A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce

enemy. Standing just a hand-span from the edge of the crenellated wall, she looked down.

      Several hundred men were assembled between the barbican and the forest. In the very front they stood on foot, holding shields, but behind them the soldiers were mounted on horseback. Above the first columns a white flag waved, and beside it, so did a huge black-and-navy-blue banner, a fiery red dragon in its center.

      And then Margaret saw him.

      The rest of the army vanished from her sight. Frozen, she saw only one man—the Highlander called the Wolf of Lochaber.

      Alexander MacDonald was the tallest, biggest, darkest one of all, standing in the front row of his army, in its very center. And he was staring up at her.

      Black hair touched his huge shoulders, blood stained his leine and swords, a shield was strapped to one brawny forearm, and he was smiling at her.

      “Lady Comyn,” he called to her. “Yer as fair as is claimed.”

      She trembled. He was exactly as one would have expected—taller than most, broader of shoulder, a mass of muscle from years spent wielding swords and axes, his hair as black as the devil’s. His smile was chilling, a mere curling of his mouth. She stared down at him, almost transfixed.

      And when he did not speak again, when he only stared—and when she realized she was speechlessly staring back—she flushed and found her tongue. “I have no use for your flattery.”

      The cool smile reappeared. “Are ye prepared to surrender to me?”

      Her mind raced wildly—how could she navigate this subject? “You will never take this keep. My uncle is on his way, even as we speak. So is the great Lord Badenoch.”

      “If ye mean yer uncle of Argyll, I canna wait. I look forward to taking off his head!” he exclaimed, with such relish, she knew he meant his every word. “And I dinna think the mighty Lord of Badenoch will come.”

      What did that mean? She shuddered. “Where is my brother?”

      “He is safely in my keeping, Lady Comyn, although he has suffered some wounds.”

      She was so relieved she had to grip the wall to remain standing upright. “He is your prisoner?”

      “Aye, he is my prisoner.”

      “How badly is he hurt?”

      “He will live.” He added, more softly, “I would never let such a valuable prisoner die.”

      “I wish to see him,” she cried.

      He shook his head. “Yer in no position to wish fer anything, Lady Comyn. I am here to negotiate yer surrender.”

      She trembled. She wanted to know how badly William was hurt. She wanted to see him. And hadn’t Malcolm said that the Wolf was a liar? “I will not discuss surrender, not until you have proven to me that my brother is alive.”

      “Ye dinna take my word?”

      She clutched the edge of the wall. “No, I do not accept your word.”

      “So ye think me a liar,” he said, softly, and it was a challenge.

      Margaret felt Sir Neil step up behind her. “Show me my brother, prove to me he is alive,” she said.

      “Ye tread dangerously,” he finally said. “I will show ye Will, after ye surrender.”

      She breathed hard.

      He slowly smiled. “I have six hundred men—ye have dozens. I am the greatest warrior in the land—yer a woman, a very young one. Yet I am offering ye terms.”

      “I haven’t heard terms,” she managed to say.

      That terrible smile returned. “Surrender now, and ye will be free to leave with an escort. Surrender now, and yer people will be as free to leave. Refuse, and ye will be attacked. In defeat, no one will be spared.”

      Margaret managed not to cry out. How could she respond—when she did not plan to surrender?

      If only she knew for certain that Argyll and Red John were on their way with their own huge armies! But even if they were, for how long could she withstand the Wolf’s attack? Could they manage until help arrived?

      For if they did not, if he breached her walls, he meant to spare no one—and he had just said so.

      “Delay,” Sir Neil whispered.

      Instantly Margaret understood. “You are right,” she called down. “You are known as the greatest warrior in the land, and I am a woman of seventeen.” How wary and watchful he had become. “I cannot decide what to do. If I were your prisoner and my brother were here in my stead, he would not surrender, of that I am certain.”

      “Are ye truly thinking to outwit me?” he demanded.

      “I am only a woman. I would not be so foolish as to think I could outwit the mighty Wolf of Lochaber.”

      “So now ye mock me?”

      She trembled, wishing she hadn’t inflected upon the word mighty.

      “Yer answer, Lady Margaret,” he warned.

      She choked. “I need time! I will give you an answer in the morning!” By morning, maybe help would have arrived.

      “Ye call me a liar and think me a fool? Lady Margaret, the land is at war. Robert Bruce has seized Dumfries Castle—and Red John Comyn is dead.”

      She cried out, her world suddenly spinning. “Now you lie!” What he claimed was impossible!

      “Yer great Lord of Badenoch died in the Greyfriars Church at Dumfries, four days ago.”

      She turned in disbelief. Sir Neil looked as stunned as she was. Could the patriarch of their family be dead? If so, Red John was not coming to her aid! “What do you mean—Red John died? He was in good health!”

      Slowly, the Wolf smiled. “So ye want the facts? Ye’ll hear soon enough. He was murdered, Lady Comyn, by Bruce, although he did not deliver the final, fatal blows.”

      Margaret’s shock knew no bounds. Had Robert Bruce murdered Red John Comyn?

      If so, the land would most definitely be at war!

      “Bruce is on the march, Lady Comyn, and yer uncle, the MacDougall, is on the march, as well—in Galloway.” He stared coldly up at her. “And do ye not wish to know where yer beloved Sir Guy is?”

      Sir Neil had taken her arm, as if to hold her upright.

      “He was also at Dumfries, sent there to defend the king.”

      She had not given her betrothed a thought since that morning. Had Sir Guy fought Bruce at Dumfries? If so, he was but two days away. She did not know what the Highlander was implying, but Sir Guy would surely come to her rescue. “This castle is a part of my dowry. Sir Guy will not let it fall.”

      “Sir Guy fights Bruce, still. Argyll is in battle in Galloway. The Lord of Badenoch is dead. Ye have no hope.”

      Now she truly needed time to think—and attempt to discover if his claims were true. For if they were, she was alone, and Castle Fyne would fall.

      “He could be lying,” Sir Neil said, but there was doubt in his tone.

      She met his gaze and realized he was frightened after all. But then, so was she. She turned back to the Highlander standing below her walls. “I need a few hours in which to decide,” she said hoarsely.

      “Yer time is done. I demand an answer, lady.”

      She began shaking her head. “I don’t want to defy you.”

      “Then accept my generous terms and surrender.”

      She bit her lip and tasted her own blood. And she felt hundreds of pairs of eyes upon her—every man in his army stared at her—as did every man, woman and