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never made a decision greater than what she wished to wear or what to serve for the supper meal!
    Booted steps sounded, and with dread—she now recognized the urgency in Sir Neil’s stride—she turned as he stormed into the hall. “He is at the bridge, below your walls—and he wishes to speak with you.”
    She froze. “Who?” But oh, she knew!
    “MacDonald,” he said, eyes blazing.
    Her stomach churned and her heart turned over hard. Only a quarter of an hour had passed since Padraig had left. If the Wolf of Lochaber was outside her gates, clearly he had been there all along.
    And suddenly, like a small, frightened child, she felt like refusing the request. She wanted to go to her chamber and hide.
    “I can take you up to the ramparts,” Sir Neil said bluntly.
    It crossed her dazed mind that Sir Neil would only suggest such a course of action if it was safe, and of course, if the Wolf wished to parley now, she must go. She fought to breathe. It was safe for her to be high up on the ramparts, surrounded by her knights and archers, as they spoke. She felt herself nod at Sir Neil.
    But as they started for the stairwell, comprehension seized her. She halted abruptly. How could it be safe for him to come to her castle walls?
    He would be exposed to her archers and knights.
    She looked at Sir Neil with sudden hope. “Can our archers strike him while we speak?”
    Sir Neil started. “They are waving a flag of truce.”
    What she had suggested was dishonorable, and she knew Sir Neil thought so. “But is it possible?”
    “He will undoubtedly be carrying a shield, and he will be surrounded by his men. The shot would not be an easy one. Will you violate the truce?”
    She wondered if she was dreaming. She was actually considering breaking a truce and murdering a man. But she knew she must not stoop to such a level.
    She had been raised to be a noble woman—a woman of her word, a woman of honor, a woman gentle and kind, a woman who would always do her duty. She could not murder the Wolf during a truce.
    Finding it difficult to breathe evenly, Margaret went up the narrow stairwell, Sir Neil behind her. As she stepped outside onto the ramparts, it was at once frigidly cold and uncannily silent. There was light, but no sun. Her archers remained, as did her dozen soldiers and the women and children who had been present earlier. But it almost seemed as if no one moved or breathed.
    Sir Neil touched her elbow and she crossed the stone battlements, still feeling as if she were in the midst of a terrible dream, trying to find her composure and her wits before she spoke with her worst enemy. Standing just a hand-span from the edge of the crenellated wall, she looked down.
    Several hundred men were assembled between the barbican and the forest. In the very front they stood on foot, holding shields, but behind them the soldiers were mounted on horseback. Above the first columns a white flag waved, and beside it, so did a huge black-and-navy-blue banner, a fiery red dragon in its center.
    And then Margaret saw him.
    The rest of the army vanished from her sight. Frozen, she saw only one man—the Highlander called the Wolf of Lochaber.
    Alexander MacDonald was the tallest, biggest, darkest one of all, standing in the front row of his army, in its very center. And he was staring up at her.
    Black hair touched his huge shoulders, blood stained his leine and swords, a shield was strapped to one brawny forearm, and he was smiling at her.
    “Lady Comyn,” he called to her. “Yer as fair as is claimed.”
    She trembled. He was exactly as one would have expected—taller than most, broader of shoulder, a mass of muscle from years spent wielding swords and axes, his hair as black as the devil’s. His smile was chilling, a mere curling of his mouth. She stared down at him, almost transfixed.
    And when he did not speak again, when he only stared—and when she realized she was speechlessly staring back—she flushed and found her tongue.