “They hang tomorrow at noon.”

      She did not cry out. She had expected such an answer. In war, the enemy was often executed. And he had told her, point-blank, that if she did not surrender, he would spare no one. “And if I beg you for mercy for them? If I beg you to spare their lives?”

      “Mercy,” he said softly, “makes a warrior weak.”

      She inhaled, staring; he stared back. “I cannot allow you to execute my people.”

      “You cannot allow or forbid me anything. I am lord and master here.”

      She