Eilidh blanched. “My lady, I would never betray ye! And I am pleased for ye. We all ken how his lordship has been lusting after ye, ever since the siege.”
Margaret looked blankly at her. Everyone believed that Alexander had desired her from the moment he had first taken the castle?
“I hope he was a pleasing lover,” she added, somewhat slyly. “Ye look satisfied, my lady. Ye have good color today.”
Margaret thought that she blushed again. “Help me braid my hair!” She had no intention of sharing the details of her night with Alexander. As Eilidh handed her a pale blue surcote, she glimpsed a pile of clothes on the bed. Her heart slammed. “What is that?”
Eilidh picked up a hairbrush. “Ye asked for the clothes yesterday,” she said, keeping her tone low.
Her disguise. Today, she was to attempt an escape.
Margaret fought to breathe, and with determination, she pulled the wool surcote over her head and shoulders, adjusting the long sleeves. She found her girdle and tied it as Eilidh began brushing her hair. Her heart now pounded with furious force.
William would be at the north door, if he could, in two hours. He would be expecting her to be there, too.
She could not think clearly. But her heart seemed to be shrieking in protest now.
Could one night change their lives?
“Hurry,” Margaret snapped.
Eilidh stiffened, as Margaret never raised her voice, and quickly braided her hair into a long, single plait. Margaret turned and took her hand. “Eilidh, I am sorry. I am uncertain of what to do.”
Eilidh smiled. “I ken, my lady.”
Did she truly understand? But how could one night change anything? It hardly changed her name, her birthright, her loyalties or the facts of war. Impulsively, Margaret hugged her. Then she raced from the room and downstairs.
She forced herself to slow as she approached the threshold of the hall. She heard the voices of the many knights within, the clank of platters and mugs and swords.
She paused on the threshold of the great room.
Alexander stood with Padraig, already wearing his swords, and they were in a rapid conversation. She knew he was about to leave—she saw it in the set of his shoulders and in his hard, aggressive stance. Urgency rippled in his body, a very different kind of urgency from the kind that had afflicted him last night.
She flushed. Images flooded her, as did sensations...the heat in his eyes, the curve of his mouth...his arms were so strong, his body so hard. In his embrace, she had felt tiny and safe—she had felt cherished.
He jerked to stare at her, clearly ceasing conversation in midsentence.
As a result, Padraig turned to stare at her, too.
Her heart turned over, hard. She wondered how many of his men knew about them. Fear coiled. Buchan must never find out about the night they had shared. Sir Guy must never know.
Alexander left Padraig, crossing the hall with long, swift strides, and pausing on its threshold before her. His face softened. His did not speak, but his gaze held hers, and it was searching.
“I wanted to wish you farewell, Alexander, and Godspeed,” she said roughly.
His gaze remained probing. “Do ye have regrets?”
She hesitated, incapable of looking away. “I haven’t had time to think.”
“I have no regrets.”
Her heart lurched another time. She wished he wasn’t leaving...she wished they weren’t enemies...she wished she were not intended to another man. And she realized she did not have regrets either—how could she? “I am glad,” she whispered, “that we found a moment to share as we did.”
He smiled at her. “It was more than a moment.”
She trembled. “Alexander? Last night changes nothing. You go to war—as does my family—and we fight for different kings.”
“Last night,” he said as quietly, “changes everything.”
