Chapter Twenty-Eight

D uncan gripped the bow, fingers itching to release the arrow, yet even an accurate shot might not free Margaret. His gyrfalcon could flee faster than the wind if she wanted. A quick glance showed Greta perched on a tall pine like a tiny angel. His other angel was held tight in De Soulis's grip, with Menteith lumbering toward them and the wild falls treacherously close.

"What shall we do here," Iain murmured. "Shoot that bow and stop this?"

"Not yet. We need to get closer so we can grab Margaret safe away."

"And toss the rest of them in the deep."

He kept his gaze sharp on Margaret, but some dark urge pressed him to kill the man in the instant. Steeling himself, he kept still. Menteith reached them then, three men behind him. He swiveled his glance to see the other knights hanging back on their horses, awaiting orders.

With luck, Con Murray would be on his way with a patrol of knights ready to reinforce Duncan and Iain. But he could not wait on that.

"De Soulis!" He powered his voice over the noisy falls. "Let her go!"

"Come get her!" came the reply. "She is mine now!"

"She is my wife ! Let her go!"

"Wife?" Iain stared at him.

"Wife?" De Soulis shouted, then barked something at Margaret and shook her.

"Enough," Duncan snarled. Raising the bow, he aimed and let the arrow loose to sail in a broad arc. It landed at De Soulis's feet. A warning.

The man launched forward, dragging Margaret in a fierce grip. Menteith followed, shouting, the words unclear in the commotion of noise from the falls. Duncan spared a glance for Greta, who sat calmly. He wished she would fly away.

"Wife!" De Soulis yelled, advancing, Margaret stumbling beside him, Menteith limping after. His men came more slowly, looking confused.

"Tell him!" De Soulis shook her. "You gave me your promise!"

"I never did." She twisted away but he set two hands on her now. She kicked him again.

"De Soulis!" Duncan reached to grab a second arrow, nocking it in a new warning. "We will annul it—or make you a widow!" De Soulis was shouting.

"That does not matter, you fool!" Menteith bellowed. "Where is the other girl?"

"The Bruce girl is safe," Duncan called.

"At Brechlinn?" Menteith shouldered in front of Margaret to face Duncan. "We will claim her there! Go! Now! " he shouted, motioning to his men. They ran as if relieved to leave the falls and the threat from the bow.

"Menteith," Duncan called, "you have no claim over Lilias!"

"Who?"

"Elisabeth!" Margaret shouted, just at his shoulder.

Duncan took a step forward, bow lowered but ready. "Sir John, I could arrest you for abducting Elisabeth de Bruce and for ordering an ambush on a royal party."

"You have no evidence!"

"We have proof enough from Bruce's daughter and Lady Margaret. Andrew Murray too."

"I told you that was a rescue! You may be a justiciar, but I am a sheriff. We both know you do not have enough to charge me in Edward's Scotland."

"This is not Edward's Scotland." Duncan took another step forward, making it easier to hear over the roaring water—and improving any arrowshot he might take.

"So you side with Bruce now."

"I always did. So did you, years back. But you changed your loyalty."

"We were friends once. Shared a dungeon cell. Where is your loyalty?"

"Where it belongs. Release Lady Margaret and leave Lady Lilias alone."

"But Edward would want both of them. The Rhymer's granddaughter—and Bruce's own lass! That child is a prize. You, justiciar, could benefit too."

"Trade a child? You are mad!"

"If you want your lady, then look the other way about the child. Let Edward negotiate for her return."

Duncan raised the bow again, aiming squarely. The distance was thirty feet or so now, easy enough. "Let her go or regret it."

Perhaps it was his movement or his voice that caused Greta to leave the pine and float downward, sailing just over their heads. She curved upward and fluttered to rest in a tall birch just above Duncan and Iain, perching watchful as any guardian.

Margaret's heart sank as she watched the gyrfalcon's angelic flight. She prayed the bird would vanish into the clouds, but Greta seemed intent on watching them.

"What the devil—is that a gyrfalcon?" Menteith craned his neck to look up.

"I told you I saw one out here, with Campbell!" De Soulis said.

"A white gyrfalcon—you could hang for that!" Menteith called.

"That would make this one a widow," De Soulis said. Hearing that, Margaret leaned away, feeling his tight grip raising bruises. He jerked her back toward him.

"A serious offense in England, but not in Scotland," Duncan said. "You know English law is not entirely in effect here, much as Edward wants that."

"So the gyrfalcon is yours?" Menteith asked.

"She is mine," Duncan said.

"Mine too," Margaret called out. "We found her together, and share her." She knew Duncan would not want her implicated in this, but she would not stand by and watch him risk his life for this.

"So," Menteith said. "This lass is yours, that rare falcon is yours, the king's daughter is in your custody. We have you to rights for the falcon at least. Perhaps you were the one abducted Bruce's lass, eh?" He looked at De Soulis, who shrugged.

"Again, witnesses," Duncan reminded him. "As for the falcon, my father was an earl, and by the decree of Scottish kings over generations, he had the right to own her. As his son, I have the right."

"Spouting Scots law will not protect you. You can be removed from your position. I am aware that you never gave me the rascal who shot me. That alone is suspect."

Margaret caught her breath. "You cannot condemn him for doing his work justly!"

"I could indeed. He has committed a crime against the crown. You will have to pledge your fealty all over again to Edward, Campbell! Best pray to keep your life, not just your rank." Menteith limped toward Duncan as he spoke, and De Soulis followed, holding Margaret's arm above the elbow. She stepped on his foot, twisted away, but had no recourse but to follow.

"Hold there." Duncan trained the bow on him. "Release her."

"Keep her," Menteith growled to De Soulis. "Campbell! If you want your lady back, give me the gyrfalcon—and the Bruce girl."

"I will not make that bargain." He held the bow taut. Margaret saw his forearm straining with the extended effort, saw a muscle jump in his cheek.

"Call the bird down. We will release this girl once you bring the younger girl to me. I can wait. The day is pleasant."

"We can all wait."

"But you have no glove. Here, take mine!" Menteith tore off one of his heavy leather gauntlets and threw it toward him. "It will do. Call down the bird and give her to me, and you can have this one back." He reached out to take Margaret's free arm, giving De Soulis such a vicious glare that the man let go.

She planted her heels, but Menteith's solid bulk overpowered her weight. "Come here," he said impatiently. "Campbell, give me that falcon and get that child back to me, or I swear I will toss your lady over the brink."

"The falcon will do only what she wants. Give up Lady Margaret and I will reconsider the charges I place against you."

Menteith laughed. "If you live so long! Fine. I will call that bird down myself and send her off to Edward with a note about how I discovered her. He will be pleased." Clutching Margaret in his left hand, he raised his right in the remaining leather gauntlet, held it high, waited expectantly.

Duncan lowered the bow. Margaret saw him glance toward the bird. High above their heads, Greta sat unmoving. She had keyed in to the activity, Margaret was sure—but if there was no reward in it, the bird would not care what was going on below.

Menteith raised his hand higher, waved it. Margaret knew that if the falcon was intrigued and thought the man had food, she might go to him. Then Menteith would have the bird. She could not guess what Duncan might do, for the falcon was as dear as family to him. She had to do something to change the next moments.

"I shot you," she blurted.

Menteith looked at her. "What?"

"Margaret—"

She could not look at Duncan. Beside her, De Soulis swore in disbelief. But the only way she could help Duncan now was to delay Menteith once again.

"I was the lad in the contest. In disguise. I shot you. No one else."

He yanked her around to face him, keeping his gloved hand high to lure the bird. But he laughed. "You! A poor shot if you thought to be rid of me!" He looked at Duncan. "You should have given her to me as soon as you knew."

"Her arrow bounced off the target. You were in the way. It was that simple," Duncan said. "De Soulis! Stop!" he shouted as the man took a step. "Stay there!"

"Aye, an accident—" But Margaret stopped, remembering. With her free hand, she touched her bodice where the pendant lay hidden. The little elf-bolt had determined where the arrow would go that day. There had been a reason.

So many reasons. That shot was the pendant's work. Some faery spell had acted to bring her together with Duncan again, and had brought Lilias to safety.

"You did not delay me nearly enough. I will get the Bruce girl back, and you will pay for assaulting a sheriff. Campbell, you will not get your lady back. She must face punishment. And I will have that damned bird as well."

Without releasing Margaret, he raised his gauntleted hand higher.

"Menteith!" Duncan resumed an archer's stance, raised the bow, nocked the arrow, his gaze fearsome. "Release her and stand back, or I take you down now, sheriff or none."

Seeing the dark glint in his eyes, Margaret knew he could do it—would do it—and pay the price later. She felt his intention all through her.

Kak-kak-kak-kak. Overhead came a rapid, high-pitched sound and a flutter of wings as Greta floated downward from her high perch. Her widespread wings surged once, twice, as she flew toward the man who held his gloved hand up.

Then she rotated her torso to show her talons and knocked hard into Menteith's head with a raucous screech. She rushed past and away so swiftly that Margaret felt stunned. Yet Duncan dropped the bow and ran, Iain ran, even De Soulis reached out—

But the force of the bird's attack—surely it was that—sent Menteith stumbling, sliding on slick rocks underfoot. Still clutching Margaret's arm, he teetered on the brink of the falls, then pitched backward, plunging into the water just past the terrifying edge where the torrent poured down with tremendous force.

And he pulled Margaret into the falls with him, into the wild white spray. The cold shock of the water seized her, propelled her, hurled her down the waterfall's chute. Gasping, choking, she plunged into the whirlpool to be spun about and sucked under.

The next surge of the water threw her upward to the surface as she fought with all her strength to swim, to pull herself away from the falls with its churning, battering current. She went under again, felt the undercurrent push her sideways. Coming up again for air, she tried to control her path by pumping arms and legs, while her heavy, drenched skirts pulled her down again.

When she came up for breath again, she glimpsed the flat stones that edged the pool, saw the trees framing the sky, heard the roar of the waterfall to one side now. A strong current was sweeping her toward the edge of the pool as the water circled, and she tried to swim that way. But she was pulled down again—this time by grasping hands and a bulky weight as Menteith emerged beside her. Sputtering, he pushed on her shoulders.

"Help me!" he cried, choking. She reached out to him, his weight dragging her under—his chain mail and leather hauberk would surely drown them both. As she struggled with one arm to swim forward, holding him with the other, she could feel him pulling her under instead, the churning water engulfing her.

Duncan tossed bow and quiver aside and ran, booted feet sure on the mossy, slippery stones, the familiar steps of boyhood guiding him as he ran around the pool toward the best place to enter the water or be pulled under too by the wicked churning near the falls. Iain was behind him—De Soulis too—and he kept going, tearing off his tunic and hopping to pull off boots as he went. Reaching the shale plates by the water, ready to leap in, he looked for Margaret.

He had seen her fall in, his heart in his throat as she was sucked under and thrown out and pulled down again. As soon as he glimpsed the russet-and-gray blur of her hair and gown, heard her gasping call, he went into the water and toward her with long, powerful strokes. Drawing near, he reached for her, pulled her toward him. But she did not come easily—and he realized Menteith was dragging on her, his weight threatening to take the three of them down.

"Let go," he ordered. "John! Let go!"

But Menteith was desperate, frightened, drowning. Clinging to the girl, bigger and heavier in armor, he was a danger to all of them as he grappled and splashed.

Margaret struggled to come up again, Duncan holding her up. She hooked her arm around his neck, Menteith clinging. With all his strength, Duncan towed both of them toward the rocky shore.

Then Iain was in the water too, coming toward them, reaching them amid the whirling currents. He caught Menteith and took his bulk, leaning back to propel him toward the shore, allowing Duncan to take Margaret.

Now that he had her, he never wanted to let her go, swimming with the flow of the undercurrent until they reached the shale platform where the water lapped more slowly. There he emerged with water sluicing off of him, to carry her, all slim shaking girl and waterlogged skirts, over the rocks. Dropping to one knee, he set her down on the sandy strip edging the wilderness of bushes and trees. He gasped for breath.

"Iain," he managed, rising to go back to help.

"Go!" Margaret sat up, coughing.

He ran to the edge of the pool to see Iain going down in the water with Menteith in a frenzy, trying climbing up on him. Duncan stepped into the water, about to leap.

But he was nearly knocked down as De Soulis shoved past him and dove into the pool, wearing only a long shirt and leggings; somehow the man had stripped out of his surcoat and chain mail so that he could help. He was already swimming with long strokes toward Iain and Menteith.

"Help! God help me!" Menteith gulped, as Iain and now Sir William took hold of him and dragged him toward the shore. Together they pulled him out of the water, falling to hands and knees, Menteith lying half in and half out of the water, retching and gasping for breath.

Duncan stood over them, breathing hard, dripping. He reached down to help Iain to his feet, hugged him. As Iain went to Margaret, sitting a few feet away, Duncan extended a hand to De Soulis. He took it and came to his feet, nodding wordless thanks.

They both watched Menteith, who lay on the flat wet rock, breathing hard, pale. Neither man spoke. Then Duncan turned to the other.

"Bring him to his feet," Duncan said. "I am done with him."

He turned and walked away as De Soulis bent to help his mentor up.

Reaching Margaret in a few strides, he knelt beside her, lifted a hand to stroke wet russet hair off her brow with soothing hands, cherishing what he had nearly lost and realized he did not want to live without.

She stretched out her hand to touch his face, tracing her fingers over his bristled jaw, brushing back the wet dark hair that clung to his brow.

Seated nearby, Iain shoved back his own hair, and gave a hoarse laugh. "Look at you two," he said. "That old betrothal is good again, is it?"

"More than good," Duncan told his brother, lending a hand as Iain stood. "Come, love, can you stand?"

"I think so." She rose with his help, and he took her wrist in his. "Ow!" she said.

"What is it?"

Sniffling, she flexed her wrist, then pushed at her sopping sleeve to extract something snagged inside. She held it out in the flat of her palm—a silver-framed brooch, a translucent blue stone with an oval opening encrusted with tiny white crystals. The thing glittered, wet and clean and shining in her hand.

"My great-grandfather's truth stone. I tucked it in my sleeve earlier. I could have lost it in the pool, but it was caught in my sleeve."

"Now that," Duncan murmured, "is a bit of a miracle."

"It is." She leaned against his chest and he gathered her into his arms, rested his cheek on her wet hair, and held her. Just that, feeling warmth return to her body and his together, feeling her arms around his waist, feeling her recover until she straightened at last and looked up. "Duncan Dhu—can we go home now?"

"Soon. I need to see to this." He looked toward the water's edge where De Soulis was clapping Menteith on the back, helping him to his feet. Sir William looked toward them, his gaze fixed on Margaret.

She held up the brooch, which winked in the light. "Thank you," she said across the stretch of shale.

"Aye," he said. "I will try to remember."

"Remember what?"

"To be loyal, as you advised." He turned away to help Menteith stagger away, while Iain got to his feet and went toward them, ready to guard.

"What was that about?" Duncan asked.

"Oh," she said, "I looked into the blue stone and it had a warning for him. I delivered it. He seems to have had a change of heart. I wonder how long it will last."

"You are an amazement to me." He leaned and kissed her brow, then set an arm around her shoulders to lead her back toward the trees. About to return to assist Iain in guarding the other two, he noticed Menteith's discarded leather gauntlet on the ground, the one Duncan had refused to take.

He picked it up, slid it on, and lifted his arm high, bending his wrist in a welcoming perch. He whistled softly.

After a moment, she came gliding out of nowhere, an angelic and magnificent creature, to alight on his wrist, the merest weight of feathers and air and beauty.

"Hey, Greta," he murmured. "Here you are with your family at last."

"Family?" Margaret asked, snug under his arm.

"Aye, love. Our bird. Our family, together now."

"Hey, Greta," she whispered. "Hey, my love."

"I was a fool to not see it then," he said. "So much time was missed."

"No matter. We have all the time we need now. We have changed, you and I, since then. Older and wiser, and now we know what we want in life."

"Aye so," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "I know what I want."

"What is that?" She tipped her face up to his, and he kissed her slowly, gently, tenderly drawing out the kiss, letting it merge into another.

"I want forever with you," he said, "one bit at a time." She laughed against his lips, sinking into the next kiss.

He lifted his head, hearing a thundering noise above the waterfall. Straightening, he looked past the trees. In the distance, riders were coming up from the south from the direction of Brechlinn—and he saw Constantine, Henry, Malcolm, and more than a dozen men riding behind them.

"Well, look there," Iain said, coming toward them, ushering Menteith and De Soulis, who seemed complacent and exhausted. "Just in time."

"With two sheriff's deputies—Constantine and Henry—prepared to arrest a fellow sheriff. I must be here for that. Do you mind, lass? I know you are weary."

"I will stay with you always."

"Always," he murmured, keeping her close.

"You two," Iain said, "need a wedding."

Margaret laughed, silvery and sweet. Duncan smiled.

"I know," he said. "But it is her choice."