Chapter Twenty-Four

"H ey, Greta," Margaret murmured, moving toward the gyrfalcon on its perch. Moments before, she had entered the mews just after Duncan and the others had returned from patrol in the rain. He had not seen her, dismounting quickly to head into the keep with Constantine and Lennox, while Henry greeted her briefly. She wondered what they had seen out there, if anything; no alarms of discovery had been sounded.

For now, she meant to stay out of her bedchamber so that Agatha could nap. She had been exhausted after the long day's journey. She took another step toward the white gyrfalcon, flexing her talons on a tree limb set on a high trestle. Nearby, the peregrine was asleep, while Smoke, Greta's mate, gave a shrill kik-kik-kik and went silent.

Margaret paused a few feet away. "Greta, you look so well. He takes very good care of you."

Dark liquid eyes regarded her, arrowed brows tilted almost as if the bird sought a memory. Then Greta bowed her head to preen feathers as if to dismiss the human girl.

"I missed you," Margaret said. "I prayed for your wellbeing."

Greta chirred, lifting her wings slightly, fluffing her feathers, looking past her.

"Hey my lass," a man said. Margaret spun to see Duncan coming toward her.

She smiled at his affectionate greeting, then realized he addressed the bird as he stepped past her. Yet he reached out to press her elbow gently, a gesture that said he saw her too. Her heart quickened. But he greeted the bird first.

"Greta, my lass," he murmured. He reached into a pouch and produced a bit of meat, tossing it to the bird, who caught it deftly with the talons of one foot.

"Sir, you only returned and you already have meat for her?" Margaret laughed a little. "I saw you ride in moments ago."

"Ah. I went to the keep and asked after you, and Effie said you came this way. I stopped in the kitchen, thinking to bring something to the birds if I did not find you."

"You were looking for me?" She felt unaccountably pleased.

"I was. Greetings, my lady."

"Sir Duncan," she said. "Did you see riders in the glen?"

"They had gone when we arrived, riding east again, Alan said. Possibly they came from Roskie."

Watching the bird, Margaret's next thought made her gasp. "Duncan, could it be they were searching for gyrfalcons? De Soulis seemed too interested the other day."

"He did. It is possible. Margaret Keith, we must talk." His quiet words had such a sense of urgency that her heart bounded.

"Here, now?"

"Not here. The birds like their quiet. But the castle is a busy place, with Constantine and Henry meeting with men to assemble the next patrol and the bishop conferring with Seton and Lennox, and Effie directing the servants with so much to be done. We could talk in your chamber if you like."

"Dame Agatha is resting there now. She is sharing the room with me. They will all need their rest tonight, so Effie is preparing an early supper. I should help."

"She does not expect it. She knows I was looking for you. Good of you to share with the prioress."

"She is a dear friend, who said she insisted on coming with her brother when she heard of the trouble. We met at the infirmary at Holyoak when she was injured and I was ill. Then we went to Lincluden Abbey to recover. Mama, as well. Agatha stayed, and was so dedicated and capable that she was asked to be prioress after the death of the older nun, who had the position for many years."

"She is young for it, and very intelligent woman, I can see. So she was injured—I wondered why a beautiful and youthful lass would cloister herself."

"Sore wounded, aye, and a good friend to me. Though I left Lincluden, we have remained friends."

"Forgive me for asking, but she must have had a terrible mishap."

"I do not even notice the scarring now, to be honest. She has such beauty inside and out. And such fortitude and spirit. A suitor attacked her. Her brothers near killed the man."

"Jesu. I can imagine," he muttered. "I would do the same. You two had a poor betrothal in common, I suppose."

"You know I was heartbroken there," she said, glancing away. "Agatha was—devastated, with good reason, but she accepted it and grew peaceful over the years. She has the sort of calm and wisdom and kindness that makes a good prioress. She said that only months ago, she encountered the man who hurt her, and she walked away stronger for it, she said, after—well, a bit of revenge on her part, I suppose you could say."

"Oh?" He tipped a brow.

"I hear he will recover." She gave a bitter smile.

He whistled. "Well done, Dame Agatha! You have a good friend in her."

"She means a great deal to me. And I feel that I have a new friend here in Effie too. And—in you?" She felt a lift of hope.

"We need to talk." He looked grim. Anxious. Her heart sank a little.

"We could shoot arrows over the wall and search for them in the woods."

"Rain. Come with me. I know of a place where we can find privacy."

She followed him out of the mews and across the bailey, where they ran through the rain to the keep. Up the wooden steps and inside, then along a short stem corridor to another door. He beckoned for her to proceed him up a set of steep steps that turned around a pillar, a narrow space lit only by an arrowslit high up.

They climbed three levels, passing stone platforms with closed doors. Margaret clung to a sturdy rope bolted to the pillar on the steep steps. When they reached the topmost platform, she saw a single arched door.

"What is this?" she asked.

"The quietest room in the castle." He pushed the door wide.

What was so important? Did he want to convince her further about De Soulis? There was no need for that—she bristled at the thought. True, she was resolved that she would have to see De Soulis if there was no other way to find Lilias and save Thomas's blue stone. But did Duncan not trust her to see the risks and be careful?

Perhaps he simply did not know her well enough yet to understand her stubborn nature. Perhaps he did not realize how much she loved him, and could not love another.

She stepped into a shadowy and spacious room where a brazier gave off a flickering amber and light and cozy warmth to counter the cool-gray light that diffused through glass roundels in a shuttered window lashed with rain. A large wooden bed draped in dark tartan curtains filled one side of the room. By the window was a stout oak table, two chairs, and a painted cupboard. A width of thick tartan wool was spread over the planked floor. The table was piled with parchments and leather-bound books.

She turned. "The laird's bedchamber?"

He shrugged. "The only place not overrun. May I shut the door?"

"If you mean to talk about Sir William, then leave it open. I will not stay."

"I see. What would keep you here?"

She paused, then boldly met his steady gaze, her heart drumming its hopes and dreams. "I hope you know what that would be."

He inclined his head. "Margaret, I need to explain something. You must listen."

That sounded ominous. Frowning, she went to the table and sat in one of the chairs, primly arranging her skirts, folding her hands. The brazier's warmth felt good. Fortifying. Her hands went cold with a sudden unnamed fear. He took the other chair.

"Wine?" He reached for a ceramic jug and a wooden cup.

She shook her head. "Not just now."

"I think you may need it."

Dear God, what did he plan to say? She twisted her fingers, nodded.

"I only have one cup. Baccalarius ," he explained. "Bachelor knight."

"You are not lowborn, sir, which the term describes."

"It is used more for an unmarried knight now, or was in France when I was there. Bacalar , they called us, our group of Scottish knights—unmarried knights, and not one of us low-born. But free, in a sense."

"Free?" Her voice squeaked as the air go out of her. Did he mean to let her go again? Perhaps he did not mean to dissuade her from accepting De Soulis after all.

She did not want De Soulis. She wanted Duncan Campbell—she wanted him so much it hurt.

He filled the cup with dark wine, offered the cup to her. She sipped. Tart yet sweet, heating her throat. She took a long gulp. He tipped a brow as she handed it back.

"Bracing for whatever news is to come?"

"You are being very mysterious."

"Best have another sip. Let me brace myself as well." He drank, slid the cup toward her.

"Good heavens," she said, after another sip. "I cannot imagine what this news is if it needs good unwatered French wine and a secluded space."

"It might be a shock, my lady. It was to me." He sighed, set an arm on the table. "I spoke with your brother today about many things. And he told me what your father had planned to do—though he died he could tell you about it. Or me."

She frowned. "You and me?"

"Henry found some papers. He discovered—" He paused. "Your father had heard a rumor that I had returned to Scotland, very much alive. He took a chance on that and sent a message to me at Innis Connell. But I was not there to receive it. It is possible only servants were there at the time. It was not passed on to me."

"Did he want the dowry? He had decided not to take the repayment."

"I know. Margaret." He clenched his fist, spread his fingers. "Our betrothal was never dissolved."

She stared, then reached for the cup at the same moment he did. It sloshed over both their hands. Duncan let it go to her. Sipping a little, she took the moment to think, to calm her fast-beating heart. Then she set it down. He took a sip.

"But how can that be?" she asked.

"This way." He explained what Henry had told him. While he spoke, she watched his long fingers, the nimble grace and strength there. An urge to reach for his hand to feel his capable, reassuring strength overwhelmed her. She kept still.

"So," he finished, and spread his open hands.

"So because the dowry was not repaid, the contract was never canceled?"

"In part. Because your father believed I was deceased, he forgave the debt. It was never sent to the abbot or a bishop to be finalized by the Church because it was thought my death dissolved it. But when Sir Robert heard that I had returned, he knew the agreement was still in place."

"What does this mean?" Stunned and confused, she leaned her forehead in her hand, then looked up. "That we are still betrothed in fact?"

"It is still a binding agreement in this moment. But we can do what we want, Margaret. We could ignore it, with the small chance that a clerk somewhere might find a document and recognize a familiar name—and if one of us had married, it could be an issue with the Church. Or it can be dissolved, just as before—or fulfilled."

She caught her breath. "What do you want to do?"

His glance was quick and keen, his brows tucked together. He ran his fingers through his dark, disheveled, too-long hair and stood, going to the window to peer out over the half shutters. Rain rattled against the glassed panel. His frowning profile was thoughtful, edged in watery twilight.

Though her thoughts whirled, she recognized how beautiful he was standing there. A quiet warrior, tall and handsome, a wise, kind, soulful man with a sharp intellect and a restrained nature that screened his thoughts.

But she could see through that reserve now. And she saw only the man she had loved for so long. Her ideals and dreams stood there in his form, far more real and tangible, whole and compelling, than she could ever have imagined.

"Duncan." She stood. "I do not want to lose you again."

"Do you still fear that?" He shook his head. "Margaret. Whatever happened then is done. I have always loved you. Always." He did not turn. "I felt—"

She stood, silent, resting a trembling hand on the table, listening.

"I felt so remorseful for hurting you. As if I had torn out my own heart."

"I am sorry," she whispered.

"I am the one who is sorry. I thought I was doing the honorable thing, sparing you the wait and uncertainty. But I learned soon that my pledge to a king was not nearly as significant as my promise to a lass I could not forget." He glanced at her, then away, cloaked in that reserve, and she saw the effort he made to talk about his feelings. She stood silent.

"I thought of you all those years," he went on, "knowing you were a woman grown by then, wondering about you. Hearing the rumors of the convent, I thought you must be the most beautiful and spirited of nuns." He gave a hoarse laugh.

She laughed a little too. "That was Agatha, not me." Her heart pounded. She wanted to run to him, but she stayed in place, feeling he needed time, the length of the room, the sound of rain, and her patience.

"We were so young, aye?" He watched the rain on the glass. "You were three when I first met you. A wee faery creature. And later, thirteen when we found the bird."

"Nearly fourteen," she whispered. "And you were twenty."

"Nearly twenty-one. And it did not feel right to me to wed such a young girl, let alone bed her, as would have been expected."

"Girls that age marry all the time." She heard her voice as if from afar.

"They do. But I could not do that. I had this rigid sense of honor and principle then. I had to prove myself a chivalrous knight. The ideal knight."

"I always thought you were," she said softly.

He shook his head. "I followed Edward for a short time and realized I could not condone his actions against the Scots, my people. So I sided with the Scots. And for years I sat in a dungeon, then in better quarters on the hope of a good ransom. Then I was shipped off to a foreign war. And so it went. Fighting in battles, existing, scheming to get away, doing what I could to survive. Ideal knight!"

"Then against all odds, you became that."

"What I learned of true honor, I learned in those years from the men around me. Sir Andrew Murray—aye, the lad's father. We shared a cell together. Sir John Comyn, who was killed by Bruce, or some say Bruce's men, in this crush of right and ambition over the throne of Scotland. But first of all, my father, a man of integrity and a soul as big as the stars. And now Robert Bruce. He teaches all of us what dedication is. What it means to love Scotland. Persistence. Passion. Belief," he added, fisting a hand.

"You learned well, Duncan Dhu."

He looked at her then. "But I made a grave error before those years. Had we married as our families wanted then, and had I never left, I might have been a very different man than now."

"Either way, a very good man." She moved toward him. "And now?"

"And now I could be the kind of husband you deserve."

Her knees wavered. "Is that what you want?"

His sweet and rueful smile poured into her heart. "I always wanted that, Margaret. And lately I see how much, and why."

With a little soft cry, she ran to him and he opened his arms. She melted into his embrace as if she had always belonged there, as if he was some missing piece of her and she of him, found in joy. He felt so strong, warm, enveloping, that she closed her eyes to savor it, sensing his heart thumping against her cheek.

"Duncan," she whispered, and reached up to cup her hands on his dark-bristled jaw. "I thought when you wanted to talk, sounding so serious, you meant to let me go."

"Let you go? I only just found you again after so long."

"Perhaps we both needed that time," she said, as the idea of it occurred. "We both went through a great deal. I think we are stronger for it. We know what we want. What we need," she breathed.

"I know what I want. The rest is yours to decide."

She sighed, smiled. What did she want? All her dreams to come true. And in this moment, it seemed it could happen. So many dreams.

"I just want you to kiss me," she said then.

He did, taking her, leaning her back, kissing her the way he had kissed her under the arch of birches, with passion and power and all his heart blown open. He kissed her as if all the years and regrets and grief vanished, as if she had never been a child with him, or even a woman in his arms with so much time wasted between them. Instead, he kissed her as one soul would kiss another, having searched and found and merged easily at last.

"You," she said, drawing back for breath. "All this time, it was you I dreamed of. Even when it seemed impossible, thinking you were gone. I was angry and sad at first, but still yearning, still dreaming. I believed you did not want me, and still I never wanted to marry anyone else. Only you. It was only you I loved. Only you I love now."

"Dearest. Listen now." He snugged her in the circle of his arms, looking down at her. "The day I broke it off, I loved you in a way, but both of us were too young. I suppose I loved the memory of you, the thought of the woman you would become. In those days, I desperately wanted to come home to my kin—and then find you and ask forgiveness. But when I learned you were in a convent, I lost heart somewhat."

"And all the while I thought you had died. What a tangle of knots made by rumor and fate. Yet here we are."

"Here we are," he murmured. Pressed to his chest, she rose to kiss his cheek, his lips, then pulled back. "Then all is well?"

"And all shall be well. There is still the matter of De Soulis, but we are still betrothed, and he cannot dismiss that. Though we do not know what he truly wants from you, which concerns me."

"He has no claim over your betrothed. He never did," she added.

He brushed a stray curl from her brow. "No claim, but if he is angered over it, he could have ill intent. And if Menteith should ever discover you shot him, he would come after you with vengeance and the law. Remember they tried to grab you when they took Lilias. There may be a reason. Edward will do anything to punish Robert Bruce. He did order the capture of his kinswomen."

"But I am not related to Bruce."

"You accompanied his daughter. And you have value of your own through your kin and the Rhymer. King Edward sent men to pursue your sister for something she owned. It is possible they meant to take you too in that ambush."

She remembered their earlier conversation about Thomas's brooch. "Since Menteith took Lilias, he may have known something about me."

"Aye, and perhaps it was a royal order—or he just wanted to please the king, knowing the king's obsession with prophecies and the Rhymer and such. It could be."

"Duncan—the stones. I nearly forgot with all this—I wanted to tell you."

"Do not fret about your brooch. I will get that for you somehow."

"Not that. The stones we found with the holes in them, remember? I did not see anything through them. But I tried again, and I saw a vision. Truly."

"The legend about the faeries at the pool is a fine one, but those stones do look rather ordinary, lass. I doubt anyone could see much but what is in front of them."

"Listen, do. At first I saw nothing. But I fell asleep for a little while, and I dreamed my great-grandfather was there. He looked so real. He told me to look through the stones again. And he mentioned his seeing-stone, the blue stone in the brooch, and said I must have it in my keeping."

"Well, if a ghost in a dream orders it, we must obey," he drawled.

She knocked his arm lightly. "When I woke up, I knew it for a dream. But I tried the stones again, and this time I saw something. A vision that was only in the stone."

His hand cupped her elbow. "What was that?"

"I saw you through the opening in the stone." At his puzzled look, she nodded. "You were standing in a field. But I was in the room, you see. And the sky was gray. It was impossible."

"In a field? Tell me about it."

"You stood in a field, but it looked to be in the aftermath of a battle. There were men lying on the ground, not moving. You were the only one standing among those poor men. Then you leaned on your sword, which was upright. But it seemed to sink down, and you fell. It was very strange. I was so frightened for you."

"Standing? And the sword sank?" Brow puckering, he looked baffled.

"I know it seems odd to see such a thing through a hole no bigger than this." She circled her finger and thumb. "But I saw it so clearly, and I am scared for you. I cannot bear for some harm to come to you. Not now, when we have found each other again."

"Hush, lass." He took her into his embrace, held her for a moment, kissed her hair, let her go. "I think I know—"

"Do not say it was nothing. It was real." She tapped her breastbone. "I know it, I."

He smiled. "My mother would say exactly that when she saw something true. And we believed it—most of the time," he added.

"There, see!"

"I see, I do. But listen. What you saw is nothing to fret over. It already happened."

"What?"

"At Dunbar, years ago. When the fighting was done, I was one of the few still left standing among the Scots. Exhausted. Wounded. I stood looking about, and leaned on my sword, and the tip sank down into the mud and the blood. I went down with it and collapsed. Listen, lass," he said, as she gasped. "That was how I was captured. I fell when the sword sank, and I was taken prisoner. That is what you saw."

"Duncan, I am sorry—and so relieved. What I saw will not happen."

A little smile as he drew her closer. "It will never happen again. You saw the past," he whispered, "and it was not something you knew. That makes me believe in those wee stones. And in you, and what you can see in the stones one."

"You believe that I saw it, then?"

"I do. I believe all you said. And I believe you inherited more than a couple of pretty stones from True Thomas. You inherited a rare gift."

"I thought I had no real ability with the stones he gave me."

"And now you know otherwise." He kissed her then, slowly, her body curving to his, yearning quick and hot as his arms tightened around her and the kiss lingered. But then he drew back, kissing her cheek, her ear. She melted at that warm breathiness poured through to her bones.

She startled in his arms at a loud rumble followed by a deafening crack. A bright flash bathed the room in silver light. Rain began to slam against the window and the outer walls. "Oh! I did not expect the storm to hit us so hard, so quickly."

"Nor did I. Some of us were planning to ride out again on patrol."

"Stay," she said. "No one was in the glen earlier, you said. They would not come out in weather like this."

"Unlikely, true. I will stay for a bit. You should go to your room and rest."

"I would not rest. Do not go yet, Duncan. There is something else to say."

"What is that, love?"

"The question I was considering." Her breath quickened in anticipation.

"Ah, that. Now that we know we are still betrothed, it truly is a question." He paused, and she knew he waited for her answer. "Have you decided?"

"I have. The betrothal—just makes me more determined to accept your suit." She lifted her chin.

"I see," he murmured, and bent to kiss her slowly, tenderly. "Well, then, Margaret Keith. Marry me."

"I will. I want to."

"Here. Now. Marry me."

She stilled in his arms, leaning back to look up at him. "Now?"

"Tonight. The bishop could marry us this evening, or in the morning. Your brother already offered his approval—though he knows his sister will do what she will regardless of what he thinks. But he seems pleased."

"I am glad of it. But tonight?" She pushed a little on his arms so that he opened his hands and let go. "I am not sure."

"It is quick. You want to think on it."

"We have done enough thinking on the matter of betrothal and marriage. I just—it would not be the sort of wedding I imagined."

"The faster we marry, the better I can protect you from what others might try to do—De Soulis. Menteith. Edward," he finished. Thunder boomed outside, rolled into new flashes of lightning. He glanced toward the window. "The men were planning to go out. I should tell them to wait."

"No one should go out on patrol just now," she said. "Wait until the storm passes. Let me stay here with you." A feeling, insistence and need and something more, a deep, luscious pull, began to fill her.

His arms went round her, drew her close. "Here?"

"Here. Forever."

"Forever, a bit at a time," he murmured as he leaned to kiss her, and she felt herself melt again in his arms. Whatever he wanted, she wanted too. Her dreams came together, a golden net that wrapped her in desire, in relief and gratefulness too. What had come about between them had suddenly become seamless, flowing as if it was always meant to be, and some barrier had finally broken away. Curving against his body, she felt a pulse begin within her—not just the drubbing of her heart, but the beat of her very blood, surging, craving, eager. She arched in his arms and gave herself to each renewed kiss, gave herself to him, opening to the gentle tip of his tongue, hard strength of him, the throb of his body against hers.

He swept her up in his arms, carried her a step or two, paused. "What do you want," he asked low. Lightning flashed again at the window as he spoke. "What do you want here and now—"

"You," she whispered with a rush of boldness. "I want to be with you. I do not want you to leave."

"You know I must. When the storm is less, aye?"

She nodded, and he turned to carry her to the great bed in the shadows, a curtained alcove of dark plaid, and inside, layered blankets and piled pillows. When he set her down, the mattress was soft enough that she sank, and sank again when he set one knee beside her. The mattress, when pressed, gave off mingled scents of lavender and heather and something piney, so fragrant that she inhaled, closed her eyes, leaned her head back. Duncan paused in the shadows, lightning and candlelight behind him, and tugged off his tunic and linen shirt. The light slipped along the hard and smooth contours of his shoulders, his arms, his torso. Lightning brightened the room again, sparkling through the weave of the plaid as he stretched out beside her.

He touched her cheek, turning her face to his in the darkness, in the fragrant cavern. She closed her eyes as he kissed her, his lips soft, tender on hers, drawing, pulling, easing open. His fingers trailed downward, tracing over her collarbones, then lower. Her body responded, ached, craved the feeling of his hands on her. With a little moan of wanting, she pressed closer, fingers spread on his chest, his heartbeat fast and sure beneath her touch. His hands at her bodice pulled at the crisscrossed ribbons threaded there, and she helped him, fingers impatient and trembling, quicker and smarter on the ties than his. A tug, a pull and draw, and the pretty moss-green gown pooled on the floor, leaving her in a linen shift.

The cloth was soft and light, so that his hands slipped easily beneath its folds. The warmth and spread of his hands over her, up and down, over her breasts and abdomen, shaping her, coaxing her to answer his touch with soft moans, kisses, inviting arches that her body simply knew—all was sheer pleasure, unexpected and so natural that she followed, curving and flowing beneath his touch, his kisses. She tugged the shift away as his lips traced over her breasts, kissed until luscious sensations surged through her, sudden and powerful. Within, her body pulsed like the thunder and rain that pounded outside, flashed within like the lightning that glimmered beyond the curtains.

Though she had long dreamed of this man, this love she felt, she had not been able to imagine this, the merging that drove thought away and let heart and desire take over, the need so strong that only her body could express what she felt now, and felt for him. She pressed against him, rolled with him, opened as he coaxed, plummeted further as his hands, fingers, found and caressed her as she burned for more, breath and heartbeat pulsing.

When he slid over her, her body instinctively knew what to do, what he wanted, what she deeply desired, so that she arched and took him into her, a sudden rich heated plunge and thrust between them that left him gasping, his breath hot against her throat and her lips. She took his breath into hers, moving like a wave with him; she could not tell where he began and she ended, a feeling of freedom such as she had never known.

All of it wove together—desire, thrill, fear, and uncertainty; losing him, finding him, not knowing where it would lead. All blended into an immensity of love that she could not define, would not limit, just let it flow over and through her. And she knew utterly, deeply, that she would always be with him, knew in the very center of her soul, her body and her being, that she had always been his, and he was hers. Troubles and wondering vanished until she stirred out of the sweet mist that had taken her over.

She kissed him simply then and lay quiet in his arms, listening to his breathing and the steady thud of his heart. In that moment, her dreams had come to be, here beside him.