Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore
alone in her brother’s fortress in the middle of the night?” he mused aloud. “Perhaps it’s a sign that all is not well with the lady.” He turned to regard her steadily. “I could be mistaken, of course. I’d be glad to think I was, and that nothing is amiss with you.”
He sounded completely sincere. Yet she’d heard enough stories in the convent to know better than to take any man’s words at face value, no matter how sincere he sounded.
So she lied, easily and without compunction. “I couldn’t sleep and decided to take some linen to the kitchen to be washed in the morning. I heard noises and thought it was a cat. I wanted to chase it outside, lest it make a mess of the masons’ things.”
“Really?” the Scot answered. He lazily picked up some other tools one at a time and examined them. “You didn’t think it might be somebody up to no good? You weren’t bravely coming to confront an enemy?”
“I wouldn’t be so foolish as to confront an armed man when I have only a bundle of laundry. And I don’t think any intelligent man would attack the sister of Sir Nicholas de Beauxville in his own fortress, or confess a crime to her face.”
The Scot put down a trowel. “This place is Dunkeathe, not Beauxville.”
“Since my brother has possession of it, he can call it whatever he likes.”
“Aye, so he may, and so might the Normans, but to the Scots it is, and always will be, Dunkeathe.”
“Proudly spoken, but whatever it’s called, I want to know what you’re really doing out of the hall in the middle of the night.”
He tilted his head and studied her a moment before answering. “All right then, my lady, the truth. It’s just as I said. I was trying to find the plans to the castle.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “It has to be obvious I’m up to no good.”
Then his full lips curved upward into a devilish smile that seemed to reach right into her breast and set her heart to beating as it never had before. “And since I’m not dim-witted, either, I’m sure that you’re doing something you don’t want your brother to know about, whether it’s meeting a lover or not.”
She reached for her bundle. “I told you, I’m taking some linen to be laundered.”
“When you’re ill? That’s what your brother said when you weren’t at the evening meal.”
“I am recovered.”
“And making bundles, which you then carry out of your quarters in the middle of the night, heading for the postern gate. If I were to make a guess, Lady Marianne, I’d say you were running away.”
“Why would I run away?”
“I can think of plenty of reasons you’d want to flee. For one, that brother of yours is as arrogant as they come. It must be difficult living under his thumb.”
“He’s a wonderful brother.”
“Well, maybe for a Norman, he is. Thank God, I wouldn’t know.” The Scot took a step closer. “Whether he is or not, you’re willing to risk fleeing his castle and traveling alone rather than stay here.”
“Even if that were true—which it isn’t—is traveling alone in this country such a great risk? Are you saying I should be afraid of the Scots?”
“There are men who would steal cattle roaming about. Alone on the open road, you’d be very tempting for every outlaw between here and York.”
She fought the urge to believe that he cared about her welfare. Most men were scoundrels and liars; even her own brother would use her to further his selfish ambitions. “If I were running away, I’d have enough sense to stay off the open road.”
“And not get lost?”
“I need only get to the nearest church or monastery or convent by myself. They would give me sanctuary.”
That would also be the first place her brother would look for her, which is why she wouldn’t risk doing that. It had to be the village, then York, then France.
The Scot came closer. “If you were running away, my lady, I’d think again. Or are you quite certain you’d have nothing to fear from the cattle thieves because they’re Normans, too?”
“I don’t believe the men who took your cattle came from here,” she replied, hoping it was true, although she wouldn’t put it past some of the soldiers her brother had hired.
“Then so much the worse for you—or any lone woman—who meets them.”
The Scot’s gaze searched her face. When he spoke, his voice was firm, and stern. “Does he beat you?”
She instinctively drew back, putting a little more distance between them. “Who?”
“Your brother.”
“No!”
“He doesn’t…lay hands on you?”
She guessed what terrible thing he was implying. “Never!”
His stern visage relaxed. “So why do you want to run away?”
“I don’t!”
“I think you’re lying. I think you desperately want to get away from here. I just don’t know why.”
Her reasons simply couldn’t be important to him, no matter how concerned he sounded. “You have no idea what I want,” she replied, mustering her resolve. “I’m a Norman lady and you’re nothing but a…but a…”
“What am I but a man who doesn’t want to see you hurt—or worse? Do you really find that so hard to believe?” he asked softly, laying his strong hands lightly on her shoulders, the slight pressure warm and surprisingly welcome.
But it shouldn’t be. She should slap his face for daring to touch her. She should raise the alarm. Call out the guards. Shout for help. She should push him away. She shouldn’t let him pull her into his arms, as he was doing at that very moment.
Her bundle fell to the ground, the garments and shoes tumbling to the ground like so many scattered leaves.
She shouldn’t put her arms around his waist and look up into his handsome face. She should try to get away from him and his deep, seductive voice. She shouldn’t feel this thrilling excitement coursing through her body, or allow the images bursting into her head.
Yet in spite of all the inner warnings and orders, and all the things she’d heard about men and their evil ways, Marianne closed her eyes in anticipation and welcomed the first touch of the Scot’s lips upon hers. They were as light as the caress of a feathertip before they settled and moved with slow, sinuous deliberation.
This was how that girl under the tree must have felt, except this was no stripling youth kissing her. This was a warrior in his prime, handsome and confident.
Nothing could prepare her for the astonishing reality of his passionate kiss. Not the girl and the boy beneath the tree. Not the whispered descriptions from the other girls in the dark at the convent. Not a troubadour’s ballad.
Nothing.
As the Scot’s arms tightened around her, a longing as powerful as the need for liberty rooted her to the spot and urged her to surrender to the passion surging through her body, enflamed by his kiss.
He tasted of wine and warmth, his lips soft yet firm, too, as they slid over hers with excruciating, provoking leisure. Leaning against him, soft and yielding, a whimper of yearning escaped her throat, a little note of longing for something more that his kiss promised.
He shifted, and his embrace tightened. His mouth pressed harder, and his tongue touched her lips, preparing to part them.
A sound interrupted the silence: somebody drawing water from the well. Two women’s voices talking about the fine weather.
The kitchen servants,