Chapter Sixteen

"M y lady, can you ever forgive me?"

Hearing the syrupy tone, Margaret forced a smile. The reason she had deigned to listen to De Soulis at all was the brooch he wore—a large circlet of worked silver with a beautiful blue stone, a translucent slice with a hole at its center crusted with tiny crystals. Thomas the Rhymer's brooch. His clach na fìrin , his truth stone.

Her brooch, pinned to this man's cloak.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Duncan take another step forward, and was grateful that he was so watchful, in case she needed quick interference. Turning, she walked with De Soulis to the rock platform where the man's horse stood.

"I am sorry," William de Soulis said. "I want your good faith again. I thought we were a worthy match—you and I, our families. Our interests."

"Interests?" She looked up.

"You are kin to the remarkable True Thomas. No doubt you learned something from him, perhaps even inherited his talents. I am deeply interested in such powers."

"I know nothing of such things. You know little of me, sir."

"I know you are a lady of caring and good family who can run a household and supervise the daily routine and needs of a busy castle—my father's property of Hermitage Castle will come to me one day. A fine fortress, though I mean to build it into a magnificent castle. I want you to be my helpmeet in that."

She stopped and looked up at him. "William," she said, "if you felt this way, why did you do what your father wanted and cancel the agreement?"

"He forced my hand. It suited his ambition, not mine. He suspected the Keiths were not as loyal to Edward as they should be. We cannot risk association with such. But I have seen my error, and have decided I will not marry unless I can be your husband." He lifted her hand to kiss a knuckle. She wanted to pull away. "One of the proud daughters of Keith of Kincraig, kin to the Marischal, kin to Thomas the Rhymer. Her hair of flame stole my heart and owns it still."

She almost curled her lip at that. Nearby, Duncan moved forward, looking stormy and disgusted. "Sir William, this is a surprising turnabout," she said sourly. She glanced at Duncan, let her eyes show a silent plea. She wanted to be done with De Soulis.

He understood. He set a foot on the rock and bounded up to stand beside her.

"Sir William, you are misguided, I fear," Duncan said. "The lady is already promised to me. Perhaps you misunderstand her situation."

"You! But look. I do not misunderstand her interest. The rosy cheeks, the sparkling eyes—"

"And the hair of flame that gives her a heinous temper?" Duncan cocked a brow.

"Sir Duncan and I were betrothed in childhood," Margaret said. "The marriage was delayed."

"That cannot be, since your father agreed on our betrothal."

"I was away for a few years," Duncan explained. Standing close to him, Margaret slipped her hand around his arm. He bent his elbow.

"Away, aye! Imprisoned! Now I recall. They said you died in Flanders fighting for the English. But you are alive and well, and back in the king's grace as a justiciar. Cleverly done, sir."

"I inherited my father's position and was granted king's approval. Let me clarify the lady's status again. She is betrothed to me."

"We are planning our wedding," she added as Duncan pressed her hand close inside his elbow. Her fingers warmed there and felt good. She exhaled, feeling an infusion of strength and calm beside him.

"As we know too well, betrothals are easily broken." De Soulis gave her a charming smile, a tilt of his handsome head. Then he sent Duncan a steely glance. "The lady knows my heart is still hers. What say you, my lady? Will you take the better offer?"

The man did not give up easily. She felt Duncan tense beside her.

"Sir," Duncan growled.

"Sir William," Margaret interrupted. "You made it clear you would not marry me, and never explained your reasoning. Yet now this sudden passion. Why?"

"I have been a tortured soul since that day. I planned to approach your brother to make amends. Finding you here is destiny."

"If only we could know our destinies," she retorted.

"Your great-grandfather had that ability. Perhaps you do as well." He smiled. It was flat. Calculating somehow.

"I will think about your request. Good day, sir. Duncan Dhu"—she used his affectionate name deliberately—"can we go now?"

Duncan nodded, curt and silent, nostrils flaring.

Just then Margaret heard a faint ka-ka-kaaaa in the distance. She prayed that the gyrfalcon would not suddenly sail overhead. She avoided looking up, not keen to direct the knight's attention toward the sky.

"Farewell then," De Soulis said. "I wait upon your will, my lady. You can find me with Sir John at Roskie." As he spoke, a burst of wind billowed the red cloak away from his shoulders, a fold of cloth at his throat lifting.

She had to ask now or lose the chance. "Sir, your brooch! Where did you get it?"

"This?" He shrugged. "Sir John gave it to me."

"It belongs to—Sir Duncan. Sir John was holding it for him."

"True," Duncan said. "I won the bauble in the archery contest when Menteith was injured. But in all the fuss, I did not claim my prize."

"It is more than a bauble," Margaret said. "I would very much like to have it."

"What I have is yours, my dear," Duncan murmured.

"If Sir John confirms that the brooch is yours, sir, it will be returned to you. For now, it keeps my cloak closed against the wind." De Soulis patted his shoulder.

Margaret drew a breath. "Sir—give me the brooch now in token of goodwill."

"She wants it that much?" He grinned. "Perhaps I shall keep it until she agrees to my suit."

"Give it to me now," she clipped out, "and you and Sir Duncan can both wait upon my will."

"The bauble means something to you. What is it?" De Soulis asked sharply.

"I lost my cloak pin. I like that one. Give it to me and prove your sincerity."

"What about his sincerity?" He jabbed a thumb toward Duncan.

"I gave the lady a peregrine," Duncan drawled.

Overhead, sensing motion, she glimpsed a pale winged shape disappearing into tall pines. Luckily De Soulis was busy glaring at Duncan and did not see the white bird.

Margaret did. "Quick, your answer, sir."

"Trade me your heart, lady, and this bauble is yours." His smile went flat. "If your answer saddens me, I will keep it as a reminder of you."

She raised her chin higher. "That pretty brooch might help my heart decide."

Duncan was proud of her pluck. And he wanted to bury his fist in De Soulis's gut. Watching, keeping his hand fisted by his side, he saw a flash of anger, then cunning, cross the knight's face. The man leaned down from his saddle and beckoned to Margaret. She dropped her hand from Duncan's arm to approach as De Soulis spoke to her quietly, pointing at the brooch. Duncan could not hear his words, but he saw the effect on the girl.

She went pale and stepped back. Fury rushed through him and he moved forward, but De Soulis turned his horse's rump then and headed up the hill.

Margaret grabbed Duncan's arm to detain him as he moved forward, determined to haul the man down from his horse and reckon with him. She pointed upward.

He looked up to see Greta slip past a frothy cloud like a spark of sunlight and vanish again. On the hill, De Soulis paused his horse and looked up.

"What was that?"

"Just the peregrine." Margaret slipped her hand into the crook of Duncan's arm again. That simple touch was calming enough that he drew a ragged breath.

"It looked like a gyrfalcon! Large, white—Campbell, have you seen them around?"

"Occasionally," he said, trying to maintain a veneer for the lady's sake. "They are wild in the northern regions and sometimes cross over to Scotland from Norway or farther north."

"It was the peregrine," Margaret said.

"That was bigger than a peregrine and white as an angel," De Soulis said. "White gyrfalcons are the most valuable birds. If there is one around here, it must be caught."

"That looked like the peregrine to me," Duncan said casually. Margaret nodded.

De Soulis searched the sky. "What a feather in my cap to catch such a bird!" He laughed at his pun. "Well, I will leave you. Delightful to see you, Lady Margaret. I eagerly await your reply. Then this pretty gewgaw will be yours." He patted the brooch. "Campbell, watch for gyrfalcons. Catch one and you can earn favor with Edward."

"I have all the favor I want." He pressed Margaret's hand close to his side.

"Beware that lass, sir. She is an enchantress. A faery changeling who could change a man's luck."

Wanting to wipe the smug smile from that handsome face, Duncan merely shrugged. "We shall see whose luck she changes."

The answering laugh was false and hollow as De Soulis led his horse up the slope where his companions waited at the top of the ridge.

Helping Margaret step down from the jutting platform, Duncan guided her away swiftly, his thoughts fuming. When she stumbled, he slowed for her, feeling petty about De Soulis but determined to master his temper. And his jealousy, aye.

He had not met William De Soulis until now, but knew the young Scottish knight and his kinsmen catered to Edward. That sent an uneasy crawl along his neck. The fellow was conniving; Duncan only hoped Margaret saw past the false charm. Surely De Soulis intended more than reclaiming her as his bride, but what the man's real motive was, he could not guess. Perhaps it lay in her family connections.

Then he wondered if the girl's kinship with Thomas the Rhymer fueled the knight's apparent change of heart. He was in Edward's pocket, after all, and the king had an unsavory interest in the Keith ties to True Thomas.

Duncan saw two clear risks from De Soulis: the man was too curious about the white gyrfalcon and far too interested in Margaret Keith. Either or both could mean trouble indeed.

But the knight's offer was Margaret's matter to decide. No matter what Duncan thought, what he dreaded or wanted, he would wait on her will—at least for now.

He had dull charm, he knew, compared to a knight used to pride of place in a royal court; his gruff reserve, close-guarded secrets, and simple life in a half-ruined castle must look poor indeed. If the lass chose to walk away from Campbell of Brechlinn, he could hardly blame her.

But she was with him now, and he would make sure she was protected, and that the trouble that had brought her to the Highlands was resolved somehow. It was the least he could do to make up for the trouble he had caused her long ago.

Seeing Bran and Lennox, he waved. "We must fetch down the birds and get back quickly," he called.

"Let me make sure those fellows are gone." Bran ran up the incline.

"Lady Margaret," Duncan said, "raise your glove. Aurelia will see you and come back." She stepped away to lift her gloved hand and waited.

Within moments, the peregrine came floating, swift and golden, to flutter to the glove. Duncan produced a small hood from his belt pouch and slipped it over the bird's head.

"All clear," Bran said as he returned. "They are heading north along the track."

Duncan nodded, raising his gloved hand. He did not see Greta, and turned, searching, praying she had not been sighted by the knights on the road. "You lot go ahead," he said. "I will wait for her and follow."

"I will stay," Margaret said. "She is our bird."

He gave her a grateful smile. She was so beautiful, earnest, so vivid. He had been a young fool to let her go. The encounter with De Soulis reminded him that he could lose her before he had even tried to win her back.

He, too, had a question for Margaret Keith. The need to ask spun in his core; uncertainty spun there too. He knew he had hurt her deeply. But even more than her forgiveness, perhaps he needed to forgive himself, though such thoughts were new, foreign to him. What did she want, what did he want? The answer seemed clearer than ever. He wanted Margaret Keith to stay; wanted her in his life, his bed, his heart, desired her more with each glance, each moment. But something held him in place. Fear she would refuse, tit for tat. Fear of losing her for trying—or never trying.

"Look!" Margaret called, pointing. "Greta! Greta, love!"

Then she was there, his other love, streaming like a ray of light through the glen. Wings spread, she angled down and settled on his raised glove like a cloud, ethereal, magical. He hooded her quickly, rewarded her with a bit of food torn from a scrap in his belt pouch.

Margaret leaned close, cooing to the bird. Then she smiled at him.

Our bird. The thought of it sent a warm thrill through him, as if they were a family, bonded long ago and reunited, with no loss, no hurt. He wished it was so.

She walked beside him with their friends, toward home. For a moment he felt the urge to stop, let the others go ahead, take the girl in his arms and kiss her, linger with her in peace.

But she hurried ahead and he strode after, the hooded falcon riding his glove, the peregrine on hers. Glancing around, alert and wary, he watched for horsemen on a hillside, travelers, shepherds, any who might see them.

The snowy gyrfalcon could be seen from afar, and the bright-haired beauty beside him was all too noticeable as well. Both were beyond value to him. Keenly, desperately, he needed to hasten them home.