Chapter Seventeen

T he door of her bedchamber showed an edge of light; the drawbar was up, the latch loose. Duncan had ushered her into the room and left without shutting the door.

Was she free to go this time? Within limits, she thought. Surely Duncan knew she needed his help as a justiciar, as a laird, as a warrior. What he did not realize is how much she needed Duncan Dhu, just him; she knew it in her heart now.

But she was tired, she told herself, and would rather rest than wander out. Rest and think, for her mind and feelings were in a tumble. The day had been exciting, exhilarating, and frightening as well. The meeting with De Soulis troubled her; and being near Duncan whirled her about, distracted her, drew her in—yet he had that protective wall around him. She would not try to breach it. A decade later, he was who he was; she wanted to know that man. Though she could not guess his feelings, she was more and more sure of hers.

For years, she had imagined herself in love with him in the way of dreams; what could have been, the handsome knight on a white charger, the saintly warrior. She had thought that was love.

Her feelings for him were changing rapidly, deepening, reforming, tumbling like a fast river with craving, yearning, wondering. Before he had reappeared, she cherished a pure and unrealized love for the young knight who had hurt her but had nobly perished. That love, she realized now, was pallid compared to what she had begun to feel.

The shock and confusion of seeing him alive had confused her. Now past that, she felt compelled to be by his side, keenly aware of him when he was near, thinking of him when he was not; drawn to the deep timbre of his voice, the messages in his loch-blue gaze, the tenderness in his touch, and dear God, the fervor in his kiss. Quick and certain, she had fallen headlong into a heartfelt love—deep, fiery, and more consuming than she could ever have lent to the innocent ideal she had created.

William de Soulis was nothing compared to Duncan Campbell. The Lowland knight was shallow, bitter—and threatening. Yet De Soulis had Thomas's brooch—and he might be the very avenue that would lead to Lilias. She could not ignore that.

Her choices, her needs—Lilias and Andrew, the missing men, the missing truth stone—and the tug between her honed independent nature and this fast, hard craving for Duncan overwhelmed her. She needed to rest and not think for a bit.

She curled on the bed with a blanket, but her thoughts still spun. If Duncan accepted that the Rhymer's brooch proved that Menteith had taken Lilias, he would take swift action. She knew in every part of her being that he was a man of his word. But though she needed his help, she worried about the risk to him. De Soulis had seen Greta, and he was an untrustworthy soul. Duncan was not safe.

She would have to decide now between the two men if she wanted to find out what De Soulis knew. As for marriage—De Soulis had offered. Duncan had not. She had thought never to marry, but now she must choose one or the other—or refuse both.

She had been a small girl when she had given her silly, dreamy heart to black-haired Duncan Dhu, who had been just an embarrassed lad then. Later, when she was nine and he was a lanky, beautiful young man with eyes as blue as the heart of a peat fire, she had lost her young heart to his shy beauty, his quiet manners, his cheeks that stained pink with his thoughts. She knew that one day they would share a home, a castle, children, dogs, happiness. A few years later, he was the lovely shy knight who broke her heart.

The memories unsettled her. She stood, wandered about the room, sipped watered wine from a jug, glanced again at the door slightly ajar. She could walk out and leave Brechlinn. But she would stay. Duncan knew that.

On the table lay the stones that she and Duncan had found by the waterfall pool. Picking up each one, she examined them, and held one to her left eye.

She could see the window where the late afternoon sun spilled through glass roundels; there, the open door with a band of light filling the gap.

The light expanded, blurred. Something moved—a tall dark-haired man. She lowered the stone and blinked. No one was there. Peering again, she saw Duncan Campbell at the door. She lowered the stone. Just the door.

Going to the threshold, she looked out. No one was on the stairs. She raised the stone again, turned toward the window, and looked through the hole.

Tiny in the frame of the hole, a broad green field spread out in bright sun. She lowered the stone. Just the window. Lifting the stone again to look through its mystical little doorway, she saw the field again.

Then, men and horses came into view—hundreds of them. Thousands, into the distance. Lances against the sky, blood on steel, blood on the grass. A man on a horse, a brawny man, bronzed by the sun. A man in his prime with strength and power and resilience. A king. Words came into her mind. A Bruce. A king. Scotland for the Scots.

She gasped, then stepped back, lowered the stone. What was that?

Hand trembling, she set the stone on the table, went to the bed, and sat. Wrapping herself in the blanket, she closed her eyes to try to sort out what she had seen.

The stone had shown a vision, solid, frightening, and profound. Set the stone to your eye, lass, and thee shall see what is not there , Thomas had told her on a day, eight years ago, when he had promised the brooch and pendant would be hers. That had not been long before he died.

But this plain river stone was not the one enchanted by Thomas's faery ilk. The blue brooch stone was more powerful. She had to recover it. No one beyond Thomas's kin should have control of it. The pendant, too, was enchanted, so he had said.

She fell back on the bed with a groan, confused, stunned. She had always believed that her sisters had true gifts and she had very little. The vision was a revelation. A thrill, to be honest, yet she did not understand what it was, what she must do with it. But she would keep it to herself.

Stretching out on the bed, she curled in the plaid blanket that still smelled of Duncan slightly, wool oils mingled with the piney, smoky scent of the man. Finding the dip in the thin mattress where she had lain beside his warmth and strength and quietude, she wrapped herself up, and sooner than she knew, drifted off.

Startled out of a forgotten dream, she sat up, surprised to find the room in shadow, the light grayed toward evening with no candles lit within. Shoving back her hair, she rose to duck behind a curtained corner to relieve herself in a chamber pot and splash her face and hands in a bowl of water set in a wall niche. As she emerged, braiding her hair, she heard a knock on the door.

"Lady Margaret?" Euphemia peered inside, then pushed the door open, a tray in her hands. "Are you awake, then?'

"I am. Oh, thank you—supper already? Is it so late?"

"Just soup with fresh ale and bannocks. I would have brought it sooner, but Duncan Campbell said he looked in not long ago and you were asleep."

"He came here? I did not know."

"He is leaving your door open now. Good! I did not like that. So you are free to go about the castle. Though if you left altogether, he might protest."

"He said nothing to me about it."

Effie rolled her eyes. "That is just his way. Keeps too much inside."

"I would leave, but—not yet." She felt a strong urge to find Lilias and Andrew, but knew she needed Duncan's help. Even when she had the frantic, mad idea to escape the tower and castle and take a boat down the loch, she had lacked a plan.

"He came up to see you, but for much of the afternoon he has been shut up in his library chamber working on documents. He travels around the region regularly for the justice courts, but spends much time reading cases and writing letters when he is here."

"A busy man." Margaret took a seat as Effie set out a bowl of soup with bannocks, cheese, a fresh jug of ale. "Will you join me?"

"I ate with my brother earlier, but thank you, my lady."

While Margaret ate, Effie spoke of the weather and the work around the castle. "Brechlinn Castle is in need of repair, you know."

"I noticed," Margaret said.

"He wants to make something fine of this place. When he first came here, the English had made sad work of the place. He hired workers and put his own back into helping them. But he was called away to Ireland, and the English came again and ruined what was done. Then they decided Brechlinn was too remote and lost interest. Now that Duncan is back, repairs have begun once more."

"The English might want men here to control the north end of Loch Lomond."

"With Menteith at the lower end, they seem to think the Highlanders at this end are not worth the bother. So Brechlinn is safe, as much as can be."

Margaret took another spoonful of soup. "This is excellent. You made this, not your brother." She chuckled.

"Certainly! With Bran in the kitchen, I cannot imagine what they eat every day. I come here often to help with the household, and with the—with guests in and out to see the laird."

Hearing the stumble, Margaret looked up. "Guests?"'

"Some come through here at times to see the laird. Legal matters and such."

"Ah." She nibbled on a bannock slathered in butter. "You know the laird well."

"We were childhood friends. Duncan and his family would stay here for weeks at a time in the summer. He and Bran were good friends. We all played together. Distant cousins, you see."

"No wonder he is fond of you and Bran."

"Aye. And good friends with my husband, years back. He is gone now." She looked away. "And he is good to my son, Owen. The boy is eleven, and wants to be a smith like his uncle in Crianlarich. Until he apprentices, Duncan gives him chores here, working in the stables, the mews, the house. Owen enjoys it."

"He is here?"

"Sometimes. You may have seen him helping here and there. His father died in a battle when Owen was small."

"I am so sorry. It happens far too often." Margaret shook her head sadly.

"Duncan makes sure we are fine. He will never ask anything in return. He is a good man. Quiet with it, and steady."

"I am not surprised." She sat back. "Thank you for supper."

"You found a stone with a hole in it?" Effie reached across the table to pick up one of the stones there. "At the falls today? It is said we can see what cannot be seen through such holes. The future and such. When we were bairns, we would find these by the pool and look through them." Effie rolled the stone in her hand, then held it to her eyes. "We invented grand stories. But I only see this plain little room."

Margaret picked up a similar stone. Tentatively she peered through it, relieved to see only the windows, wall, a bit of Effie's hair and kerchief. "Only what is here. My Grandda had such a stone, a pretty one. He was Thomas the Rhymer," she added shyly.

Effie gasped. "Your kinsman! How lovely."

"He was a lovely man, true. Gruff, but kind to us." She turned the stone in her hand. "I wanted to stay longer at the falls and the pool, but we were out with the birds. And then Sir William de Soulis rode by."

"I heard Duncan and Bran talking about it. Duncan Campbell was not impressed with the man, I saw that. We may never quite know what he is thinking, but he has a deep integrity. Depend on that." Effie gave her a long glance. "But you know that. Even with what happened years ago, you know him."

Margaret blushed. "The betrothal ended a decade ago. I am not sure I know him."

"My dear, anyone with an eye to see knows something is there. He has always cared for you."

"He has?"

She nodded. "I still see it. That quiet air in a man, that strength in his nature, can draw a woman in like a lodestone. Once you feel it, it never leaves you. Both of you care for each other."

Margaret listened in silence, frowning, sensing more.

"When that betrothal was broken, Duncan's father told my father, his cousin, ‘That lad broke his own heart when he told that wee lass farewell. Broke hers too.'"

"Broke his own heart?"

"He despaired that Duncan might never marry. But then Duncan was captured and held and had no chance to even let his family know he was alive. It was years before his kin saw him again."

Margaret nodded. "Some of this I know."

"And in my bold way—Duncan may not like it but hang the lad for not being forthcoming with you—I thought you should know that he cares for you. I have been watching you both, and I just want to help. He is a thickhead." Effie leaned forward. "Margaret. I must tell you something. Someone must tell you, for the man himself may never, and I want to kick him for it."

Margaret laughed softly. "What is that?"

"Duncan more than cares. He has always loved you, and does love you still. I am sure of it."

She caught her next breath. "Why do you think so?"

"Is he married? Has he found another since he returned to settle? He has not."

"He was never betrothed again," Margaret said, as if coming out of a fog, seeing it.

"Not a one. That lad broke his own heart, and it has never mended." She picked up another stone, fiddled with it in graceful fingers. "Broke yours too."

She tilted her chin as if to hide the truth. "We were very young."

"You never found another either."

Margaret gave a bittersweet smile. "This is no epic tale of destined love, no Saint George and his princess, no Arthur and Guinevere…" She shrugged. "Just a lad and a lass put together by their parents and perhaps not suited."

"It could be the opposite."

"My father made other arrangements for me when he thought Duncan had died. I refused each one, though Papa did not want to hear it. I did not want to marry, ever. Three more—two died."

"It is the way of things in a land as beleaguered as Scotland."

"The third one agreed, then refused after my father continued the arrangement. He changed his mind. That was William de Soulis."

"No wonder Duncan was disgusted with the man." Effie sat thoughtful. "Margaret—what if you could mend your hearts, what then?"

"We hardly know each other now." But oh, she thought. She loved him—she knew that now—and did not know, truly, what he thought or if there was real hope. Interest, perhaps, but his life was a mystery. And she had always thought her path would be to serve her family.

"There is magic there. I see it. Others do too. Bran and Lennox mentioned it. ‘What was that lad thinking, to let that lass go?' Lennox said." Effie imitated his deep voice so well that Margaret gave a surprised chuckle.

"And Bran? He did not even know I was a girl!"

"He said ‘If that lad is a lass, is she the one Duncan would have married if he'd kept his wits about him?'"

They both laughed outright. But Margaret sighed, turning the stone in her fingers, thinking, wanting to believe what Effie said, yet holding back.

"I am not sure about any of this," she finally said. "And I would not know what to do about it, if anything. I could not ask, not knowing how Duncan feels. Or how I feel."

"The hurt of it lingers still?"

She shrugged her shoulders, half nodded. "A little."

"See that?" Effie pointed toward the door. "He is not confining you now, so he has made a decision. Find out what it is. If you are free to go, then stay instead."

"I will. But there are matters I must see to, very soon. The welfare of others could depend on what I do."

"This missing friend? I have heard some of it. You care about her, and so you must do what you can to get her back to safety. Your heart is there. Your heart is also here though, yes? Then remain here as long as you can. You two have much to sort out."

"We would if he cares to sort it."

"He does. You are here because he wanted you safe."

"Or for his legal obligation."

Effie shook her head. "Two stubborn people seeing what is in front of them and still not seeing it. Both of you need sorting out. Duncan built such a wall around himself long ago that it would take King Edward's infernal Warwolf to break through it, that evil war machine. You might have to find a way to take down that wall. Duncan Dhu is the stubbornest of men, and perhaps the blindest. You may need to build one to get through to Duncan Dhu, the stubbornest of men. Though you are equally stubborn."

"Effie," Margaret said, smiling then, feeling affection warm through her, "you are a dear friend to your cousin. And to me."

"I like you a good deal, from the moment I saw you pretending to be a lad. And who did that fool? Only men!" She laughed. "I did not mean to trouble you with my opinion, but since Duncan might let you go again, I thought I must say something for good and all."

"Thank you."

Effie set the dishes on the tray. "I will take these to the kitchen. You are free to do what you like. But listen to your heart, my lady."

"I will try. Sometimes it is not as loud as my stubborn nature. Effie, if I have freedom here, I want to help you in the kitchen or elsewhere."

"Oh, I could not ask that of a lady! You are a guest and should not be chopping carrots and turnips with me. But if you want to visit the falcons, I think Duncan would like that. Or you could practice some archery," she added with a twinkle in her eye.

"He might object to that," Margaret said wryly. "Still, perhaps I will do that." She touched the crystal pendant at her throat.

"It is a pretty thing, that. I noticed it before. An arrowhead, a decorative one?'

Margaret smiled. "A gift from my great-grandfather."

"Then it will bring you good luck. If you want to practice archery, Sir Malcolm was oiling your bow just yesterday and added new arrows to the quiver. He remarked what a good bow it is. There are straw targets in the yard if you want to use them."

"I would like that. I will look for him and ask for my bow."

"If you see Duncan out in the yard, remember what I said. He cares for you. I am sure of it." With a mischievous smile, Effie left the room, leaving the door wide open.

Margaret hesitated at the threshold, then stepped out, shut the door, and headed down the steps. Finding the great hall, she wandered through. Effie stood at the far end talking with servants, acting as a chatelaine for her cousin; Duncan was fortunate to have her here.

Walking past an open door, hearing male voices, she glanced inside as she passed. Duncan sat at a table looking at pages with his clerk.

As she passed, Duncan glanced up from the parchment in his hands to meet Margaret's eyes. His were piercing blue, the afternoon sun on his face. She paused, drawn in by that steady gaze. Then the clerk spoke and Duncan replied, looking away.

That instant felt motionless, timeless. The finespun strand deep within her gave an insistent tug. She walked past.