Chapter Ten

R estored by a bit of bacon, a bannock, and a swallow of ale, Duncan headed up the stairs to free Euphemia. Opening the door, he heard laughter and saw Margaret seated while Effie stood combing and braiding the rich length of her hair. Seeing Duncan, Effie finished her task, took up the tray, and went to the door.

"Lady Margaret," she said as she left. The girl smiled, but when Duncan gave her a nod, she looked away with a tilted chin.

He followed Effie outside, barred the door, and took the tray as they descended the steps. Once past the central stone pillar and out of earshot, Effie paused on the downward step and turned to face him.

"So, Lady Margaret Keith. She was your betrothed, the one you—"

"That was years ago. Did she mention it?"

"Not to me. She only said she needed the protection of guising as a lad. Some women must resort to that. Men can be fools," she added. "She also said you brought her here against her will. I did not press her because she is tired and in pain. But I want the truth from you. Did you bring her here by force? Though I cannot see it of you."

"I did not, Effie. She wounded a man, so she is in my custody for now. That is all."

"Is it? The air was thick enough to slice through between you two. You lock her in like a criminal. Bran thinks you brought a lad up from the end of the loch to help here. Lennox avoided my question, so he knows something. What is it?" Hand on hip, she blocked his way.

"She entered an archery contest and shot Sir John Menteith," he said as Euphemia gasped. "She claims it was an accident. But I cannot leave her in Menteith's jurisdiction until I know what happened. I do not trust the man. So I brought her up the loch. Even so, he could come looking for her here. He thinks she is a lad."

"If it was an accident, then she is innocent, and you cannot hold her."

"It needs sorting out before I can release her."

"And the rest of it? The betrothal." Her ice-blue gaze was honest.

"All in the past." He sighed, considering her, his good friend since childhood years. She was like a sister to him, Bran like a brother. Effie had married, was a mother, was a widow. He would do anything for Euphemia and Bran and their kin.

But some matters he would keep to himself.

"The betrothal was dissolved years ago, before I rode for Edward, before I was captured and all that followed. It is done."

"Is it? She remembers. So do you. I felt it between you just now. That was more than a childhood betrothal."

"She was thirteen, I was twenty. Both young, foolish. Much has happened since. It is forgotten."

"And yet is not. You are changed even since I saw you last. Your eyes are more blue, more alight. You are keen on something. What has tapped your wicked old soul?" She poked his chest, smiled.

"I am just glad to be home, my dear, with my friends and falcons."

"Huh! Content in this pile of rubble with a handful of misfit knights, and falcons you cannot admit to owning? Oh aye. Something has changed." With a knowing smile, she took the tray and went down the steps, leaving him standing in shadows.

She was right. He knew it, though he was not sure what it meant.

Later, he walked through the shadowy great hall, past its low-burning hearth, and opened the narrow door that led into a snug, low-ceilinged room. Brechlinn's modest library held a small table, two chairs, and a hefty set of wooden shelves to which nearly fifty leather-bound volumes were chained. Part of his father's library, now his, with books added as he found time and silver.

Malcolm, Earl of Lennox, was sprawled in a leather chair, one leg extended as he studied the painted pages of the heavy volume cradled in his big hands. A brass chain draped from the book's spine to the nearby shelf. He looked up.

"I found a volume of the Anglo-Saxon chronicles. Fascinating account." He tapped a page. "Look here—it speaks of the outlawing of an earl believed to be a traitor to the king, long ago. He admitted to betrayal ‘before all the men gathered there,' so it says, and he was expelled. Then he returned with ships from Norway. Interesting."

"Ah, that. ‘And yet it is too tedious to tell how it all came about,'" he quoted. "Not a good precedent for your situation. You are no traitor, Malcolm."

"But cruelly expelled from my lands. I have no Norwegian ships, though. I might borrow a few from Ireland if Bruce backs my bid to reclaim The Lennox from Menteith."

"He would back you if he could spare the ships and men. Speaking of Ireland," Duncan said, taking a chair, "we may have trouble."

"The wee bit lass upstairs?"

"And more. Menteith may have Bruce's girl, though he claimed that the girl his men rescued on the road was taken up to the MacDougalls."

Malcolm set the book aside and leaned forward. "Tell me more."

Explaining what he knew and had reasoned thus far, Duncan drew a breath and then mentioned the broken betrothal. Malcolm huffed.

"I remember. You are still unhappy over it. That wee bit lass, here? God's foot! What an odd coincidence. Providence brought her to you. So perhaps it is a miracle."

"I hold no faith in miracles, nor do I trust Providence to mess about in my life."

"Says the justice man. But think, now. Lady Margaret escaped, or she would have been taken too. If Menteith arranged this deliberately—though he claims not—I wonder if Margaret was part of his scheme, considering who she is."

"Henry Keith's sister and a niece of the Marischal of Scotland?"

"And a granddaughter of Thomas the Rhymer."

Duncan looked up sharply. He had forgotten that. "Certainly Henry and the Marischal, too, would be incensed over harm done to a Keith daughter, not to mention Bruce's lass. But True Thomas is long dead. What bearing would that have on this?"

"Bruce said the Rhymer left part of his legacy to the Keiths of Kincraig. Last autumn, one sister—she married William Seton—was pursued by Edward's men. Something to do with the Rhymer's legacy."

"Why would Edward care about that?"

"A book of prophecies or some such. But he never got it. And since the sisters are co-heiresses, he may hunt them too, their brother as well. Edward wants something that belonged to Thomas the Rhymer. But they say he is mad, and growing more so."

"Mad or cunning, either is dangerous," Duncan muttered. "So Liam Seton married a Keith sister? I did not know. He carries out tasks for Bruce. I would think the fact that she is Bruce's daughter would be enough reason for Edward—perhaps through Menteith—to order her pursued and caught."

"True, with the queen and others captured by English, Bruce has tasked Seton and others to watch over certain Scottish noblewomen. That would include the child. Henry Keith and Liam Seton would have been discreet in arranging to move the Bruce girl, and Margaret Keith with her. Apparently someone found out."

"Menteith sends spies about," Duncan said. "Sheriffs communicate with one another, so perhaps there was word of the escort. Given the rumors about Menteith's previous deeds, he would be wary. Perhaps he had someone watching Henry Keith."

"Menteith's deed—betraying Wallace, as many suspect?"

"That he sent that good man to a horrible death, aye. So he is not above threatening Scotswomen who have ties to Bruce. But a lass close to Thomas the Rhymer—that is more difficult to understand."

"Bruce trusted Thomas, who carried out missions for him."

"Ah. Then he had knowledge Edward would covet."

"He had magic Edward would covet. Predictions. Potions. Who knows? Listen, Brechlinn. If your wee lass has something Auld Thomas gave her, Edward will want it. He never got the whatnot off her sister."

"I see. This is making more sense. Margaret Keith was with Bruce's lass, and she may have something of the Rhymer's as well. So both lasses might be targets. If Menteith, Edward's sworn man despite his Scots blood, is behind it, this may be another arm of Edward's revenge against Bruce. Yet there is something else at work here."

"It seems so. But we cannot divine it sitting here."

"Lady Margaret wants us to go after Menteith. For now, we will keep a close eye."

"Thanks to your lady, he will be stuck by the fireside nursing his foot for a while."

Duncan sent him a sour glance.

Moonbeams shining through the window woke Margaret often until she finally sat up in the darkness. Yawning, she went to the window and pulled open a shutter for a breath of cool air. Beyond the wall, the rippling loch reflected the moon's gleam.

From the tower's height she could see the bailey as well as the outer curtain wall that sheared down to the water. Out there, she spotted a rowing boat beached on the pebbled shore.

If she could get to that boat, she could row down the loch and return to the forest to look for Andrew. If Duncan Campbell would not act soon, she would find her own way through this predicament. She felt so strongly that she bore responsibility for Andrew and Lilias—she could not bear to think either might come to harm.

The last few years had honed her natural independence, changing a dreamer, a na?ve lass with a wild streak, into a stronger, more insistent soul. Within a year of Duncan Campbell's rejection, she was in a convent, ill and grieving—thinking him lost, thinking her chances gone. Healing slowly, she discovered her ability to be determined and capable, while her stubbornness, and that wild streak, only grew. She refused to marry her father's choices and decided she would never be a bride. So be it.

Yet meeting Duncan again, she felt relieved and aye, joyful that he was alive and well after all. Seeing that he had become a reserved, competent, certain, very handsome man reminded her of what she had lost—what they could have had. Even more, she realized what she had gained without him. She was a stronger woman because of it. If she were honest with herself, she owed him for stirring that in her.

She had to rely on her determination and her impulsiveness to solve this dilemma. Yet she was stuck waiting for the justiciar—her dear Duncan Dhu, precious in memory though she did not know the man well at all—to decide what he would do.

Gazing out at the battlement, she saw two guards looking out over the loch. Far off, a dog barked and went silent; she heard the steady shush of the water but little else. The guards moved out of sight, and she would have turned away, but looked down.

A cart sat at the base of the tower keep, filled with hay, bales piled beside it. The sight gave her a sudden, tempting, mad thought. Escape.

Months ago, her sister Tamsin had escaped a castle tower using a makeshift rope of bedlinens in a desperate bid to avoid a marriage imposed by King Edward. Tamsin had climbed down only to encounter a knight waiting outside the castle walls for his own purposes. He helped her make a fortuitous escape, and that adventure had led to a life Tamsin had never anticipated.

Could Tamsin's mad scheme solve Margaret's situation too? But Tamsin's tower had been on an outer wall, so that she escaped into a forest with the knight's help. Here, even if Margaret could climb out and land in the cart, she would have to get through the bailey and out the gate. With luck, she could find a small postern gate at the back and escape unseen in the darkness.

She looked around. Tamsin had tied together an abundance of linens and things. This bedchamber held only a few blankets and linens; knotted together, they might not be long enough. Still, even halfway down, she could fall safely into the hay.

She had to try. Duncan was a deliberate soul, which suited him and his work. She was his fiery opposite, and could not sit here longer without acting.

Flexing her shoulder, she decided it would support her; she could nurse it and her knee to full strength later. For now, all she wanted was to get away to search for Andrew and Lilias. Rushing around the room, she collected what she could find and began working fervently to tie the corners of blankets and linens together in fat knots, glad of her nimble strength from bow practice. Once the lengths were knotted together, she stretched the rope out. Too short.

She removed Euphemia's too-large blue dress and tied the arms to a blanket corner. That left her shivering in a thin shift, but the tunic and trews she had worn as a lad were folded on the bench. Quickly she scrambled into those and pulled on her boots. Too impatient to search for the black cap, she tossed her single braid back.

Tying one end of the makeshift rope around a leg of the bed, the heaviest item in the room, she carried the rope's length to window. Then she dragged the bench to the window and climbed up, resting a hip on the stone sill. The wind on her face was cool and damp. She looked down. A mistake. The drop was long.

Reeling back, she leaned a shoulder against the window frame, facing darkness and the snapping chill, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Then she dragged the awkward fabric rope closer and spilled it over the sill.

The weight of it shifted the bed forward, wooden legs scraping over the floor, dreadfully loud. She stopped, heart pounding, and glanced at the battlements. No sign of the guards. She leaned out again as a swift breeze cut past.

She rose on her toes to assess how to get out the window. As children, she and her siblings had climbed on a rope over a deep stream and pool by Kincraig. That was how Tamsin learned to climb down a rope. So there was no reason she could not do this too. Taking a breath, she leaned out, drawing a breath to conquer dizziness and the fear that this was an idiotic thing to attempt. She hoisted up on her arms, hands pressed on the windowsill, and with a little leap, set one hip on the sill. Bracing her hands, she began to wriggle about, realizing she needed to turn so that she could climb down the rope while facing the outer wall.

A door slammed. "God's bones!"

Surging out of the darkness, two strong hands grabbed her under the arms to yank her back into the room. Startled, she twisted to see Duncan's scowl as he pulled her hard against him and held her fast.

"What the devil are you doing?" he growled. Then he lifted her, though she kicked and writhed, carried her, and all but tossed her on the bed.

She wriggled enough to throw him off balance so that he tumbled with her. Frame and mattress lurched under the combined force of their fall and the bed shifted, the rope's weight pulling it toward the sill. Jumping to his feet, Duncan grabbed the rope and turned. He jabbed a finger at her in the moonlight.

"Stay there. Do not dare move!"

She sat up, breathing hard, as he snaked the rope into the room so fast and in such agitation that its end whipped backward and into her lap. Then he slammed the shutters, rattling the glass in the upper arch, and turned to glare again.

"God's very bones, you gave me a hell of a fright! What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I should leave." She returned his glare.

"You could have been killed." He pulled the cloth rope off her and threw it on the floor, then lifted a boot to push the bed back against the wall. Margaret bounced as it hit.

"I did not know you had such a temper," she said.

"I did not, until I saw this. What the devil am I to do with you?"

"Let me go or help me."

"I will not help you jump out a window."

"Then open the door," she said.

He shoved his hair back—thick, dark and glossy, it had fallen in his eyes. Why did she notice the way moonlight glinted over those black waves? Why did it look so soft and appealing? She scowled to dispel the thought.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"Only where you grabbed my ribs." She tucked her hands under her arms.

"I was just saving your life."

"I would have been fine. There is a wagon filled with hay down there."

"From this height, on that ridiculous rope, the cart would have broken apart, if you were lucky enough to hit that target rather than fall to the ground."

"I always hit the target."

"I have noticed. And you were a climber too, as I recall. Climbed a tree once, and fell out."

He remembered. "For all the good it did then."

"Meaning?"

"I never saw that beautiful falcon again. I never saw you again until lately. Did you send her back to the king to earn your reward?"

"The only reward King Edward ever gave me was a long stint in prison." He sat on the bed beside her, mattress rustling, sinking. She scooted away. "Do not fret. I will not touch you, unless you try to escape again."

"Then what do you mean to do here?"

He blew out a harsh breath, as if he struggled with the question. Reaching out, he took up the fabric rope and began to untie the knots. Shaking a blanket free, he tossed it over her. He freed another blanket for himself.

"I mean to sleep here tonight."

"What! You cannot!"

He lay back, not beside her but lying opposite, his head at the other end, and pulled the blanket high, bending his arm for a pillow. Long legs and big feet in big boots created an effective barrier. Margaret would have to climb over him to get out of the bed, which now sagged in the middle.

"Lie down," he said. "You are going nowhere."

"You cannot stay here." She scooted back, pulling her blanket high as she leaned against the wall. "You need to leave."

"Someone must ensure you do not break your troublesome neck."

"Not here, not in my very bed."

"I am no threat. I still have a rusty sense of honor." He lifted on his elbow to regard her. "I want to know you will be here in the morning."

"It is discourteous to treat a lady thus, even a captive so wrongfully held. Get off the bed and out of my room." She kicked him.

"Oof. Here." He grabbed a linen sheet from the tangle on the floor and crammed the length of it between them. "There. A wall."

"What is that supposed to do?"

"It is customary in Germania, among other places, for two people who are betrothed or courting to share a bed with a bolt or board between them." He patted the wadded cloth. "Lay back and go to sleep."

"This is not Germania and we are no longer betrothed. That was your choice, as I recall. And I will not lie here with you all night."

"Near me, not with me. And not all night. I just want to be sure you will not try to go out the window again and fall on your bonny head." Lying on his side, he shifted his topmost leg to rest it firmly over hers, cloth bunched between. She felt his strength and tension sure as an iron lock. "Go to sleep, Margaret Keith."

"You go to sleep." Her gaze drifted to the door. She did not think he had set the drawbar in place.

"If you are hoping the drawbar is still up," he said, as if he read her thoughts, "I will fix it in place again. Just do not try the window again. That is all I ask."

"I was thinking about it," she admitted.

"I feared so. But that cart will not be there long. It belongs to the brewer who brings ale and supplies for our larder. Euphemia MacArthur sent for him today. He sometimes plays dice and drinks half his ale with Bran and Hector before he heads home. And your rope is shorter now by two blankets and a sheet. Remember that."

"Beast," she said, scrunching down to pull the blanket over her.

"Wildcat," he said. "Going out on a rope of blankets. Dear God. Sleep now."

"My sister escaped a tower on a rope of linens."

"Is that where you got the inspiration?"

"She needed to escape a threat. I thought I could do the same."

"You are not threatened here, my girl. Did she survive the fall?"

"She was fine. A knight came by who aided her, since she was being pursued."

"Fortunate she did not break her neck. Who was in pursuit?" He half turned in the darkness. The low rumble of his voice sent a warm thrill through her. "Is this the Keith daughter who lately married Seton of Dalrinnie?"

"You heard of that?"

"Lennox mentioned it. Apparently King Edward caused trouble for the lady over something she possessed."

"A book. Edward demanded to take what did not belong to him."

"It is sometimes his habit."

"Sometimes! He expects all Scotland to buckle under his bidding until he owns every plot of land, every castle, board, blanket, and book we own. Our very lives too."

"Go easy, wildcat. Though many would agree with you."

"I suppose you would not, since you are in Edward's employ."

"My position as justiciar is overseen by Edward and his commanders. I did give him my knight's oath, but that was to preserve life and limb. I do what I must. But I would not say I am in his employ, exactly."

"You cooperate with the English rule of law."

"I keep to Scots' law, lass."

"You still have a castle, while Edward takes any Scottish castle he can."

"Brechlinn is small and too remote to bother. They did come through and tried to burn it down, but I am rebuilding. My father left it to me and I am grateful to have it."

"I remember your father. I liked him. My father is gone now."

"I know. I was sorry to hear it."

"I remember hearing that the great Caelin Mor Campbell had been killed. My father was upset. He said he was a good man, the best of his kind."

"Aye, and taken down heinously," he growled. She felt the chill in it.

"So you have his position as justice now. That seems a good thing for you."

"I do my best. So your sister had something the king wanted?" he went on. "Would you have anything Edward might covet?"

The brooch. She caught her breath. Would Edward covet the Rhymer's brooch as he had coveted the book that Tamsin had? "An—item a king would want? I doubt it."

"Good. If you had something valuable, it might be another reason your escort was attacked. You could be a target on Edward's orders."

That surprised her. "King Robert's daughter was the target. And Menteith's knights came after us, not Edward's. So you believe me now about the attack?"

"Possibly."

"Decide, Sir Justiciar. We have no time."

"You have grown a sharp tongue since I saw you last."

"I was a child with dreams. Now I know dreams do not usually come true, and I must be bold to defend myself. That needs a sharp tongue sometimes."

"And a sharp arrow."

Instinctively her hand went to the pendant at her throat, the ancient arrowhead that brought her a sense of comfort and safety. "You said you would leave soon. I am tired and would sleep."

"In a while. Quiet now."

Lying in the darkness, she wanted him to stay, so much that she felt the pull of that desire. His solid presence eased loneliness and fear. She was tempted, in the quiet and dark, to tell him she was glad he was alive. But he began to snore, and soon enough, her eyelids grew heavy.