her. “I’ll get ye warm once we’re inside.”
She looked up at the forbidding stone walls and shrugged. “Let’s hope I’ll be lodged in a chamber and nay a cell.”
Her brows knitted when a man appeared in the bailey. He was dressed in an ankle length léine over which he wore a heavy plaid. A fine broadsword sat on his hip. The quality of his garments and the disciplined demeanor of the dozen or so liveried guards who accompanied him bespoke a man of some standing. Tannoch’s message had evidently stirred interest.
“Robert, Lord Erskine, Earl of Mar,” the man grunted, addressing his words to no one in particular.
“He’s not looking at Tannoch,” Rheade said. “That willna sit well.”
“Commander of this garrison,” Erskine continued, finally setting his gaze on the scowling Robertson chieftain. “Ye claim to have captured two of the assassins?”
Tannoch cocked his head in the direction of the prisoners. “Aye. The Stewarts.”
For the first time a slight smile tugged at the corners of Erskine’s mouth, but he didn’t look at the captives. “Excellent news,” he declared.
Without another word from the Commander, the guards quickly took charge of the mountain ponies and led the prisoners away.
Erskine and Tannoch carried on a conversation, but Rheade’s attention fixed on Margaret. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched Robert’s pony disappear. He put a hand over hers. “Dinna cry for him,” he whispered. “He’s not worth it.”
“I’m nay crying for him,” she said hoarsely. “I’m crying for myself.”
She’d shown uncommon strength throughout the ordeal, but she was a wee lassie, far from home and family in a hostile land. He thought suddenly of his mother and what she’d undergone, a catastrophe he’d known naught about. He knew in his heart his father had protected his wife from the horror. His love had helped her survive.
Mayhap Margaret believed she was without a champion. “I swear to ye, Margaret Ogilvie,” he rasped, brushing the wetness from her cheeks with his thumb, “ye’ll ne’er shed another tear over Robert Stewart.”
She smiled weakly, and he prayed God would grant the fulfillment of his vow.
~~~
Daughter of a wealthy landowner, Margaret had grown up in a comfortable house, but Dunalastair had been the first castle she’d ever entered. It was grand and imposing compared to Ogilvie House, but she’d felt welcome there, until Tannoch’s return home. The grey walls of Stirling cloaked her heart with dread.
They dismounted in the courtyard. Stable boys led their mounts away. Margaret feared she might never see Bàn again. Rheade too fussed over Dubh’s care.
Robert Erskine slapped Tannoch on the back. “Her Majesty has granted an audience. She’s pleased.”
From what Margaret understood of protocol, not to mention good manners, Tannoch should introduce his brother.
The angry frown on Rheade’s face betrayed his resentment of the insult as Tannoch strode off with Erskine. It was a far cry from the relationship Margaret had shared with her brothers. Anxious to bring back the smile that did strange things to her innards, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Surely he’ll bathe before he appears before the Queen?”
Rheade clenched his jaw, smiling grimly. “Brother,” he shouted.
Tannoch’s spine stiffened. He halted and turned around, his face an angry mask. She wondered again why he resented Rheade.
Erskine looked back over his shoulder. “This man is yer brother?” he asked, indicating Rheade.
“Aye,” Tannoch conceded. “Slipped me mind in the excitement to introduce him to ye. Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson.”
Rheade bowed. “My Lord Erskine.”
Brows arched, the nobleman studied him, likely amazed this handsome and polite Highlander was Tannoch’s brother.
Rheade took Margaret’s hand. “May I present Lady Margaret Ogilvie.”
At first she wasn’t sure what to do, but it came
She looked up at the forbidding stone walls and shrugged. “Let’s hope I’ll be lodged in a chamber and nay a cell.”
Her brows knitted when a man appeared in the bailey. He was dressed in an ankle length léine over which he wore a heavy plaid. A fine broadsword sat on his hip. The quality of his garments and the disciplined demeanor of the dozen or so liveried guards who accompanied him bespoke a man of some standing. Tannoch’s message had evidently stirred interest.
“Robert, Lord Erskine, Earl of Mar,” the man grunted, addressing his words to no one in particular.
“He’s not looking at Tannoch,” Rheade said. “That willna sit well.”
“Commander of this garrison,” Erskine continued, finally setting his gaze on the scowling Robertson chieftain. “Ye claim to have captured two of the assassins?”
Tannoch cocked his head in the direction of the prisoners. “Aye. The Stewarts.”
For the first time a slight smile tugged at the corners of Erskine’s mouth, but he didn’t look at the captives. “Excellent news,” he declared.
Without another word from the Commander, the guards quickly took charge of the mountain ponies and led the prisoners away.
Erskine and Tannoch carried on a conversation, but Rheade’s attention fixed on Margaret. A tear rolled down her cheek as she watched Robert’s pony disappear. He put a hand over hers. “Dinna cry for him,” he whispered. “He’s not worth it.”
“I’m nay crying for him,” she said hoarsely. “I’m crying for myself.”
She’d shown uncommon strength throughout the ordeal, but she was a wee lassie, far from home and family in a hostile land. He thought suddenly of his mother and what she’d undergone, a catastrophe he’d known naught about. He knew in his heart his father had protected his wife from the horror. His love had helped her survive.
Mayhap Margaret believed she was without a champion. “I swear to ye, Margaret Ogilvie,” he rasped, brushing the wetness from her cheeks with his thumb, “ye’ll ne’er shed another tear over Robert Stewart.”
She smiled weakly, and he prayed God would grant the fulfillment of his vow.
~~~
Daughter of a wealthy landowner, Margaret had grown up in a comfortable house, but Dunalastair had been the first castle she’d ever entered. It was grand and imposing compared to Ogilvie House, but she’d felt welcome there, until Tannoch’s return home. The grey walls of Stirling cloaked her heart with dread.
They dismounted in the courtyard. Stable boys led their mounts away. Margaret feared she might never see Bàn again. Rheade too fussed over Dubh’s care.
Robert Erskine slapped Tannoch on the back. “Her Majesty has granted an audience. She’s pleased.”
From what Margaret understood of protocol, not to mention good manners, Tannoch should introduce his brother.
The angry frown on Rheade’s face betrayed his resentment of the insult as Tannoch strode off with Erskine. It was a far cry from the relationship Margaret had shared with her brothers. Anxious to bring back the smile that did strange things to her innards, she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Surely he’ll bathe before he appears before the Queen?”
Rheade clenched his jaw, smiling grimly. “Brother,” he shouted.
Tannoch’s spine stiffened. He halted and turned around, his face an angry mask. She wondered again why he resented Rheade.
Erskine looked back over his shoulder. “This man is yer brother?” he asked, indicating Rheade.
“Aye,” Tannoch conceded. “Slipped me mind in the excitement to introduce him to ye. Rheade Donnachaidh Starkey Robertson.”
Rheade bowed. “My Lord Erskine.”
Brows arched, the nobleman studied him, likely amazed this handsome and polite Highlander was Tannoch’s brother.
Rheade took Margaret’s hand. “May I present Lady Margaret Ogilvie.”
At first she wasn’t sure what to do, but it came
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