“I don’t want to think about this now,” she whispered. But it was too late, reality had intruded upon their brief moment of happiness.
His grasp tightened. “I’m sorry. I dinna mean to distress ye.”
She quickly smiled. “I am not entirely distressed.” And then she pressed herself even more closely to him.
“Good,” he said, and he fell silent. He continued to hold her, but she knew he was brooding, as she was.
It felt right, being in his arms, when it was so terribly wrong. What was happening? He had admitted caring for her, even to her uncle. She had admitted caring for him. There was a strong bond of affection between them, and there was so much passion. But she also respected and admired him—he was a man of courage and honor, and he was just. And he had proven that he respected her.
So many emotions were swirling within her—confusion, fear, but there was also joy, and a swollen emotion that felt suspiciously like love.
Oh, God. She must not fall in love with Alexander!
“Margaret. What is it?”
She realized that panic had jolted her.
“Sir Guy will kill us both if he ever finds out, and my uncle will banish me from his lands.”
He sat up, helping her to do so, too. Then he adjusted the mantle about her shoulders and chest, aware of her modesty.
“If ye wed me, I’ll keep ye safe.”
“I cannot argue with you now.”
He studied her. “Ye’ll bend, Margaret, sooner or later.”
“Have you ever been thwarted, Alexander, when seeking ambition?”
“No.” His gaze was direct.
And she was his ambition now. She stared at him, suddenly thinking about his deceased wife. “Did you really besiege Glen Carron Castle for the sake of a woman you wished to wed?”
He eyed her carefully now. “I was young and ill-tempered.”
“So it’s true?”
He said with equal care, “’Tis a bit of the truth.”
She suddenly straightened. “You don’t want to speak of your wife, Alexander? Did you love her that much?”
He sat up straighter, too. “I probably loved her. It’s hard to recall. ’Twas long ago, Margaret. I was angry—I wanted to go to war and avenge my clan.”
“What do you mean?” Margaret asked, wondering how he could forget whether he had loved her or not.
“The massacre of Clan Donald had been just months before. Her father rode in that battle. I wanted revenge—any kind of revenge—and so I took her to bed. She became my mistress, she was carrying my child. I decided to marry her.” He shrugged. “Glen Carron is a fine castle and I wanted the keep. MacDuff refused. So aye, I besieged the castle and took him prisoner, until he agreed to the union.”
Margaret felt how wide her eyes were. It did not sound to her as if he had loved his wife. The match had been the result of his need to avenge his kin.
“Why do ye ask about something so ancient?” he asked.
She tried to be nonchalant. “Legend has it that you had an undying love for her.”
He laughed, but roughly. “Perhaps I did, at the time.” His smile faded. His stare became direct. “The only woman I have affection for is now is the woman before me.”
She flushed. “We should go back, before someone suspects.”
“They suspect, Margaret, we’ve been gone fer an hour.” But he stood up.
