Chapter Thirteen

M orning sunbeams flowed downward, rinsing shadows from the castle walls as Duncan left the slate-roofed kitchen building for the keep. He took the steps by twos as he went up the turning stair, balancing a wooden bowl and a jug in his hands, with a gown of moss-green wool over his arm. Reaching the third level, he knocked, upended the drawbar, and shoved the door open.

Light streamed through the glassed window arch, making the red plaid drapes around the empty bed very bright. Margaret Keith sat on a bench, turning as he entered. She wore the too-large blue gown again, her unplaited hair a mass of loopy curls. With her perfect oval face and green eyes, she looked elvish and adorable. His heart leaped.

She crossed her arms. "What is this?"

"Something to break your fast." He set bowl and jug on the table. "Bran made porridge. It is not too bad. I thought you might be hungry."

"Thank you. I did not expect to see you today. You seemed so busy yesterday."

"I was." Though he had sat with his clerk, Patrick, considering legal documents much of the day, Margaret had never been far from his thoughts. He set the green gown on the bench. "Here, I found this for you."

"For me?" She looked up at him in surprise. "A pretty color."

It reminded him of her eyes. "It should fit better than Effie's clothing. This belonged to my sister, I think. Brechlinn was a family castle before it came to me, and there are chests of our old things here. You can have other garments if this one suits."

"Thank you." She gave a shy smile as she poured ale into a cup. "Will you have some?"

He shook his head. "Margaret—I owe you another apology. I did not mean to—the other morning—good God," he muttered, flustered. The heat of a blush filled his face. The girl had a damnable effect on him. Always had.

"I am the one should be sorry. That kiss was my idea, not yours."

"Oh, I was part of it."

"If you apologize, do so for keeping me here."

"Ah, the wildcat is back."

"The wildcat is impatient, desperate to act while you ponder." She scowled at him now, then sat to dip a spoon into the oats. She ate in silence for a moment.

"I will not act impulsively in this. It is too important. I discussed it with Lennox. We agree we need to act. I have been looking through some recent changes in the laws to see what rights I still have over sheriffs."

"Lilias is a hostage. And Andrew is missing."

"He is likely still in the forest wherever you were staying. We will find him. And if your feeling about Menteith is correct, we may have to negotiate to get her back. Remember that Bruce's women have been held for months. Give me a few days."

"And me? Your hostage here?"

"I am considering that too. Eat and change. I want to show you something."

"What, your gallows?"

"Margaret," he groaned.

"Wait there." She took up the gown and went to the bed, climbed up on the flat mattress, and tugged the curtain closed. He heard the bed creak and rustle, then she yanked the curtain open and stepped down.

He blinked. She was transformed. The gown skimmed over her lithe body, enhancing womanly curves and draping down over her scuffed leather boots. Her hair, spilling free in loose curls, gleamed like new bronze, and the gown's color reflected her forest-green eyes. She was a vision, even more so than the girl with wet curls in Effie's too-large gown, or the redhead he had glimpsed days ago.

Again, Margaret Keith took his breath away, stopped his thinking for a moment.

He glanced up and down her body, recalling the moments when she had felt so good in his arms. He wanted that closeness, those kisses with her; wanted all of her, but had cut it short for her sake and his. His pragmatic nature saw complications more easily than dreams; his manly urges saw no issue and needed restraint. But his heart saw only Margaret, the girl he had hurt and had missed. And he wanted her deeply.

For a few hours the other night, they had moved toward truth and acceptance. She had opened up to him in the impulsive and enchanting way he remembered in the girl, and found fascinating in the woman. But he had stopped himself, for it was not right to take her as if he had a claim. He did not.

He knew his faults and strengths, what he did well, where he went astray in most things. For years, he had known that he loved Margaret Keith, loved what he knew of her, loved the memory of her and what might have been. And he knew he had erred.

But he was not the most spontaneous fellow, changing on a quick urge. He took his time in things, serious and aloof, cautious and careful. Margaret was his near opposite—impulsive and quick, leaping before thinking, following her heart over her head. He thought before he leaped. But when he acted, it was decisive and certain.

But he wanted this spitfire lass with every part of his being and body, with a craving unlike he had ever felt.

"Well?" she said, turning in the green gown. "It does fit. Thank you."

He merely nodded. "I thought it might. Good. Now take up your cloak." He went to the door, gripping the latch a little too hard.

"We are going outside? Where?" She fetched her cloak, green with a plaid lining, a good cloak, he noticed. As she tied the cord that strung through the base of the hood, he noticed a gash in the wool.

"You tore your cloak. Is that how you lost your cloak pin?"

"They tore my cloak in the ambush. Menteith had my brooch and I want it back. And I would love some fresh air just now," she said as he held the door open for her.

The thought of her being manhandled in an ambush sent a stab of fiery anger through him. He was even more convinced that something must be done. But if he said so now, this lass would expect immediate action. When he moved, it would be deliberate and effective.

"I thought you might like to go out through a door instead of a window."

She twisted her mouth in silent reply and descended the steps ahead of him. The light scent of lavender wafted with her. He recalled that scent in her hair when they had kissed, the same scent of the soap when she had bathed. That sight came back to him unbidden, and he felt a tug of yearning.

Stop , he told himself. He was a justiciar, not a heartsick lover.

Lifting her face to the morning light, Margaret breathed in the bracing springtime air as she followed Duncan Campbell. He led her to a structure with wattle walls and a thatched roof, two stories tall with latticed windows. She looked at him in surprise.

"A mews? You keep birds here?"

"A few." He opened the door and she stepped inside.

As she entered, she heard the rustle of wings and the chime of tiny bells. Sunlight cast the shadows of the wooden lattice on tall windows. A raftered ceiling soared high overhead, giving the small building a spacious feeling.

A few birds sat on various perches, six or eight birds of various sizes, some hooded, some sleeping with heads tucked. Duncan touched her elbow. "Over here."

In a far corner, a large white bird perched on a stand made of slender tree limbs. A falcon, she saw; it stepped back and forth a little, bells chiming on jesses. Dark eyes beneath arrowed brows flashed the visitors a searing look.

Caught for a moment by that piercing avian gaze, she gasped. "A gyrfalcon?"

"Aye." Duncan had an expectant smile.

"Is she—oh, the same—"

"She is. This is Lady Greta."

"You kept her!" Margaret smiled up at him, feeling truly joyful in that moment.

"All this time."

"How old is she now?"

"Eleven, is my guess. They live thirteen or fourteen years in the wild, but in a mews with all their needs met, they easily live twenty years. She was a juvenile when we found her."

"Oh, Greta, you beauty," Margaret said, speaking softly. Greta fluttered her wings, her leather jesses looped to the perch.

Duncan reached into his belt pouch to pull out a bit of flesh meat from a wrapped packet. He offered it, and the bird scooped it quickly but casually, as if in dismissal and irritation with him.

"Greta is a little unhappy with me. I have been away."

"She missed you."

"Bran takes good care of her when I am gone. These birds are a bit lazy and like the convenience of being kept. When we take them out, they fly as long as they like, and always—well, usually—come back. They like the easy source of food, the shelter, the care in a mews."

"She looks very healthy. I do not remember her being so white."

"She was a juvenile when you saw her, with dull coloring for protection. A snowy gyrfalcon is a very valuable bird." He gave her a quick glance.

"I know." Memories flooded her. "You just fed her. Is she still upset with you?"

"Perhaps. Today I brought a friend."

Margaret blushed. "She does not like strangers?"

"They do not love them generally, but she seems calm with you. Perhaps she remembers you. She is very intelligent and might recognize your voice or your hair. The color would catch her attention."

She put a hand to her hair, wild and unplaited that day. "I thought you might have sent her to King Edward. I wondered if that happened after we—" She stopped.

"I never wanted to send her back, nor did my father. When I left to fulfill my knight service, he kept her at Innis Connell. And before I left, my brother Iain and I trapped the wild tiercel so she had a companion. Do you remember him?"

"The gray falcon. The male."

"Aye. We caught and trained him. Smoke, we call him. He is over there."

She glanced toward a smaller gray bird, asleep on his perch. "Could Edward lay claim to him as well? None but a king is permitted to keep gyrfalcons."

"So the English say. But that is not the case in Scotland. Earls and some others may keep them. My father was an earl, my brother is earl now. I am the son of an earl and so there is some right there. But no one in Scotland fusses about such things. King Robert has no court, and he has far more important matters on his mind. And no one can prove she was Edward's bird."

"I kept your promise, Duncan. I never told anyone, even when I thought you were dead."

"Thank you for that."

"But it is a risk for you to have her. Edward is so fierce about anything to do with the Scots. If he should find out—"

"It is a bit of a risk. But Brechlinn is remote. I brought her here three years ago, once I could spend more time in Scotland. Before that, she stayed at Innis Connell with Smoke and their growing brood. Some were born there, some here. My brothers have a few of their juveniles. We also keep Tay here—for Taibshe, ghost. And Banshee, his sister. She is young yet, but will be a white beauty like her mother."

"Where are they?" She turned. The mews had dark corners and niches, and places where sunbeams fell bright, transparent, full of motes.

"There and there. Tay is sleeping too. Lazy lad." He indicated a smaller bird, gray barred in darker gray, and a larger pale bird, both with the distinctive arrow-shaped brow of the other falcons.

"I am glad they are safe here."

"The risk is a bit more now that Menteith has land along the loch. Our lands meet to the east. He was granted the Lennox, confiscated from Malcolm when Edward outlawed him. So Lennox works for Bruce now. That," he added, "is confidential."

She smiled, glad of that sign of his trust. "Would Menteith see the birds if you fly them here?"

"It is possible. I am careful where I take them."

"Will you always keep her here, or take her to Innis Connell or perhaps Ireland?"

"Some travel with their hawks and falcons from place to place, but I do not find it good for the birds' wellbeing to move them often. This is their home now. It is familiar and the land suits their preferences—wide open spaces, with mountains, rocky heights, fields and forests, cool temperatures, a northern clime. They like the freedom here."

"I am glad you never sent her to Edward. He would not have cared about her. He would only see that a Scot had her."

"A Scot, a Campbell, a cousin to Bruce. That would have merited his anger. Well," he said, "I wanted you to see that she is safe."

"I always wondered. I even prayed for her safety."

He smiled, then went grim. "Margaret, can I trust you with this?"

"I gave you my promise years ago. She is our bird. Or at least, she was." She looked away.

"And can I trust you not to run again?" He tilted his head.

"Set a guard on me if you do not believe me." She watched Greta. "Now I know why you do not want to bring attention to Brechlinn. You need to protect these birds."

"I do."

"Would you take me out when you go hawking next? I have flown hawks at Kincraig for years. We had a busy mews when Papa was alive—peregrines and goshawks, merlins, kestrels. But never a gyrfalcon."

"We could go this afternoon. I have not had a good outing with the birds for a while."

"So you would trust me to leave the castle?" She smiled a little.

"With me, aye. I will talk to Bran, and Lennox may want to go with us too." He walked to the door. "So now you know one of my secrets."

"And I will keep it. Could I fly Greta?"

"Not yet. You should have one easier to handle at first."

"I like her name."

"Greta," he said, opening the door, "is a short form of Margaret."

She gave him a startled look as she stepped outside.

"Ah, Bran!" He strode out into the yard as if his words had not struck her, though she stood staring after him. He had named the bird for her?

Bran approached, an astonished look on his face, his gaze fixed on Margaret. One of the big gray hounds was with him; Mungo, she remembered. The hound, tall enough to tip his head on her shoulder, bumped against her hoping for a pat. She obliged. Bran continued to stare at her.

"Good morning, Bran," she said brightly.

"Good morning—er—"

"This is Lady Margaret Keith," Duncan said smoothly.

"Uh, greetings. She, uh—" Bran frowned, looked toward the gate, puzzled.

Duncan laughed. "You will remember her dressed as a lad, Bran."

He widened his eyes. "The archer lad?"

"The lady needed to hide from some who were looking for her."

"Sorry, my lady. I truly did not see it."

"It would be a useless disguise if everyone guessed easily." She smiled.

"I suppose! Duncan, what can I do for you and the lady this fine morning?"

"You are cheerful today."

"A lady is present, sir."

"Of course. Well. We will take some birds out later today. Have the horses ready, with one for yourself and Lennox too. We will go north a bit."

"We will need the ponies up there. The walking is tough. Can the lady ride or walk that far?"

"I will be fine," she said.

"Aye then. Sir, if you are looking for Lennox, he is in the kitchen eating the last of my oatcakes. I burned them badly this time, but he says he likes them. The dogs were needing me and I forgot they were on the griddle. The cakes, I mean. Not the dogs. My lady," Bran said with a clumsy bow, and walked away.

"He likes you. He does not like everyone," Duncan said. "You are kind to him. I appreciate it," he said briskly. "Later, then. I will find you a falconer's glove. Come up the stairs now, and back to your chamber." He walked backwards as he spoke.

"Will you draw the bar this time?"

"We shall see."

"Could I have a book or two from your library? I looked at the others there already."

"I will send some up for you." He led her into the keep and up the stairs. At her bedchamber door, she stepped inside and turned. "I believe there is a book of Arthur's tales if you like it. Though it is in French," he said.

"That will do. I will see you later." She smiled, tremulous. Hoping. Not certain that she could hope, unsure yet what he felt. His outer reserve contrasted to the inner passion he had shown her, spun her about. The other night he had responded to her vitally, passionately, and yet drew away. Perhaps she had been too impulsive, his closeness stirring her, his kindness misleading her.

Duncan Campbell kept himself to himself. Perhaps for him, this new peace between them was enough.

"I have matters to attend, cases and suchlike. I will see you later."

Ah. She smiled. "Thank you for showing me the birds. That was kind of you."

"I wanted you to know she was here, and safe." He opened the door and stood back as she entered. His smile was pensive as he shut the door.

A long moment passed. She did not hear the bar slip into place.

So, trust was offered. Perhaps she should not hope for more.