They had ridden without pause for two days and two nights. The firs and pine crept almost to the shores of the loch itself, leaving a long but narrow clearing for Alexander’s men. Margaret hugged herself, so exhausted she could barely stand, as Dughall and another lad erected Alexander’s tent at the forest’s edge. Around her, his men were swiftly preparing for the night ahead. She ignored the sight of so many tents and cook fires being prepared, so many horses being watered and fed, so many arrowheads and knives being sharpened. Instead, she stared at the mountain. Sir Guy had attacked Castle Fyne. Even now, her home was under siege. She rubbed her forearms, the afternoon chilling. Inwardly, she felt sick, as she had for the past two days. The prospect of her home falling under Sir Guy’s control was terrifying. She had finally realized she could not marry him, no matter how Buchan wished for the alliance, no matter how greatly it served the Comyn family.
