“There’s always the possibility that it wasn’t,” he said, moving a pawn. “Until the men are caught, I would advise exercising caution. Better to be vigilant and safe than careless and sorry.”
She tried to smother her growing excitement—he’d just left his knight vulnerable. This would be a quick game indeed. “Knight,” she said, capturing the piece. She broke her concentration on the game long enough to appraise his expression. She still didn’t see why anyone would want to harm her, but she trusted his judgment. “I suppose you are right. I will be careful.”
“Good.”
They played in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Meg was surprised by how natural it seemed. She could almost imagine countless evenings spent relaxing before the fire across a chessboard from Alex. For a moment the sensation was so real, she felt a pang of longing when it faded. But Alex was hardly a man to stay near the hearth. He was too much of a warrior. A fighter.
Though for a man who’d spent his life on battlefields, she had to admit that Alex demonstrated an unusual ability to adapt to his surroundings. Never would she have imagined the fierce outlaw who’d rescued her in the forest relaxing across a chessboard from her at Holyrood House. But never did she doubt that he was the same man.
The comfort of her surroundings, however, was short-lived. She could feel his eyes on her, lingering on her mouth.
“About last night—”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, mortified color heating her cheeks. Meg, who was usually so direct herself, couldn’t believe he’d brought it up without preamble.
Dear God, she hoped Elizabeth wasn’t listening. She couldn’t bear to look at him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said in a low voice brimming with embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking, I was frightened, I simply reacted—”
“The fault was mine.” He looked into her eyes. “You need say nothing more. I assure you that it will not happen again.”
Something twisted in her chest. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
The truth was that she wasn’t sure anymore.
Alex moved his knight. Meg knit her brows. That was an odd move.
He leaned back in his chair a little, studying her. “I hope the news from home was not troubling.”
Meg shook her head. “There are some matters that needed my attention, and my father wanted to know whether we would be returning in a couple of weeks as we’d intended.” In other words, her father wished to know whether Meg had chosen a husband.
Alex understood. “Are you ready to return home, then? Have you made your decision?” he asked quietly.
Meg fidgeted with a pawn, betraying her discomfort with his bluntness. She peeked up at him, looking for some indication that her answer mattered. But his face was infuriatingly blank. “I thought I had.”
He stared at her, mute, his jaw set in a firm line. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but instead he studied the chessboard, allowing the thick waves of his golden hair to fall forward, shielding his expression. She wanted to brush his hair to the side and force him to say something. Instead, he captured her knight.
Meg frowned, surprised to have missed that particular threat.
She studied the board, suddenly having the feeling that she had missed more than just the chess move. Why did she have the feeling that she was being played? That Alex was far shrewder than he had let on? She decided to put her theory to the test. “My father sought my advice about a tacksman who would like to pay a portion of his rents this year in barley instead of oats.” Realizing her rook was vulnerable, she moved to protect it. “I told him it didn’t matter.”
“You should have told him no,” Alex countered offhandedly. “It was a wet winter. Oats will fetch a higher price at market this year.”
Which was exactly, in fact, what she’d told her father. His quick analysis impressed her. Alex took another piece, and Meg frowned. She studied the board, but it took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. Either it was a coincidence or he’d utilized a brilliant strategy that she’d never seen before. In a few moves, he could have her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Meg swallowed. “No.” She moved her piece, and he immediately moved his knight into position.
“Check,” he said.
Meg moved to protect her king. Alex MacLeod was no novice, but she was not worried. She’d been suitably cautioned, but not outmaneuvered.
“Where did you learn to play chess?” she asked.
He thought for a moment, probably searching for just the right words that would tell her as little as possible. “Initially, I learned from my brother, Rory. We played together most evenings while growing up—too tired from our training to do anything else.” He paused, clearly debating whether to say more. “And I played with my men for months when I was a reluctant ‘guest’ of the MacDonalds some years back. Of course, they would hardly give prisoners use of a chess set, but we managed to play thousands of games scratched out in the dirt.” He lowered his voice so much that she barely heard him add, “I would have gone mad otherwise.”
Sensing that he had just shared something important, and personal, Meg asked carefully, “Why were you imprisoned, Alex?”
His face darkened. She thought he was not going to answer, but after a few moments he spoke. “About four years ago, I was on the losing side of the battle now known as ‘the Corrie of the Foray.’ Many of my kinsmen were killed that day. I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I survived, but only to be imprisoned in the dungeon of Dunscaith Castle.” His voice sounded hollow, utterly devoid of emotion.
“I’ve heard of it, of course, it was the last great clan battle fought on Skye. I just didn’t realize you…” She stopped when she noticed how hard his hands were gripping the arms of his chair. “How long were you imprisoned?”
“Three months.”
Meg sensed that there was more, much more, but that he would not speak of it. At least not with her. But her disappointment turned to horror when she remembered something that had been needling her since the masque, something else that he had refused to answer.
“Alex?”
He turned and met her gaze. Their eyes held, and something strange passed between them, almost an understanding. He knew where her questions were heading.
Please let me be wrong this time, Meg prayed. But Dunscaith was a MacDonald stronghold.
Her voice was hesitant. “Alex,” she said, and paused. “Is…that how you know Dougal MacDonald?”
His face darkened at the name. From the bright intensity of his eyes and the tautness of his mouth, she knew the answer before he replied.
“Yes.”
Her heart dropped to her stomach with dreadful comprehension. Unknowingly, she’d allowed herself to be wooed by his jailer. No wonder he had seemed so upset to see her with Dougal. Meg thought back to the scene he’d witnessed. Dougal MacDonald had touched her. Yet another misfire in her inexperienced attempts to play the games of court.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Their eyes held a little longer, before he dropped his gaze. He nodded, apparently satisfied with her apology but indicating his unwillingness to discuss the subject further.
Despite his obvious aversion to talking about himself, Meg wasn’t quite done yet. The knowledge that he’d fought for his clan only bolstered her belief that he was not what he claimed. She had to find out.
“Alex, what are you really doing at court?”
His eyes flashed with annoyance. “Didn’t we already have that conversation?”
“I don’t believe you.”
His jaw clenched. “Leave it be, Meg.”
But Meg could not heed the warning. “I’ve seen the way you watch everyone around you, and what does it have to do with being in that corridor last night at the masque?”
He moved his rook. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an active imagination?”
Meg countered his move by putting pressure on
his remaining bishop. “No,” she said, refusing to be deterred. “Now, answer my question.”
“I came to court to find work, I went to the hall to get away from Dougal—as you now know, I despise the man.”
“I don’t believe that is all of it.”
“Believe what you want, but it’s the truth.” He shrugged with such indifference that Meg knew she was on to something.
She shook her head. “No, it’s not.” Her eyes raked his face, searching for a crack in the mask. “But I’ll discover the truth, don’t you doubt it.”
But her threat didn’t seem to concern him. The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Meg?”
“What?” She looked down at the board, and her mouth fell open. Impossible.
“Checkmate.”
“I can’t believe I missed it,” her mother lamented an hour later. Elizabeth had just finished filling her in about Alex’s unexpected coup.
Meg looked at her mother and shook her head. She was taking far too much pleasure in Meg’s defeat. “It’s just a game, Mother.”
“Just a game!” her mother exclaimed with mock incredulity. “How many times have I heard you and your father go on about the game of kings? The great arbiter of intellect. ‘You can tell much about a person by how they play chess,’” she mimicked. “Now will you admit it?”
“Admit what?”
“Don’t be obtuse, Margaret. Why, admit that Alex MacLeod is the perfect match for you, of course.”
“Simply because he beat me at chess? I’m not perfect, Mother, I do lose occasionally.”
Though Meg spoke in jest, her mother sobered. “There is nothing wrong with not being perfect, Meg.”
But there is, Meg thought automatically, thinking of her beloved brother. “Of course there isn’t,” she agreed.
Rosalind’s perpetually smiling countenance slipped, becoming unusually grave. “You strive so hard not to fail, to always do the right thing. Only recently have I realized why. But you do not need to put so much pressure on yourself, Meg. I love both of my children, and so does your father—even if he doesn’t always know how to show it.”
Meg hoped so, for Ian’s sake. But why did her father’s love always have to be filtered by disappointment and conditions?
Meg walked into the small solar, seeing Ian seated at her father’s desk, a quill in his hand, and his fair head bent over a piece of parchment. Dread crept over her as she realized that another lesson was taking place.
“No, Ian. Not like that,” her father said, trying to be patient. “You’ve added wrong again. One merk is thirteen shillings, four pence. So the rent on twenty-four merks of land is…”
Meg could hear the helplessness in her brother’s voice. “I can’t do it, Father.”
“Of course you can.” Her father’s voice was harder this time. “Try again.”
Ian’s face twisted with frustration. He tried again. Meg’s pulse raced anxiously as he scratched out a few numbers on the parchment. She hated to watch him struggle. She knew he was close to tears, and her father hated when Ian cried. Braw lads of sixteen years did not cry.
“You remember, Ian,” Meg jumped in. “You did it perfectly yesterday.” She bent over and broke down the equation for him. Ian could multiply and divide well enough, it was just figuring out what to do that could be overwhelming for him. In a matter of minutes, he said proudly, “Fifteen pounds Scots, six shillings.”
Her father nodded, satisfied, but his smile was reserved for Meg.
Her mother didn’t want to see the truth. Her father didn’t know what to do with Ian. Meg had spent her childhood protecting her brother from his disappointment. Not allowing her father to feel the absence of an heir ensured that he would not focus on Ian’s limitations. But Meg didn’t want to talk about her father and brother. “You are making too much of this, Mother. It was just a game.”
“But surely you must be reconsidering Alex as a potential suitor, Meg?” Elizabeth asked. “Any man who can beat you at chess must be an exceptional strategist.”
Elizabeth’s question forced Meg to acknowledge the truth. Initially, she’d discounted Alex, considering him too much of a warmonger who didn’t possess the necessary acumen to deal with the king’s men. But she’d been wrong. Behind the strong sword arm and impressive physique lurked an incredibly sharp mind. Sharp enough to best her at chess, employing a brilliant strategic defense to counter her aggressive bishop’s attack. Meg hadn’t just lost, she’d been routed. Moreover, her mother and Elizabeth were right: His undeniable skill impressed her.
There was much about Alex MacLeod that impressed her.
Her mother stood before her, arms crossed over her chest, looking remarkably pleased with herself. “I’m right, Meg. Admit it. Alex MacLeod would make a perfect husband.”
Part of her wanted to agree, but the other part still wasn’t so sure. There were too many unknowns. If only she could figure out why she was so drawn to him. “I’ll allow that there is more to him than the hardened warrior I first assumed. But there is another problem—he isn’t looking for a wife.”
“He might not be looking for a wife, but that doesn’t have to prevent him from finding one. And since he’s arrived at court, he’s made no secret of his interest in you.” Her mother’s gaze was full of tenderness. “You seem more relaxed with Alex. Less worried. Why, I’ve even seen him wheedle a smile or two from you.” She shook her head with obvious dismay. “You would do well to laugh more, my love. I have warned your father that he demands far too much from you. You are too young to have locked yourself away from the pleasures of the world and devoted your life to the management of Dunakin.”
“I enjoy what I do, Mother.”
“I know you do, child, but I believe there is more to it than that.”
Meg bristled uncomfortably, unsure of exactly what her mother might reveal but knowing that she did not want to hear it. Especially if it involved more talk about Ian.
“I hope you will listen to your mother, Meg,” Elizabeth said as she moved toward the door. “I would like nothing more than to have you as a sister. But Jamie deserves to be loved.”
Not giving Meg the opportunity to respond, Elizabeth closed the door behind her, leaving Meg alone with Rosalind. Meg felt a twinge of guilt. Elizabeth was right, Jamie did deserve to be loved. And Meg would see to it that he was.
She glanced at her mother warily.
“Don’t look so defensive, love. I don’t want to upset you; I’m only considering your happiness. I want you to laugh more and worry less. You take on so much to protect your brother. If I’d realized sooner why you pushed yourself so hard, I would have intervened long ago.”
The unusual vehemence in her voice surprised Meg.
Rosalind shook her head sadly. “If only I’d been able to give your father more sons. I blame myself.”
“There is nothing to blame,” Meg said unthinkingly, wanting to comfort her clearly distressed mother.
But Rosalind cut off her denial. “I can see what you are doing even if you cannot. I know that you are only trying to protect your brother by taking his responsibilities upon yourself, and yes, I should have realized why you pushed yourself so hard a long time ago. The pressure of always being the perfect daughter is too much. You have repressed your own desires for your brother’s sake.”
“No,” Meg exclaimed vehemently, “you are wrong, Mother. I enjoy the work I do. I want the responsibility of managing Dunakin for myself. It has nothing to do with Ian.”
“You may have convinced yourself of that, but I believe it has everything to do with Ian. You will settle for a man you do not love, thinking that you are doing right by Dunakin. You have blinded yourself to everything except finding the perfect man to take the place that your brother will never be able to fully occupy.” Rosalind sighed. She clasped Meg’s hands and stared deep into her eyes. “But no one is perfect, Meg, including you. I hope you do not wait until it is too late before you realize that you have made a mi
stake and married the wrong man, for all the wrong reasons.”
Meg hated being scrutinized; she only wanted to do what was right for her clan. Why did it have to be so difficult? She stood up and headed for the door, needing to breathe.
“Where are you going?” her mother asked.
“To put this riding gown to use.”
“But it’s getting late. Wait until tomorrow and I will go with you.”
Meg gave her mother a reassuring smile. “I won’t be long.” Just long enough to get her mind back on track.
Chapter 10
It was well past midday before Alex neared the Sheep’s Heid Inn. He’d taken a circuitous route from the palace to make sure he had not been followed. The meeting he’d arranged with Robbie couldn’t have come at a better time. Thanks to Lizzie and Meg, the missive for his brother that Alex carried in his leather sporran now contained valuable information.
Originally, Alex had planned to ride out after breaking his fast, but he hadn’t been able to prevent himself from checking on Meg first. He’d vowed to protect her, and it was his duty to see to her safety. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
It was foolish, especially after his error last night in thinking that Meg was in danger. At first he thought his fears well-founded, when the man he was following led him toward the wing housing the ladies’ bedchambers. Moreover, like the man Alex had seen in the tavern, this man was large and heavyset with red hair. As the light improved, Alex was able to get a better look at him. He was of middling years, with a blunt nose and a face that bore the unmistakable scars of a warrior. But just as Alex was about to detain him and question him about his purpose, the man joined up with a few of the Mackinnon guardsmen that Alex had ordered to keep watch on Meg and her mother.
They’d introduced him as Thomas Mackinnon, only just arrived from Dunakin with a message from his chief. Information that Rosalind Mackinnon corroborated only minutes later when she returned to her chamber from the masque. The man Alex had suspected of intending to harm Meg was actually a trusted Mackinnon guardsman—which made his desire to see Meg this morning ridiculous.
Highlander Unmasked Page 14
