His eyes widened slightly. His chamber was dimly lit from the fire in the hearth. He wore only his leine, and the fire made it possible to see somewhat through his tunic. Like all Highland men, he wore nothing beneath it.
His blue gaze now moved over her, slowly. “I am not dying anytime soon.”
“That is what each of my three brothers thought.”
“I am the Wolf of Lochaber,” he said very softly.
“Alexander...I am worried about you.” She had finally admitted it—and not just to him, but to herself.
“I am glad.” He walked toward her and placed his hand over her shoulder on the wall. His gaze smoldered, meeting hers, but she saw questions there, too. He looked past her, into the hall. “Ye may leave us, Dughall.”
Margaret did not turn, but she heard the boy flee. She realized she was staring at Alexander’s broad, hard chest. Dark hair dusted its center. His nipples were erect.
He said softly, “How worried are ye?”
“I don’t want to have this care. We are enemies!”
“I dinna wish to be enemies, Margaret, not now, not ever.”
“I am afraid you won’t return from this battle,” she whispered.
“I will return, Margaret, ye may be certain, if yer waiting for me.”
“Alexander—how can I?” she begged.
“Ye can because ye care. Alliances change all of the time.” He laid his mouth on hers, gently, a feathery brushing of their lips.
Desire exploded. Margaret seized his shoulders, her body on fire, and the moment her hands closed upon him, his kiss deepened.
She moved into his embrace, against his entire hard body, and nothing had ever felt as right. His large body encompassed hers. Her breasts were crushed by his chest, and she could feel his manhood, rock-hard against her belly. She moaned. He opened her mouth, thrust his tongue deep. He cupped her buttocks and lifted her.
Margaret wrapped her legs around his waist as he braced her back against the wall. She held on to him tightly, kissing him back, blinded by the urgency in her body and the sudden demands of her heart. A moment later he was plunging deep inside her, and then they were both crying out.
* * *
MARGARET AWOKE SUDDENLY, in confusion. For an instant, she did not know where she was. She stared at the stone ceiling, lying under a great many furs, in the bed that had once been hers, in the chamber that was now his...Alexander.
She inhaled, stunned. Too many images to count raced through her mind, and in every one, she was in his hard, heated embrace, burning with urgency, or in the throes of ecstasy. She sat up, blushing. He had made love to her with so much passion, so many times; she had returned his passion, as wildly, as shamelessly.
Last night, she had been compelled to go to him, but she hadn’t consciously meant to join him in bed. Yet somehow, the moment she had seen him, she had wound up in his arms—and once there, she had not had a single thought of retreat.
And now, as she glanced around the dark room, she saw that he was very much gone.
Dear God, surely he had not ridden off to war without saying a fare-thee-well? She sat up, glancing at the shutters, which were ajar. It was still dark outside—but she saw a glimmer of the rising sun. It was not yet dawn—he couldn’t have left yet!
There was no time to dwell upon what had happened now. She leapt up from his bed, found her chemise upon the floor—it was torn and she blushed again—and she threw it on. Barefoot, without a mantle, she ran from his room.
Dughall wasn’t in the hall, and for that she was grateful. But now, she recalled his presence there last night. She halted.
She was to marry Sir Guy in June. She was Lady Margaret Comyn—the enemy of both Robert Bruce and every MacDonald in Scotland. But she had slept with Alexander last night.
And Dughall knew.
Her chamber door was ajar. She glanced at the room—Eilidh stood there, smiling at her. “Ye’ll catch yer death, standing there mostly naked like that,” she said.
Her heart lurched with dismay and dread. Eilidh knew, as well. Margaret rushed inside, closing the door, as Eilidh handed her a clean chemise and cote. “I cannot explain,” Margaret said briskly, taking off her torn undergarment and replacing it with the other ones. “But you are sworn to secrecy, Eilidh, you must vow now, on the lives of your mother, your sister and your nieces and nephews, that you will never tell anyone where I was or what I was doing last night.” She did not add that her life might depend upon it.
For now she thought of her powerful guardian. Her uncle would exile her if he ever learned of her infidelity. Of that, she had no doubt.
