Chapter Eighteen

H is mind filled with thoughts of a dozen orders and letters he was reviewing or writing, Duncan crossed the bailey looking for Lennox. Of all the decisions he had made lately, he had not drawn up a parchment for the lad accused by Menteith—nor would he. Just now, though, he wanted Lennox to look at some documents to lend some insight into Bruce's plans, as the man might know more than others about that.

Hearing Malcolm's voice, he glimpsed him at the far turn in the outer wall that backed up to forestland. In that section, a high wedge of stones sealed damage in the outer wall yet to be repaired. All in due time, Duncan thought as he approached.

Straw bales were set at the back wall for archery targets. Lennox stood gripping an upright longbow waiting for Margaret, who stood poised to release an arrow. Her long braid shone like rippled copper in the late sunlight. Duncan watched her draw back the bowstring and release. The arrow struck one of the bales, and Lennox called out approval. Her answering smile faded as she noticed Duncan. He felt a swirl of disappointment. He wanted that warm smile, too.

"She is a proper archer. Has not missed a shot yet," Lennox said, seeing him.

"That went too far left," Margaret said. "But I am glad to be outside with my bow again." She smiled at Duncan then, but it seemed tremulous.

He frowned slightly, wondering at her cool demeanor. Only two days ago they had taken the falcons out, had lingered at the waterfall—he would have stayed there forever with her—and then, unfortunately, they had met De Soulis. Later Duncan had left her door unbarred, making her freedom clear. He had thought that might please her.

But since seeing De Soulis, the lass had befuddled him further, even avoided him. Perhaps she was upset with De Soulis; perhaps she was upset with Duncan for not riding off in a fury to find Lilias—had he even known where to look, or how to achieve it legally and ultimately. Still, he was glad Margaret was finding ways to occupy her time with books, archery, and helping Effie here and there, which he had noticed gratefully.

She stood back. "Sir Malcolm, it is your shot."

"Hold. I need Lennox for a bit," Duncan said. "Sir, if you would, I require your opinion on some matters. Patrick has the documents in the library for you to study if you have time. I can stay with Lady Margaret," he added.

Lennox handed the longbow to Duncan. "Your turn then, Brechlinn. She might best you though. Later, my lady." He walked away.

"Are you my erstwhile guard, then?"

"Do you need one?" When she only stared at him, he shrugged. "I have work to finish, but some air will do us good before the sun drops for the evening." He raised the longbow and tugged the string. "The range of this bow is too long for those targets. The distance is better suited to your hunting bow."

"Lennox was shooting past the bales toward that postern door. But some of his shots went over the back wall." She indicated the old door, scarred with arrow shots, set in the wall. "His bowshot would catch English from here. Mine might catch a hare."

"Or a sheriff," he drawled as he took up a long arrow. He stretched the bowstring, balanced the arrow, sighted the old door.

"You still do not believe my shot was an accident."

"I still wonder what happened."

"I am a decent archer and I needed the prize. The arrow went askew. That is all."

He pulled back the string, paused, then shot. The arrow arced high and struck the wall above the door, clattering off the stone. "Your turn, my lady."

"Not bad," she said of his shot. "The brooch. I wanted it." She took up one of her arrows and stepped forward. She touched the pendant at her throat and set the bow.

"Do you always tap your necklace for luck before you shoot? It is a curious thing, that crystal you wear. Like a carved arrowhead."

"Grandda gave it to me, so it may bring some luck." She aimed and released. The arrow plunked into the center of the linen target.

"Very nice. Was that luck, a faery charm—or skill?"

"All three." She gave a reluctant smile. She was in a peculiar mood, and he wondered about it.

"Would you swear you did not intend to harm Menteith?"

"I wanted to find him, but it was not my intention to harm him." She touched the pendant again, fingers trembling. "I desperately hoped something would delay him so he would not take Lilias away if he had her. It was just luck the arrow went astray."

He nodded without reply, tipped the longbow, and released an arrow that curved high to sail over the wall. He turned and bowed almost comically, hoping for a smile.

"Too much strength," she remarked. "Now you will have to fetch the arrow. Sir Malcolm said we could send Effie's Owen out the gate to find the ones he lost."

"Come with me." He waved her ahead, and they walked across the bailey. Near the entrance gate, Bran stood talking with two Brechlinn men. Mungo, the larger of Duncan's wolfhounds, rested on the ground beside them and leaped up as Duncan approached. He ruffled the dog's head and patted the high shoulders, then gestured to Bran, who pulled the iron-studded oaken door open.

"We will be back soon. Lady Margaret, if you will. Come, Mungo!" Duncan waved the hound out ahead of them as he ushered Margaret through. Then he held up a hand, glancing this way and that to be sure it was safe before he motioned her out with him.

Overhead, the sky was going to lavender behind soft gray clouds. "We must hurry to catch the light if we want to find the arrows," Margaret said.

"Aye. Though twilight comes later now, with the days longer in May." He walked beside her, the rippling blue loch to one side, forestland to the other. They went toward the trees, crossing turf and hillocks as they followed the curtain wall toward clusters of oak and birch surrounded by ferns and a froth of tiny wildflowers, white and purple blooms. Just past the breach in the wall where stones filled the gap, Duncan walked into the trees, Margaret following. Mungo zigzagged through the grasses, nosing about.

"I do not see the arrow. It must have sailed into the trees," Margaret said.

"The woodland here catches plenty of arrows. Longer shafts from the larger bows sometimes go far into the trees. We do not always find them."

She skipped ahead, lifting her green skirt to walk through ferns and tiny blooms between saplings and older trees. The land rose and fell in low hillocks, a green and quiet forest touched by golden beams of afternoon sun. She went deeper into the trees, peering as she went.

"There—oh, just a stick. What color was the fletching?"

"Gray, I think." He turned. "This is not so easy. Usually a stable groom forages for the lost arrows."

"You do not have many servants here, soldiers either."

"I have requested more men. Here, Mungo," he called as the hound looked up from some distraction. "If he sees something interesting, he will run and we will be out here for a while."

"That would suit me. I love being in the forest best of all places."

He glanced at her, seeing the forest in her eyes, the green sparkle there, happiness pinking her cheeks. An answering glow warmed his heart. "Do you, now?"

"I do. I feel good here. It fills me somehow. It is so alive, so beautiful, so peaceful."

"Aye," he said, looking at her.

She walked on. "Will Edward send English here to add to your garrison?"

"I hope for more Scots," he said, skirting who might send them. "When enough are housed here, we will hire more servants."

"You need a cook soon and should give Effie MacArthur rooms in the castle."

He huffed and bent to rummage his hands through a patch of green ferns. "She would not live here. She has a cottage outside, in what was once a thriving village. Many left the glen after English burned some of the village once they had finished wrecking Brechlinn."

"You are rebuilding. Brechlinn will grow."

"True, but we cannot last long on Bran's cooking. Nor would I ask Euphemia to take on more, though she is willing to help."

"She has a good heart, your cousin," she commented, bending to search.

"She does, and has her own work to do as well. She weaves tartan cloth and makes a good penny in town markets."

"I did not know. How lovely! She has a son, she says."

"He is a good lad, but he does not want to be a weaver. He wants to forge steel."

"Aha!" She rose, arrow shaft in hand. "It went past this oak."

He took it. "You have a sharp eye, lass."

"And here!" She waded through ferny undergrowth and came up with another long arrow, fletched in gray feathers. Handing it to him with a look of glee, she turned to rummage further.

"Well done. Shall we head back? Mungo!" He whistled and saw the hound loping between the trees.

"Oh, Duncan, look!" When he turned back, Margaret Keith had stepped into a grove of oaks and birches, where bluebells spread in a haze of purple-blue far into the forest. The light was golden and violet here, gentling over the girl, her face, her hair, her eyes. He caught his breath at such beauty, wanting to say what he felt, yet not ready, unsure to define it or limit it in words. He saw her shiver and cross her arms.

"It is chilly, and you came out without a cloak. Come ahead."

"Not yet. We might find more arrows. I would stay here forever." She twirled around just where two birches formed an arch.

A memory went across his mind like a shooting star—lithe young Margaret in his father's courtyard, spinning, cloak swirling, bright curls spilling down her back, her face delicate and joyful. She had been innocent and full of dreams. He had spoiled that.

"You are like a forest sprite," he said gently.

"Go in if you want. I can stay with Mungo and look for arrows."

"Soon you would be chasing him over the hills. Unless your intention is just that, to run off and disappear."

"It did cross my mind."

"You are still in the custody of the justiciar. I would come after you."

"Then I will save you the trouble and stay." Under the canopy of greening branches, she spread her arms in the blur of the bluebell wood. "It is so peaceful here. It reminds me of the forest near Kincraig, which overlooks part of the northern span of the great forest of Ettrick and Selkirk. I always thought I would—" Shaking her head, she pointed. "Is that an arrow there?"

He looked. "Just a feather. You thought you would what?"

"You do not want to know." She moved ahead between trees, surging through bracken going green with spring, the shadows dimming her hair to reddish-brown.

"I do." Some urge, a twist in the center of his being, told him so.

She looked over her shoulder. "When I was very young, I wanted to be married in the forest, under the arches of the trees, like a magnificent cathedral. Grandda had predicted a forest wedding for me once."

"You mentioned it to me once." He studied the trees. "Thomas said your first betrothal would not come about, but you would be a forest bride. Something like that."

"You remembered."

"I did." Every moment of that day. Every word. "I recall you thought it a silly notion, a wedding in the forest."

She sighed. "I have learned more since then. My sister found some of his writings on scraps of parchment. He had written a verse about us. It starts, ‘Three lasses, three ladies, three brides all,' with something about each of us. Part of the verse says, ‘One shall loose an arrow in the heart of greenside.' I suppose that one is me."

"That prediction certainly came true." He laughed.

"But no mention of forest bride. Not all predictions come true. Even his." She met his gaze, then looked away quickly.

His heart surged with sudden compassion, seeing her disappointment. "You do not know that. Someday you will wed."

"It is not likely now. And not in a forest!" She laughed, though it was thin.

"Tell me," he said, for the question had been burning in him, "what did De Soulis want when he spoke to you before we left?"

"He wants me back. You do not." She spun to walk ahead, reaching up to shake a sapling, then bent to poke some bracken. She kept her back turned as she peered into a tangle of birch limbs and new leaves.

He followed. "I never said I did not want you."

"You made it clear years ago."

"Margaret—"

"I could decide to take his fair offer." She lifted her chin, slanted him a look.

"It is not a fair offer."

"It is an offer. Look!" This as she pulled an arrow shaft from ferny undergrowth. "I have an eye like a hawk, sir. You would have done well to keep me around."

Enough. He stepped forward, hardly thinking, plowing through the ferns toward her as if he could break the wall between him and his feelings. She had been his lost dream for so long, and now she was here—and he had yet to crack through the barrier around his heart. But her remark had touched off his guilt like a flame.

"Margaret."

"We should go," she said, back turned.

"Margaret!" He reached for her arm and spun her toward him, her skirts spiraling through the ferns. Her eyes widened in surprise when he snatched the arrow from her hand and threw it aside. He tossed his arrow down as well, and took her wrists in his hands to tug her close. She raised her forearms between her body and his.

"Margaret Keith, for love of God," he said low, furious—not with her, but himself—"what is it you want?"

"What do you want?" He felt the resistance in her. "Though perhaps you do not need to tell me again."

"Jesu, you are a vixen sometimes," he growled, and pulled her toward him. The desire that had lingered in him since the other night plunged through him, renewed, stronger. He tugged her so close that her breasts pressed against his woolen surcoat and tunic, against his hard-beating heart.

"What do I want? You," he said.

As her lips opened to reply, lush and ready, he kissed her. Setting his lips over hers fast and firm, he held her by the wrists, his chest hard against her full breasts, and tasted her mouth. Her lips responded and she gave a little moan. He felt her body arch closer, meeting him, pressing, drawing back. What he sought, she gave willingly, her lips opening, the small tip of her tongue meeting his. He let her wrists go and took her waist, pulling her tight against him, then slanted his face for another kiss. Her arms looped around his neck and he tilted her back as she arched, feeling as if he could not slake the thirst that pulsed through his body. The next kiss was her doing, breathless, tender, and deep. He let go of her small, taut waist and cupped her head in his hands. Kisses poured, one into the other. His heart was slamming within.

He pulled back, breathing hard, and tipped his head against hers. "Margaret."

"What," she whispered, "was that?"

"An offer." The words slipped past him. "My offer to you."

She stared at him. "Of what?"

"God's very bones, Margaret Keith, you do not forgive a man easily, do you?"

"I forgave you years ago. You never knew. Offer of what?"

Forgiven? Relief washed through him. He would say it, and so be it. "My heart."

Silent, she watched him, eyes green as the leaves surrounding her. "Truly?"

"Lass," he whispered, then sighed. He still cupped her face in his hands. "This is not easy."

"I know," she said in barely a whisper. Captured in his hands, she stood so close, her body pressed to his. He tipped his brow to hers again.

"We were young, lass. Now we are older. Wiser."

She poked him in the chest with a finger. "I want your heart. Not your guilt."

He huffed, nearly laughed. He wanted her so utterly, fully, in that moment that it nearly swamped him. Tilting her face slightly, he kissed her again, slowly this time, gently, then a deep savor. He felt her sink a little, make a soft moan. He slid a hand to her back to support her. Then he drew back a little.

"Does that," he murmured, "feel like guilt to you?"

"Not guilt," she breathed, her eyes closed. She angled her head back, inviting more. He delved, and she raised her arms to his shoulders, drawing him as close as could be. Dipping, he kissed her again, and as she curved against him, he stepped forward and she went back. Then she was pulling him with her, moving a few steps further under the sturdy buttress of the tall oak just behind her, her back pressed to the broad trunk. Tall enough that leafy branches brushed over his hair, he tipped his head, nudged her nose, and traced his lips over her cheek.

"Here among the trees is more private," she whispered, angling her head as her lips met his.

What took him over then, kiss upon kiss, was a passion fed by an earthy, wild power he had never felt before—the luscious girl, her lips, her body; the oakwood, the wild scent of bluebells, and the green scent of leaves; her hands running along his shoulders, fingers sinking into his hair—all of it driving him onward, breathless and lost, seeking, kissing—his hands shaping her curves, fingers finding the lush swell of her breasts—her answering gasp, her next kiss welcoming more—

Mungo barking in the distance, woofing again.

This was madness. Drawing back, breath ragged, Duncan rested his brow on hers as he caught his breath and blinked, attempting to clear his thoughts. She moved her head to press her cheek to his. He realized she was up on her toes, arms looped around his neck; he held her firm in his hands, one on her hip, the other curved around her ribs, his thumb on her breast. He sucked in a breath.

"Jesu, lass." He lowered his hands, but she kept her arms around his neck. "I did not intend to—"

"Duncan Dhu," she whispered. "It is the forest. There is a sort of magic here."

"Magic in you ." He kissed her forehead and stepped back.

"Wait." She still held him close, reaching up. "Now tell me what you want."

"Just you," he said.

"So I have a choice to make," she whispered.

"You do."

Sighing, she released him then, and he stepped back again, giving her room to come away from the sheltering oak. She looked up at the leafy green canopy, then stepped out from under the tree. Wading through bluebells and ferns, skirts trailing, she turned, framed by the green, white, silvery arch of birch trees behind her now. Winsome, faery-like, she gave him a whimsical smile.

"Well, I want that brooch," she mused.

"Ah. Is that all?" Seeing Mungo nosing through the undergrowth, he patted his thigh lightly to attract the dog, who quickened his pace. "What else do you want?"

"The key to the door where Lilias is kept."

"Fair enough. So do I. I rather thought that brooch was mine," he teased softly.

"You promised to give it to me."

"Did I?" He was distracted, heart thumping, thoughts whirling, body throbbing. He felt caught in a spell, almost a drunken state, and had to shake it off. "So you would let De Soulis court you for a brooch and a key?"

She gave a half-laugh. "I will let him think he is courting me."

"And you expect he will give you what you want?" He cocked a casual brow, though the question was weighted. He reached out as the hound came near and ruffled the gray head.

"Perhaps." She rustled a tree branch. "We should find the rest of those arrows."

"Forget the arrows, Margaret," he said quietly. "And if you need a brooch for your cloak, you can have your pick of mine. I have several. Take the entire jewelry casket if you like." He waved a hand.

She turned and he saw the hurt in her expression. "Duncan, what is it? Just moments ago, you—we—" She reached out in appeal.

He closed the few steps between them and took her hand. "It is just—you need never see De Soulis again, Margaret. You can have any brooch you want. And we will find Lilias without anything from him."

"But I have to see him. I must have that very pin."

"I know your great-grandfather gave it to you. But there may be another way."

"I must have it, and soon." She let go of his hand, rummaged in the ferns, came up with nothing. "I do not want much in life, Duncan. But I desperately want Lilias and the others safe soon. Very soon."

"That will happen."

"And I want my family safe in a land cursed with strife. I want you safe," she added, glancing over her shoulder. "And I need the Rhymer's blue stone in my keeping."

"I see." Frowning, he needed a little distance to regain his calm. His anger at De Soulis on her behalf muddled his thoughts. But this girl could send him reeling off balance like no other; over the years he had encountered women, certainly, but he had allowed none to breach his heart. Now, opening to her, he caught himself thinking on impulse, with his heart rather than his head. He was not used to that.

"Lilias will be safe. I promise. Lass, if I could give you whatever you want, I would. Your kin secure. A safe home. That bothersome brooch. You have your bow already, so you can shoot whomever you want."

"You are still standing." A smile quirked.

"Thank the saints."

"And I want Scotland free. I hope we agree on that. You do work for Edward." Another glance, this one uncertain.

"I want Scotland free too," he said quietly. "I only work for Edward when I must. I want you to understand that."

"Then tell me more about it." She turned full to him, eyes green, wide, cheeks pink, reddish-bronze hair mussed and lovely, sliding out of its braiding. Her beauty was simple, pure, constant. His body yearned. His heart ached for her.

"I will." He reached out to brush away a spiraled curl that drifted over her brow. He wanted to kiss the troubled look from her eyes.

"Finding Lilias is by far the most important, and the missing men. We have lingered too long. And with them, the cloak pin."

"Aye. Tell me this. William de Soulis said something this morning that bothered you. I could not hear, but I saw its effect. I was about to throttle the man," he added.

"I suspected as much and pulled you away. He asked me if the brooch was mine. He wanted to know if it had belonged to my great-grandfather."

Something Lennox had said tapped at his memory. "Why would he ask that?"

"He must have learned about Thomas's stone somehow. But how would he guess that I might have something the Rhymer owned?"

"Your father. Inheritances are often discussed during betrothal negotiations. The groom is told what the bride will bring to the marriage. It could be that."

"Why guess the brooch was mine?"

"You were anxious about it, which caught his attention. He might have recalled that you inherited valuables from True Thomas." He saw her swift scowl. "And Menteith might know of the inheritance, too. Sheriffs are often made aware of important wills in case of disputes. Your Rhymer was a notable man."

"Could the knights who ambushed us have known too?"

"Possibly."

"Surely they wanted Lilias. But why me? For the brooch?"

"A daughter of Keith of Kincraig, and a valuable broach belonging to Thomas? Aye." The memory emerged. "The knowledge of it could have come directly from King Edward. Lennox told me that the king knew that your sister owned a particular book."

"Ah! And Menteith had the brooch, which also means he has Lilias."

"It is coming together." He turned to walk with her, the hound between them. Margaret reached out to pat Mungo's shoulder.

"If you need proof, my siblings know that pin. My brother would recognize it."

"I need no more proof."

She stopped, her eyes bright with relief and hope. "Good. Now we will do this!"

He held up a cautioning hand. "A little more time. Constantine Murray promised the loan of more men. We do not have enough Brechlinn men to make an impression if we must confront Menteith."

"When you do that, I would ride with you."

"Margaret." He shook his head.

"I wish my brother were here. He would help. Do you know Henry?"

"I met him years ago. He was not keen to speak to me at the time, as I recall. He was very protective of you."

"He is still protective of me and my sisters. Lilias too, especially with Papa gone."

"At least we have some evidence about the escort incident now."

"I did try to tell you that all along."

"You did. I see that now."

"Surely Menteith and De Soulis, too, know something about Lilias. And the brooch," she added. "It is mine to protect, you see. The stones must never fall into the wrong hands. Grandda insisted on it."

He frowned. "Wrong hands?"

"Because of the enchantment. Listen now," she said, touching his arm. "The Rhymer's things must be kept by those who share his legacy and will honor it."

"The pendant you wear—was that his too, and under some faery spell?"

"So Thomas said. When the queen gave him the gift of truth-telling, she gave him a few treasures too, all with an enchantment."

"Your sisters and your brother as well?"

She nodded. "Tamsin was given pages of his notes and prophecies and such to create a book. Rowena has something of Grandda's too, a healing charm. I do not know much about it. She is very private about her healing work. Henry was given something too, but he has never said much about it."

"I see. Well, we are sorting through it now, my lass." He took her elbow as they stepped over a fallen log and neared the edge of the forest. The castle walls loomed, blocking the twilight so that the forest fell into deep shadow.

"Duncan—the other day when you told De Soulis we were betrothed—were you truly making an offer? Or did you say it to annoy him?"

"I did want to irritate the man," he admitted. "And I wanted to protect you."

"Am I considering two offers, or just his?"

He cocked a brow. "Would you give thought to his?"

"Should I?" She smiled a little.

"Consider mine alone." He spoke quickly, sincerely, surprising himself a bit.

She stared up at him. "I—will do that." She blushed—he saw it even in shadow—and turned to scan the ground. "Where did we put the arrows we found?"

A long, rich blast of sound caught his attention. Glancing through the trees toward the castle wall, he saw a soldier high on the battlement lifting a horn. The same pattern sounded, two long blasts, one short.

"Danger? Soldiers approaching?" Margaret asked, arrows in hand now.

"That signal means a boat is coming up the loch toward Brechlinn." He took her arm. "Hurry. Mungo, come!"

As the horn sounded again, he ran, Margaret beside him, the dog trotting ahead toward the gate.