He would not think that she was not Eilidh, Margaret thought, to reassure herself. He still did not speak, and she could not decipher the look in his eyes. He would probably be furious to learn the truth.
Margaret removed her hood. But his expression never changed—and she realized he was not surprised to see her.
“So ye now wish to become my mistress?”
She inhaled. Had he been mocking? “Can you now see through hoods and cowls?”
“Yer eyes gave ye away, Lady Margaret.” And then he moved so swiftly that she had no time to react. She only glimpsed his face for a moment, and his expression was hard. In the next instant, she was in his arms, their faces inches apart.
“Well?” he demanded. “Do ye come freely to me at last?”
His tone was dangerous, but she had expected him to be angry with her. More important, he had been at war that day. He smelled of musk, sweat and even blood. She knew how war could change a man. Her worry increased. “No.”
“No? So ye play a new game, instead?”
He was very angry, and sarcasm laced his tone. She wanted to tell him that she had not come to play any kind of game, either, that she needed to meet Sir Guy—and that she had to know what would happen when they battled tomorrow. But his hands still grasped her shoulders. She recalled too well what had happened the last time she had been in his embrace, and she instantly wanted to step away from him.
“Please release me,” she began in a harsh whisper.
“Why? We fought today, men died, and ye have come.”
He kissed her. His mouth was hard, uncompromising. Margaret went still as he kissed her so deeply that she could not move.
But it was not hurtful or unpleasant. Her heart began to thunder, her blood to rage. That hollow feeling began in her belly. And her every imminent protest died. She reached for his shoulders, almost helplessly. And his kiss changed.
It became hungry.
Suddenly there was so much temptation—to go farther into his embrace, to kiss him back.
And as her skin flamed, as if on fire, as her blood pounded in her veins, as she ached in her belly, she had one very coherent thought. She must stop this terrible kiss, before it became something more—something they could not undo. She unlocked her mouth from his.
“Will ye admit that ye want me?” He breathed hard, his hands clasping her waist.
She could not think, she could only feel the wild urgency burning within. The kiss had been explosive, a harbinger of so much more.
She stiffened, about to pull away. There could not be more!
His hands tightened on her waist, so she could not move. “Why did ye come here, Lady Margaret? We both ken ye dinna come to lie in my bed.”
She looked from his hard face and dark eyes to his pallet. Then she realized what she had done, and she jerked her gaze back to his face. She stepped back, and this time, he let her go.
“No. I did not come here to become lovers.” She felt dazed.
He was still, except for his hands, which fisted. “’Tis a shame.”
She ignored that. “I came here to meet Sir Guy.”
His expression hardened.
“We have never met. We have only exchanged letters. I am small like Eilidh. It seemed the perfect opportunity. My future rests in his hands.”
“Yer future rests in my hands.”
She shivered. “Very well,” she said slowly. “I am your prisoner, so you are right.”
He now gave her an odd, sidelong look. Slowly, he paced a circle around her. “Ye took a huge risk, to disguise yerself, to travel at night through the forest, in the snow. Why would ye think I’d let ye meet Sir Guy?”
“If there was a parley, I hoped to attend, otherwise, I hoped to glimpse him from a distance.”
