A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce

empty, as was the sheath on his belt where a dagger should hang.

      When he saw her he smiled, but not pleasantly. Margaret shivered.

      “Margaret of Bain?” he asked.

      She nodded. “Do you come from the Wolf?”

      “Aye, I do. I am Padraig MacDonald. He wishes to parley, Lady Margaret, and I am instructed to tell you as much. If you agree, he will bring three men, and you may bring three men, as well. He will keep his army below the barbican, and you can meet just outside its walls.”

      Margaret stared, incredulous. Then she glanced at Malcolm and Sir Neil. “Is this a trap?”

      “Parleys are not uncommon,” Malcolm said. “But the Wolf is canny—he doesn’t keep his word.”

      “It is a trap,” Sir Neil said firmly. “You cannot go!”

      Margaret could not even swallow now. She faced the messenger. “Why does he wish to parley? What does he want?” As she spoke, Peg came to stand beside her, as if protectively.

      “I was told to offer you a parley, lady, that is all. I dinna ken what he will speak of.”

      Parleys might not be uncommon amongst warriors, but she was not a warrior, she was a woman—and her every instinct was to refuse.

      “You cannot go,” Sir Neil said again, blue eyes flashing. “He will take you hostage, lady, faster than you can blink an eye!”

      It was so hard to think! She stared at Sir Neil. Then she looked at the messenger, Padraig. “Please stand aside.”

      Malcolm took him by the arm and moved him out of earshot. Margaret stepped closer to Sir Neil, with Peg. Breathing hard, she said, “Is there any way I could meet him and we could take him prisoner?”

      From the look in Sir Neil’s eyes, Margaret knew he thought she had gone mad.

      Peg said, “Margaret! He is the Wolf! Ye will never ambush him! He will take ye prisoner, and then what?”

      “Dinna even think of turning the tables on him, lady,” Malcolm said, having returned.

      Margaret glanced briefly at the messenger, who was staring—and almost smirking—at them. What did he know that they did not? “Is there any way we could parley without my being in danger of being taken captive?”

      “It is too dangerous,” Sir Neil said swiftly. “I swore to Sir Ranald that I would keep you safe. I cannot let you meet the Wolf!”

      “Margaret, please! I am but a woman, and even I know this is a trap!” Peg cried.

      “Even if it is not a trap, too much can go wrong,” Malcolm said, sounding calm in comparison to the rest of them.

      He was right. And Margaret was afraid to step outside the castle walls. Besides, she would never convince the damned Wolf to retreat. She squared her shoulders and left the group, walking over to the waiting Highlander. As she approached, his eyes narrowed.

      Margaret smiled coldly at him. “Tell the great Wolf of Lochaber that Lady Comyn has refused. She will not parley.”

      “He will be displeased.”

      She refrained from shivering. “But I wish to know what he wants. Therefore, you may return to convey his message to me.”

      “I dinna think he will wish for me to speak with ye again.”

      What did that mean? Would the Wolf now attack? Her gaze had locked with Padraig’s. His was chilling.

      A moment later, Sir Neil and Malcolm were escorting him out. The moment he was gone, Margaret collapsed upon the bench. Peg rushed to sit beside her, taking her hands. “Oh, what are we going to do?”

      Margaret couldn’t speak. Was the Wolf now preparing to attack her? He certainly hadn’t come this far to turn around and go away! And what of William and Sir Ranald? If only they were all right! “Maybe I should have met him,” she heard herself say hoarsely.

      “I would never let ye meet with him!” Peg cried, now close to tears. “He is an awful man, and all of Scotland knows it!”

      “If you cry now, I will slap you silly,” Margaret almost shouted, meaning her every word.

      Peg sat up abruptly. The tears that had seemed imminent did not fall.

      “I need you, Peg,” Margaret added.

      Peg stared and attempted to compose herself. “Can I bring ye wine?”

      Margaret wasn’t thirsty, but she smiled. “Thank you.” The moment Peg had left, she stood up and inhaled.

      Oh, God, what would happen next? Could she possibly defend the castle—at least until help arrived? And what if help did not arrive?

      Surely, eventually, her maternal uncle, Alexander MacDougall of Argyll, would come. He despised every MacDonald on this earth. He would wish to defend the keep; he would want to battle with them.

      Red John Comyn would also come to her aid if he knew what was happening. He was her uncle’s closest ally and his cousin. But time was of the essence. They had to receive word of her plight now. They had to assemble and move their armies now!

      Her head ached terribly. There were so many decisions to make. The weight of such responsibility was crushing. And to think that in the past, she had never made a decision greater than what she wished to wear or what to serve for the supper meal!

      Booted steps sounded, and with dread—she now recognized the urgency in Sir Neil’s stride—she turned as he stormed into the hall. “He is at the bridge, below your walls—and he wishes to speak with you.”

      She froze. “Who?” But oh, she knew!

      “MacDonald,” he said, eyes blazing.

      Her stomach churned and her heart turned over hard. Only a quarter of an hour had passed since Padraig had left. If the Wolf of Lochaber was outside her gates, clearly he had been there all along.

      And suddenly, like a small, frightened child, she felt like refusing the request. She wanted to go to her chamber and hide.

      “I can take you up to the ramparts,” Sir Neil said bluntly.

      It crossed her dazed mind that Sir Neil would only suggest such a course of action if it was safe, and of course, if the Wolf wished to parley now, she must go. She fought to breathe. It was safe for her to be high up on the ramparts, surrounded by her knights and archers, as they spoke. She felt herself nod at Sir Neil.

      But as they started for the stairwell, comprehension seized her. She halted abruptly. How could it be safe for him to come to her castle walls?

      He would be exposed to her archers and knights.

      She looked at Sir Neil with sudden hope. “Can our archers strike him while we speak?”

      Sir Neil started. “They are waving a flag of truce.”

      What she had suggested was dishonorable, and she knew Sir Neil thought so. “But is it possible?”

      “He will undoubtedly be carrying a shield, and he will be surrounded by his men. The shot would not be an easy one. Will you violate the truce?”

      She wondered if she was dreaming. She was actually considering breaking a truce and murdering a man. But she knew she must not stoop to such a level.

      She had been raised to be a noble woman—a woman of her word, a woman of honor, a woman gentle and kind, a woman who would always do her duty. She could not murder the Wolf during a truce.

      Finding it difficult to breathe evenly, Margaret went up the narrow stairwell, Sir Neil behind her. As she stepped outside onto the ramparts, it was at once frigidly cold and uncannily silent. There was light, but no sun. Her archers remained, as did her dozen soldiers and the women and children who had been present earlier. But it almost seemed as if no one moved or breathed.