With warfare blazing through Scotland, the fate of the Comyn-MacDougall legacy depends on one woman. Recently orphaned, young Margaret Comyn must secure her clan’s safety through an arranged marriage. But when an enemy invasion puts her at the mercy of the notorious Wolf of Lochaber, her every loyalty—and secret want—will be challenged.

And a Kingdom Is at Stake

Legendary warrior Alexander “the Wolf” MacDonald rides with Robert Bruce to seize the throne of Scotland. But when he takes the fiery Lady Margaret prisoner, she quickly becomes far more than a valuable hostage. For the passion between them threatens to betray their families, their country…and their hearts.

Praise for New York Times bestselling author

“As dangerous and intriguing as readers could desire. This is a tale reminiscent of genre classics, with its lush and fascinating historical details and sensuality.”

—RT Book Reviews on Surrender

“Merging depth of history with romance is nothing new for the multitalented author, but here she also brings in an intensity of political history that is both fascinating and detailed.”

—RT Book Reviews on Seduction

“Another first-rate Regency, featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama… Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Perfect Bride

“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters, Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Bride

“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

“Sexual tension crackles…in this sizzling, action-packed adventure.”

—Library Journal on Dark Seduction

A Rose in the Storm

Brenda Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DEAR READER

CHAPTER ONE

Loch Fyne, the Highlands—February 14, 1306

“IT IS TOO damned quiet.”

Will’s voice cut through the silence of the Highland afternoon, but Margaret did not hear him. Mounted beside him at the head of a column of knights, soldiers and servants, surrounded by the thick Argyll forest, she stared straight ahead.

Castle Fyne rose out of the ragged cliffs and snow-patched hills above them so abruptly that when one rode out of the forest, as they had just done, one had to blink and wonder at the sight, momentarily mistaking it for soaring black rock. But it was a centuries-old stronghold, precariously perched above the frozen loch below, its lower walls stout and thick, its northern towers and battlements jutting into the pale, winter-gray sky. The forest surrounding the loch and the castle was dusted white, and the mountains in the northwest were snowcapped.

Margaret inhaled. She was overcome with emotion—with pride.

And she thought, Castle Fyne is mine.

Once, it had belonged to her mother. Mary MacDougall had been born at Castle Fyne, which had been her dowry in her marriage to William Comyn, which had filled her with great pride. For Castle Fyne was a tremendous prize. Placed on the most western reaches of Argyll, providing a gateway from the Solway Firth, surrounded by lands belonging to Clan Donald and Clan Ruari, the castle had been fought over throughout the centuries. It had been attacked many times, yet it had never once slipped from MacDougall hands.

Margaret trembled, more pride surging within her, for she had adored her mother, and now, the great keep was her dowry, and she would bring it with her in her upcoming marriage. But the anxiety that had afflicted her for the past few weeks, and during this journey, remained. Since the death of her father, she had become the ward of her powerful uncle, John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan. He had recently concluded a union for her. She was betrothed to a renowned knight whom she had never met—Sir Guy de Valence—and he was an Englishman.

“’Tis such a godforsaken place,” her brother said, interrupting her thoughts. But he was glancing warily around. “I don’t like this. It’s too quiet. There are no birds.”

She sat her mare beside Will, her only living brother. Suddenly she wondered at the silence, realizing he was right. There was no rustling of underbrush, either, made by chipmunks and squirrels, or the occasional fox or deer—there was no sound other than the jangle of bridles on their horses, and the occasional snort.

Her tension escalated. “Why is it so quiet?”

“Something has chased the game away,” Will said.

Their gazes met. Her brother was eighteen—a year older than she was—and blond like their father, whom he had been named after. Margaret had been told she resembled Mary—she was petite, her hair more red than gold, her face heart-shaped.

“We should go,” Will said abruptly, gathering up his reins. “Just in case there is more in the hills than wolves.”

Margaret followed suit quickly, glancing up at the castle perched high above them. They would be within the safety of its walls in minutes. But before she could urge her mare forward, she recalled the castle in the springtime, with blue and purple wildflowers blooming beneath its walls. And she remembered skipping about the flowers, where a brook bubbled and deer grazed. She smiled, recalling her mother’s soft voice as she called her inside. And her handsome father striding into the hall, his mantle sweeping about him, spurs jangling, her four brothers behind him, everyone exhilarated and speaking at once....

She blinked back tears. How she missed her father, her brothers and her beloved mother. How she cherished her legacy now. And how pleased Mary would be, to know that her daughter had returned to Loch Fyne.

But her mother had despised and feared the English. Her family had been at war with the English all her life, only recently coming to a truce. What would Mary think of Margaret’s arranged marriage to an Englishman?

She turned to face William, discomfited by her emotions, and in so doing, glanced back at the sixty men and women in the cavalcade behind them. It had been a difficult journey, due mostly to the cold winter and the snow, and she knew that the soldiers and servants were eager to reach the castle. She had not visited the stronghold in a good ten years, and she was eager to reach its warm halls, too. But not just to revisit her few memories. She was worried about her people. Several servants had already complained of frozen fingers and toes.

She would tend them immediately, once they reached the great keep, just as she had seen her mother do.

But the anxiety that had afflicted her for the past few weeks would not go away. She could not pretend that she was not worried about her impending marriage. She meant to be grateful. She knew she was fortunate. Her uncle controlled most of the north of Scotland, his affairs were vast, and he could have simply ignored her circumstances once both her parents had passed. He could have kept her at his home, Balvenie, in some remote tower, and established his own steward at Castle Fyne. He could have sent her to Castle Bain, which William had inherited from their father. Instead, he had decided upon an advantageous political union—one that would elevate her status, as well as serve the great Comyn family.

But another pang went through her as she walked her mare forward on the narrow path leading up to the castle. Her uncle Buchan also despised the English—until this truce, he had warred against them for years. The sudden allegiance made her uneasy.

“I think Castle Fyne is beautiful,” she said, hoping she sounded calm and sensible. “Even if it has come to some neglect since Mother’s death.” She would repair every rotten timber, every chipped stone.

“You would.” William grimaced and shook his head. “You are so much like our mother.”

Margaret considered that high flattery, indeed. “Mother always loved this place. If she could have resided here, and not at Bain with Father, she would have.”

“Mother was a MacDougall when she married our father, and she was a MacDougall when she died,” William said, somewhat impatiently. “She had a natural affinity for this land, much like you. Still, you are a Comyn first, and Bain suits you far more than this pile of rock and stone—even if we need it to defend our borders.” He studied her seriously. “I still cannot fathom why you wished to come here. Buchan could have sent anyone. I could have come without you.”

“When our uncle decided upon this union, I felt the need to come here. Perhaps just to see it for myself, through a woman’s eyes, not a child’s.” She did not add that she had wanted to return to Castle Fyne ever since their mother had died a year and a half ago.

Margaret had grown up in a time of constant war. She could not even count the times the English King Edward had invaded Scotland during her lifetime, or the number of rebellions and revolts waged by men like Andrew Moray, William Wallace and Robert Bruce. Three of her brothers had died fighting the English—Roger at Falkirk, Thomas at the battle of River Cree and Donald in the massacre at Stirling Castle.

Their mother had taken a silly cold after Donald’s death. The cough had gotten worse and worse, a fever had joined it, and she had never recovered. That summer, she had simply passed on.

Margaret knew their mother had lost her will to live after the death of three of her sons. And her husband had loved her so much that he had not been able to go on without her. Six weeks later, on a red-and-gold autumn day, their father had gone hunting. He had broken his neck falling from his horse while chasing a stag. Margaret believed he had been deliberately reckless—that he had not cared whether he lived or died.

“At least we are at peace now,” she said into the strained silence.

“Are we?” Will asked, almost rudely. “There was no choice but to sue for peace, after the massacre at Stirling Castle. As Buchan said, we must prove our loyalty to King Edward now.” His eyes blazed. “And so he has tossed you off to an Englishman.”

“It is a good alliance,” Margaret pointed out. It was true her uncle Buchan had warred against King Edward for years, but during this time of truce, he wished to protect the family by forging such an allegiance.

“Oh, yes, it is an excellent alliance! You will become a part of a great English family! Sir Guy is Aymer de Valence’s bastard brother, and Aymer not only has the ear of the king, he will probably be the next Lord Lieutenant of Scotland. How clever Buchan is.”

“Why are you doing this, now?” she cried, shaken. “I have a duty to our family, Will, and I am Buchan’s ward! Surely, you do not wish for me to object?”

“Yes, I want you to object! English soldiers killed our brothers.”

Will had always had a temper. He was not the most rational of young men. “If I can serve our family in this time of peace, I intend to do so,” she said. “I will hardly be the first woman to marry a rival for political reasons.”

“Ah, so you finally admit that Sir Guy is a rival?”

“I am trying to do my duty, Will. There is peace in the land, now. And Sir Guy will be able to fortify and defend Castle Fyne—we will be able to keep our position here in Argyll.”

He snorted. “And if you were ordered to the gallows? Would you meekly go?”

Her tension increased. Of course she would not meekly go to the gallows—and initially, she had actually considered approaching her uncle and attempting to dissuade him from this course. But no woman in her position would ever do such a thing. The notion was insane. Buchan would not care for her opinion, and he would be furious with her.

Besides, so many Scots had lost their titles and lands in the years before the recent peace, forfeited to the Crown, to be given to King Edward’s allies. Buchan had not lost a single keep. Instead, he was marrying his niece to a great English knight. If a bargain had been made, it was a good one—for everyone, including herself.

“So, Meg—what will you do if after you are married, Sir Guy thinks to keep you at his estate in Liddesdale?”

Margaret felt her heart lurch. She had been born at Castle Bain in the midst of Buchan territory. Nestled amidst the great forests there, Castle Bain was her father’s birthright and her home. Their family had also spent a great deal of time at Balvenie, the magnificent stronghold just to the east where Buchan so often resided.

Both of those Comyn castles were very different from Castle Fyne, but they were all as Scottish as the Highland air she was now breathing. The forests were thick and impenetrable. The mountains were craggy, peaks soaring. The lochs below were stunning in their serenity. The skies were vividly blue, and no matter the time of year, the winds were brisk and chilling.

Liddesdale was in the borderlands—it was practically the north of England. It was a flat land filled with villages, farms and pastures. Upon being knighted, Sir Guy had been awarded a manor there.

She could not imagine residing in England. She did not even wish to consider it. “I would attempt to join him when he visited Castle Fyne. In time, he will be awarded other estates, I think. Mayhap I will be allowed to attend all of his lands.”

William gave her a penetrating look. “You may be a woman, Meg, and you may pretend to be dutiful, but we both know you are exactly like Mother in one single way—you are stubborn, when so moved. You will never settle in England.”

Margaret flushed. She did not consider herself stubborn. She considered herself gentle and kind. “I will cross that bridge when I come to it. I have great hopes for this union.”

“I think you are as angry about it as I am, and as afraid. I also think you are pretending to be pleased.”

“I am pleased,” she said, a bit sharply. “Why are you pressing me this way, now? June is but a few months away! I have come here to restore the keep, so it is somewhat pleasing when Sir Guy first sees it. Do you hope to dismay me?”

“No—I do not want to distress you. But I have tried to discuss this handfast several times—and you change the subject or run away. Damn it. I have many doubts about this union, and knowing you as well as I do, I know you are afraid, too.” He said softly, “And we only have each other now.”

He was right. If she dared be entirely honest with herself, she was worried, dismayed and afraid. But she then looked away.

“He may be English but he is a good man, and he has been knighted for his service to the king.” She was echoing her uncle now. “I was told he is handsome, too.” She could not smile, although she wished to. “He is eager for this union, Will, and surely that is a good sign.” When he simply stared, she added, “My marriage will not change our relationship.”

“Of course it will,” William said flatly. “What will you do when this peace fails?”

Margaret tried not to allow any dread to arise. “Our uncle does not think this peace will fail,” she finally said. “To make such a marriage, he must surely believe it will endure.”

“No one thinks it will endure!” William cursed. “You are a pawn, Meg, so he can keep his lands, when so many of us have had our lands and titles forfeited for our so-called treason! Father would never have allowed this marriage!”

Again, William was right. “Buchan is our lord now. I do not want him to lose his lands, Will.”

“Nor do I! Didn’t you overhear our uncle and Red John last week, when they spent an hour cursing Edward, swearing to overthrow the English—vowing revenge for William Wallace!”

Margaret felt ill. She had been seated in a corner of the hall with Isabella, Buchan’s pretty young wife, sewing. She had deliberately eavesdropped—and she had heard their every word.

How she wished she had not. The great barons of Scotland were furious with the humiliation King Edward had delivered upon them by stripping all her powers—she would now be ruled by an Englishman, an appointee of King Edward’s. There were fines and taxes being levied upon every yeoman, farmer and noble. She would now be taxed to pay for England’s wars with France and the other foreign powers he battled with. He would even force the Scots to serve in his armies.

But the coup de grâce had been the brutal execution of William Wallace. He had been dragged by horse, hanged, cut down while still alive, disemboweled and beheaded.

Every Scot, whether Highlander or lowlander, prince or pauper, baron or farmer, was stricken by the barbaric execution of the brave Scottish rebel. Every Scot wanted revenge.

“Of course my marriage was made for politics,” she said, aware that her voice sounded strained. “No one marries for affection. I expected a political alliance. We are allies of the Crown now.”

“I did not say you should have a love match. But our uncle is hardly an ally of King Edward’s! This is beyond politics. He is throwing you away.”

Margaret would never admit to him that if she dared think about it, she might feel just that way—as if she had been thoughtlessly and carelessly used by her uncle for his own ends—as if she had been casually tossed away, to serve him in this singular moment before his loyalties changed again. “I wish to do my part, Will. I want to keep the family strong and safe.”

William moved his horse close, lowering his voice. “He hardly has a claim, but I think Red John will seek the throne, if not for himself, then perhaps for King Balliol’s son.”

Margaret’s eyes widened. Red John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch, was chief of the entire Comyn family, and lord even over Buchan. He was like another uncle to her—but truly he was a very distant cousin. Her brother’s words did not surprise her—she had overheard such speculation before—but now she realized that if Red John sought the throne, or attempted to put the former Scottish King John Balliol’s boy Edward upon it, Buchan would support him, leaving her married to an Englishman and on the other side of the great war that would surely ensue.

“Those are rumors,” she said.

“Yes, they are. And everyone knows that Robert Bruce still has his eye upon the Scottish throne,” William said with some bitterness. The Comyns hated Robert Bruce, just as they had hated his father, Annandale.

Margaret was becoming frightened. If Red John sought the throne—if Robert Bruce did—there would be another war, she felt certain. And she would be on the opposite side as an Englishman’s wife. “We must pray for this peace to hold.”

“It will never hold. I am going to lose you, too.”

She was taken aback. “I am getting married, not going to the Tower or the gallows. You will not lose me.”

“So tell me, Meg, when there is war, if you become loyal to him—to Sir Guy and Aymer de Valence—how will you be loyal to me?” His expression one of revulsion and anger, William spurred his gelding ahead of her.

Margaret felt as if he had struck her in the chest. She kicked her mare forward, hurrying after him, aware that he wasn’t as angry as he was afraid.

But she was afraid, too. If there was another war, her loyalty was going to be put to a terrible test. And sooner or later, there would be another war—she simply knew it. Peace never lasted, not in Scotland.

Dismay overcame her. Could she be loyal to her family and her new husband? And if so, how? Wouldn’t she have to put her new husband first?

Her gaze had become moist. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, reminding herself that she was a grown woman, a Comyn and a MacDougall, and she had a duty to her family now—and to herself. “We will never be enemies, Will.”

He glanced back at her grimly. “We had better pray that something arises to disrupt your marriage, Meg.”

Suddenly Sir Ranald, one of Buchan’s young knights—a handsome freckled Scot of about twenty-five—rode up to them. “William! Sir Neil thinks he has seen a watch in the trees atop the hill!”

Margaret’s heart lurched with a new fear as William paled and cursed. “I knew it was too damn quiet! Is he certain?”

“He is almost certain—and a watch would scare the wildlife away.”

Sir Ranald had ridden in front of them, blocking their way, and they had stopped on the narrow path. Margaret now realized that the forest surrounding them wasn’t just quiet, it was unnaturally silent—unnervingly so.

“Who would be watching us?” Margaret whispered harshly. But she did not have to ask—she knew.

MacDonald land was just beyond the ridge they rode below.

Margaret looked at Sir Ranald, who returned her gaze, his grim. “Who else but a MacDonald?”

Margaret shivered. The enmity between her mother’s family and the MacDonald clan went back hundreds of years. The son of Angus Mor, Alexander Og—known as Alasdair—was Lord of Islay, and his brother Angus Og was Lord of Kintyre. The bastard brother, Alexander MacDonald, was known as the Wolf of Lochaber. The MacDougalls had been warring against the MacDonalds over lands in Argyll for years.

She looked up at the forest-clad hillside. She saw nothing and no one in the snowy firs above.

“We only have a force of fifty men,” Will said grimly. “But there are four dozen men garrisoned at the castle—or so we think.”

“Let’s hope that Sir Neil saw a hunter from a hunting party,” Sir Ranald said. “Master William, you and your sister need to be behind the castle walls as soon as possible.”

William nodded, glancing at Margaret. “We should ride immediately for the keep.”

They were in danger, for if the MacDonald brothers meant to attack, they would do so with far more than fifty men. Margaret glanced fearfully around. Not even a branch was moving on the hillside. “Let us go,” she agreed.

Sir Ranald stood in his stirrups, half turning to face the riders and wagons below. He held up his hand and flagged the cavalcade forward.

Will spurred his bay stallion into a trot, and Margaret followed.

* * *

IT REMAINED ABSOLUTELY silent as their cavalcade passed through the barbican, approaching the raised drawbridge before the entry tower. Margaret was afraid to speak, wondering at the continuing silence, for word had been sent ahead by messenger, declaring their intention to arrive. Of course, messages could be intercepted, and messengers could be waylaid—even though the land was supposedly at “peace.” But then heads began popping up on the ramparts of the castle walls, adjacent the gatehouse. And then murmurs and whispers could be heard.

“’Tis Buchan’s nephew and niece....”

“’Tis Lady Margaret and Master William Comyn....”

Their cavalcade had halted, most of it wedged into the barbican. Sir Ranald cupped his hands and shouted up at the tower, to whomever was on watch there. “I am Sir Ranald of Kilfinnan, and I have in my keeping Lady Margaret Comyn and her brother, Master William. Lower the bridge for your mistress.”

Whispers sounded from the ramparts. The great drawbridge groaned as it was lowered. Margaret saw some children appear on the battlements above, as she gazed around, suddenly making eye contact with an older woman close to the entry tower. The woman’s eyes widened; instinctively, Margaret smiled.

“’Tis Lady Mary’s daughter!” the old woman cried.

“’Tis Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” another man cried, with more excitement.

“Mary MacDougall’s daughter!” others cried.

Margaret felt her heart skid wildly when she realized what was happening—these good folk remembered her mother, their mistress, whom they had revered and loved, and she was being welcomed by them all now. Her vision blurred.

These were her kin. These were her people, just as Castle Fyne was hers. They were welcoming her, and in return, she must see to their welfare and safety, for she was their lady now.

She smiled again, blinking back the tears. From the ramparts, someone cheered. More cheers followed.

Sir Ranald grinned at her. “Welcome to Castle Fyne, Lady,” he teased.

She quickly wiped her eyes and recovered her composure. “I had forgotten how much they adored my mother. Now I remember that they greeted her this way, with a great fanfare, when I was a child, when she returned here.”

“She was a great lady, so I am not surprised,” Sir Ranald said. “Everyone loved Lady Mary.”

William touched her elbow. “Wave,” he said softly.

She was startled, but she lifted her hand tentatively and the crowd on the ramparts and battlements and in the entry tower roared with approval. Margaret was taken aback. She felt herself flush. “I am hardly a queen.”

“No, but this is your dowry and you are their mistress.” William smiled at her. “And they have not had a lady of the manor in years.”

He gestured, indicating that she should precede him, and lead the way over the drawbridge into the courtyard. Margaret was surprised, and she looked at Sir Ranald, expecting him to lead the way. He grinned again, with a dimple, and then deferentially bowed his head. “After you, Lady Margaret,” he said.

Margaret nudged her mare forward, the crowd cheering again as she crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard. She felt her heart turn over hard. She halted her mare and dismounted before the wooden steps leading up to the great hall’s front entrance. As she did, the door opened and several men hurried out, a tall, gray-haired Scot leading the way.

“Lady Margaret, we have been expecting ye,” he said, beaming. “I am Malcolm MacDougall, yer mother’s cousin many times removed, and steward of this keep.”

He was clad only in the traditional linen leine most Highlanders wore, with knee-high boots and a sword hanging from his belt. Although bare-legged, and without a plaid, he clearly did not mind the cold as he came down the steps and dropped to one knee before her. “My lady,” he said with deference. “I hereby vow my allegiance and my loyalty to you above all others.”

She took a deep breath, trembling. “Thank you for your oath of fealty.”

He stood, his gaze now on her face. “Ye look so much like yer mother!” He then turned to introduce her to his two sons, both young, handsome men just a bit older than she was. Both young men swore their loyalty, as well.

William and Sir Ranald had come forward, and more greetings were exchanged. Sir Ranald then excused himself to help Sir Neil garrison their men. William stepped aside with him, and Margaret was distracted, instantly wanting to know what they were discussing, as they were deliberately out of her earshot.

“Ye must be tired,” Malcolm said to her. “Can I show ye to yer chamber?”

Margaret glanced at William—still in a serious and hushed conversation. She felt certain they were discussing the possibility of an enemy scout having been on the hillside above them, watching their movements. “I am tired, but I do not want to go to my chamber just yet. Malcolm, has there been any sign of discord around Loch Fyne lately?”

His eyes widened. “If ye mean have we skirmished with our neighbors, of course we have. One of the MacRuari lads raided our cattle last week—we lost three cows. They are as bold as pirates, using the high seas to come and go as they please! And the day after, my sons found a MacDonald scout just to the east, spying on us. It has been some time, months, truly, since we have seen any MacDonald here.”

She felt herself stiffen. “How do you know that it was a scout from clan Donald?”

Malcolm smiled grimly. “We questioned him rather thoroughly before we let him go.”

She did not like the sound of that, and she shivered.

He touched her arm. “Let me take ye inside, lady, it’s far too cold fer ye to be standing here on such a day, when we have so little sun.”

Margaret nodded, as William returned to her side. She gave him a questioning look but he ignored her, gesturing that she follow Malcolm up the stairs. Disappointed, she complied.

The great hall at the top of the stairs was a large stone chamber with high, raftered ceiling, a huge fireplace on one wall. A few arrow slits let in some scant light. Two large trestle tables were centered in the room, benches on their sides, and three carved chairs with cushioned seats sat before the hearth. Pallets for sleeping were stacked up against the far walls. A large tapestry of a battle scene completed the room, hanging on the center wall.

Margaret sniffed appreciatively. The rushes were fresh and scented with lavender oil. And suddenly she smiled—remembering that the hall had smelled of lavender when she had last been present as a child.

Malcolm smiled. “Lady Mary insisted upon fresh rushes every third day, and she especially liked the lavender. We hoped you would like it, too.”

“Thank you,” Margaret said, moved. “I do.”

The servants they had brought with them were now busy bringing their personal belongings, which filled several large chests, into the hall. Margaret espied her lady’s maid, Peg, who was three years older than she was and married to one of Buchan’s archers. She had known Peg for most of her life, and they were good friends. Margaret excused herself and hurried over to her. “Are you freezing?” she asked, taking her cold hands in hers. “How are your blisters?” She was concerned.

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A Rose in the Storm

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