Chapter Eleven

S ometime later, she woke to a murky near-dawn, feeling so warm and cozy that she curled sleepily under the blanket. Then she startled, realizing with a gasp that Duncan Campbell still lay beside her. Not only that, he had turned while she slept, his head beside her small pillow. She stared at his shoulder haloed in the brazier's glow.

Reaching out, she tapped his back. "Campbell," she whispered. " Donnchadh! "

"Mmhh." He rocked a little as she pushed.

"You are still here," she whispered.

"Shh." His hand came over his shoulder to pat her fingers. Turning around to face her, the mattress sagged and rustled. His eyes were closed. "Shh. Tired. Sleep now."

"You cannot stay."

The suffused light of near dawn showed his closed eyes, his lashes thick dark crescents. His tousled dark hair drifted over his brow. His chin was bristly. He was beautiful. He had to leave. She poked his shoulder.

"Donnchadh!" Somehow his Gaelic name kept coming to her lips.

He lifted his hand to soothe it over her hair. "Hush, my dear."

"I am not your dear," she whispered. "I am your captive. Your prisoner."

He gave a sigh, his fingers sliding to her jaw, tracing there. "That is unfortunate."

"What?" She waited. He was silent. She poked his chest. "Are you awake?"

He huffed. "I am now."

"You must go. What is unfortunate?"

He blinked, opened his eyes, dark blue, heavily lashed. Her heart seemed to flip. He had to leave. "Duncan!"

"Did I say—damn. Listen now, aye?" His quiet voice poured out like dark honey. "What happened between us long ago was unfortunate. It caused you trouble and hurt. I regret that."

She caught her breath. "It is done. Leave it be."

"If you are upset still, I understand." His hand cupped her shoulder. "But you are right. It is done."

"You could have let me know you were—not dead."

"If I had known you thought it, I might have done so."

"We all thought it. We heard you were taken and died in captivity. Your own kin were unsure when my father sent word to ask."

"There was no way to send word and we did not know what word was out there when we were prisoners. I was kept in England for a long while with other Scottish knights. Then some of us were sent to Flanders to fight for Edward in another war."

"Flanders?"

"Why let knights sit in a dungeon when they can fight in your army? It was a condition of release. But even that was withdrawn. After another year, several of us escaped to France, where the Scots have allies. We were there for a long time before we found a way to Ireland. I stayed up there working for the Scottish cause. I returned home for brief visits only. After that," he murmured, "my father was murdered. My mother and my brothers needed me. And I took on the role of justiciar."

"We heard only that you had died."

"There was no reason to send word to your father. I assumed you hated me, and that your kin despised me as well. Besides, I had heard you were gone."

"I never hated you. Gone?"

"I remember your words, lass. They stayed with me for years. Gone into a convent and took the veil."

"I went there for some time, but left again. How did you hear that?"

"I was kept in an English castle where we sometimes had news of Scotland. I heard Sir Robert Keith's daughter had gone into a nunnery from heartbreak. It hit me deep."

She propped up on an elbow. "I did go to a convent. But not because of you. I was ill. A fever, not heartbreak. I was upset with you, true. But I heard you had died, and it made me—very sad."

"Did it?"

"It did. My mother and I both had fevers, a summer ague, you see. My father took us to an infirmary where we stayed for weeks, then we went to the priory at Lincluden to recover. I got stronger," she said. "My mother grew weaker. She lingered and died."

"I am sorry," he murmured.

"I stayed after she died. I thought about becoming a nun." She shrugged. "But I was not suited to that life. I was—uh, asked to leave."

"Asked to leave a convent?" He sounded surprised.

"Wildcat," she said simply. "I do not like rules."

He chuckled. "I see that. So neither of us knew the truth about the other."

"Would it have mattered?"

"It would." He cleared his throat. "I heard the rumor of my death, but I thought it affected only my family. I am sorry it troubled you."

"And my father. He was saddened. He said you were a good knight." She had not wanted to hear it at the time. Now she lay facing him, warm and relaxed, aware that he must leave. Yet she wanted these quiet moments to linger. "Can I ask—did you ever marry? If you had a wife here, you would not be in this bed."

"I am just here keeping a certain lass in custody. I have no wife."

Tilting her head, she wondered if he had ever fallen in love. Should it matter to her now? She had never loved any suitor but him, but she kept that to herself.

"I never had time to marry," he went on. "And you? Surely your father looked for another match for such a daughter as you."

She smiled in the darkness at that. Stretched out beside him in the darkness of the half-curtained bed felt dreamlike, a cocoon of shadows and moonlight and drowsy warmth. Time vanished, hurt faded. His resonant voice, his very presence felt magical, thrilling through her. Truth felt natural here.

"My father arranged three more betrothals. Four in all. I refused—three of them."

He gave a surprised huff. "Three! What was wrong with the fellows?"

"Two died," she said. "Three, counting you. The fourth one refused me before I had the chance."

"By the saints, lass, you would be a desirable bride for any man. But bad luck for some to die before—well. I am sorry."

"Not bad luck. I decided I would have to make my own luck. Make my own way. I decided I did not want to marry."

"Was that my doing?" he asked. She heard regret soften his words.

"My own doing. Besides, I thought you were dead. But instead you were captured, imprisoned. Tortured." She shuddered.

"But I was cordially held for the most part, since my father was an important Scots lord who could pay ransom. But it was never asked of him. Instead, I was sent to Flanders to fight for the English. But no one was treated that badly."

"You were held, kept from your family. No wife, no children. No happiness."

He gave a little huff. "You imagine a good deal of woe on my behalf."

"The elderly nuns said I was woeful, cursed because of my red hair, green eyes, and freckles. Only witches and demons have such, they said. My sisters are beautiful and talented—Tamsin is blond, so gentle and smart. Rowena is dark-haired and kind and practical. I have the devil's red curls and a temper to match."

"I agree with the temper. And I would wager you are as much a beauty as your sisters," he added. "But redheads are not cursed. What nonsense. My mother was redheaded, as are others in her family. Not a one is cursed. They are all good, smart, spirited women."

"I rather like my hair. But some distrust red-haired folk." She was blushing. Had he called her beautiful just then?

"Superstition. My mother said it began with the Viking raids long ago. It was not red hair that brought bad luck and trouble, but the Vikings themselves. You are no doubt as lovely and gifted as your sisters. I am surprised that you never married."

She shrugged. "Both my sisters were married and widowed—Tamsin married again. Rowena was wed for a short time, but her husband perished. I think my father worried about my future, so he arranged these betrothals, though I told Papa I did not want to marry. The first—after you, that is," she added, "was older than my father but kind. He died a week after agreeing to marry me. The next one was young, a good knight, but he was killed in a skirmish. I never had a chance to know him. So I told Papa I would be the plain girl and take care of him in his elder years."

"I know that tradition in some families. But you are no plain girl." She heard the kind amusement in his voice. It thrummed all through her.

"That role often falls to an unmarried daughter. I told Papa I would take care of the castle household as he aged. But he did not live much longer. I did learn to direct the household, and I took up the bow and arrow."

"You were already doing that when I saw you at Innis Connell."

"I had stopped, but Grandda left me a fine bow, so I took it up again. I did not really want to count linens. I wanted to defend the castle if it was necessary, so that I could truly help at Kincraig after Papa died, and when my brother went away to Selkirk."

"He is deputy sheriff there now, I hear."

"Aye, now. Then there was a fourth promise, you see. A Scottish knight, son of a Guardian of the Realm. Prestigious. Papa thought it would be a fine match. But he rejected me too."

"Margaret, I never rejected you," he murmured. "I was young. I was not ready. Neither were you."

"Well, it was a refusal," she pointed out. "This fellow refused too, after he had signed the promise and accepted the tocher. He took coin and a land grant, and Papa set the wedding—he would not listen to me. He was that concerned about my future. The man was courteous enough, but I did not have a good feeling about him. And then he changed his mind, which proved me right. Though he returned the coin, he kept the land. He said he was misled."

"Misled!"

"He had heard that my other suitors had died and he wanted no part of that sort of luck. My brother is petitioning to regain the lands."

"Legally," Duncan said, ever the justiciar, "it could go in your brother's favor. But it sounds to me that you are better off without such a one."

"I think so too."

The darkness was lifting. Soon the household would rise. Duncan had to leave, she thought. But this wrapping of warmth and honesty was filling her like sunshine in a dim room. She had needed this, and was only just realizing it. Here, in the quiet, listening and caring, Duncan Campbell was all she had dreamed he might be—gentle, kind, patient. His closeness, simple as it was, felt magical.

She wanted to tell him she had loved him since childhood, had loved him even thinking him gone. She had made him an ideal knight, the perfect husband and lover, the man she would never have, and whom none could match.

But she blushed at the thought and kept silent. He would think her foolish. Yet one question had always troubled her. "Duncan, did you ever want to marry me?"

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and gave a long exhale. She dreaded his answer. He looked ready to leave, not ready to answer.

"I did," he said finally. "But I would not marry a girl of thirteen. And I did not want you to wait. If I did not return, you would have been widowed without even a marriage."

"I would have waited." She sat up and scooted to the edge to sit beside him.

"I know. But it is done. Let it be forgotten. We are not the same as we were then."

"We are not," she agreed. "You did the honorable thing, then, that day."

"I believed so at the time. Later I was not so sure."

"Neither was I," she said with a half-laugh. "What now?"

"This matter of Menteith and Lady Lilias must be resolved. That is the most important, aye?"

"Thank you," she said in a whispered rush of relief. "Can we ride out?"

"I do not trust the man. And I agree that what you say may be possible. But Sir John is an officer appointed by Edward to uphold Scottish and English law, just as I am. I have to consider that until I know more."

"You say you do not trust him. Do you know him well?"

"We were captured at Dunbar and held together with others—our friend the Earl of Lennox, Sir Constantine. Sir Andrew Murray too. I know Menteith all too well."

"Then why hold back? We can accuse him now. Taking Lilias is treason."

"Which means I must be very careful how I approach this. And—" he paused, "I have some matters here at Brechlinn that must be protected at all costs. If this goes wrong, I could lose all that. Menteith—is not a forgiving sort. Which is why I brought you here."

She nodded, grateful. This time with him was a revelation. Something had shifted within her, as if she had crossed a bridge that spanned the past to this exact moment.

Drawing a breath, she leaned a little toward him, her shoulder brushing his arm, part apology, part plea. Feeling shy, a little uncertain but wanting so much to take the risk of it, she nudged him. A step toward peace, forgiveness. She was not sure what. But she wanted, desperately just then, to cross the distance between them.

In silence, he set an arm around her shoulders. Another step, a gesture they both needed. His body felt warm, solid, his strength palpable. She glanced up at his aquiline features in the shadows, the dark brows and long-lidded eyes, the fine arch of the nose, the mouth's tenderness in a lean masculine face.

"Would we solve this problem of Lilias and then go our ways?" she asked.

"I hope it is that simple."

"I see." She was not sure what he meant by that. A powerful urge to mark this moment before he left, before the distance between them opened up again. "Can I—give you something? Before you go."

His arm light on her shoulders, he moved back to look at her. "What is that?"

She leaned toward him quickly and touched his bristled jaw, the beard like fine sand over his skin, and raised her face. He leaned down and she kissed his lips. Soft yet firm, warm and supple, his mouth moved over hers. He broke away.

"Lass—"

"I used to dream about—well, it is done. I just wanted to do that. Take it as my apology."

"You have nothing to apologize for. You dreamed about us?"

"Sometimes."

A little exhale. "I was a lout then. A fool."

"I was a fool too. But later, even when I thought you dead, I still—" She stopped, feeling a hot blush rise, not sure she was ready to admit her feelings.

"Still what?" His hand rubbed her shoulder affectionately, like a friend. If it were to be over, she could be honest.

"I—I wanted to love you." It was perhaps the most difficult thing she had ever admitted to anyone. "I suppose I loved the idea of you. And I was sad you were gone, and I did not want to let that go."

His fingers stilled. He was silent.

She could not look at him. "You should leave. The past is the past, but I understand better now. And you have your secrets and I will not ask. I only ask your help in one matter. And I hope—I hope you will do that for me."

"Margaret." He paused. "I felt a trace—of that too. Feelings that stayed with me. Guilt. Regret that I hurt you. And more," he murmured. "But it has been ten years, and life has become quite complicated."

"I know." She smiled, anticipating the refusal again, yet she felt something powerful, sudden, billow warm through her. Compassion, forgiveness. Love.

She surged toward him, looping her arms around his neck, wanting for one moment here in this cocoon, to grab her countless dreams before he left, and the sun rose, and everything changed again. Pressing her lips to his, she drew back.

But he pulled her to him, slipping his hands along her jaw. He tilted her head back and kissed her in a way that she had not dared to kiss him. Her simple kiss took on a force, a fervor, that drove through her body, swirled, heated. With a soft moan, she curved to him, slid her hands into the thick silk of his hair. He stirred another kiss, tender at first, then lightning.

He pulled her into his arms, turning her across his body, kissing her again. A fiery sense stirred in her, like the euphoric punch of releasing a perfect arrow—or the wild delight of a dream coming true—

But he straightened away, brought her up to sit. "Sorry. That was not well done."

"I did not mind," she breathed. It had felt like something left undone between them, something that needed to happen. A resolution of sorts.

He stood, a tall dark shadow in a long tunic, a long-haired, broad-shouldered, dark archangel gazing at down at her, all beauty and banked power. He reached down and lifted her chin.

"Margaret Keith," he murmured. "Still the dreamer. I am glad. Go back to sleep. I will see you later."

He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him. Margaret heard the drop of the drawbar. Lying back on the still-warm blankets, she blinked back tears.

She had made a fool of herself. Her dreams were a fancy after all. He did not share them—his life was very different from hers, and a decade was a lot of time to leap.

Then she would be content with the good fortune of finding him again, knowing he was well. And she would go on with her life, determined, keeping her spine straight, showing strength and doing what she liked. His decision years ago had caused her to toughen her spirit, even if he did not know.