But Lachlan MacDonald was not like other men. He was extraordinary—darkly handsome and divinely muscled—and his devastating smile promised sexual fulfillment with a teasing confidence that drove her mad with longing.
Men like him ought to be outlawed, she thought petulantly, as she fiddled with the tartan that was draped over his shoulder—for they committed the worst kind of offense. They turned strong women like her into pathetic, pining fools.
“Will you come to my chamber later tonight?” she asked, frustrated that she had to ask, when he should be the one making the proposition.
He glanced up and down the passageway, making sure there was no one about, then gave her a brilliant smile and spoke teasingly. “Tsk-tsk, Onora. You are, without a doubt, a stunning and desirable woman, but we are practically related.”
“Not by blood,” she replied, with a spark of mischief in her eyes.
He ran a finger from the bottom of her ear, along the line of her jaw to her chin, and focused on her lips. “Nevertheless, you shouldn’t tempt a man so. It’s terribly cruel. You’ll break his heart.”
Her body burned hotly with need. How was it possible that he could turn a rejection into the most thrilling, intoxicating form of flattery? The man was too charming for words.
“But Lachlan, I can promise you a night of wicked pleasures, and make all your fantasies come true. It’s the least I can do, to reward you for your superb efforts as our new Laird of War.”
He smiled again. “Your offer is very tempting, madam. You know exactly how to make a man suffer.” Then he backed away with a seductive glimmer in his eye and left her standing there breathless, almost faint with desire. “I’ll see you later in the hall,” he said casually over his shoulder, as he continued down the passageway.
“Perhaps,” she called after him. “Though I cannot guarantee I’ll be there early, for I’ll be enjoying a hot bath, while rubbing sweet-smelling perfumes over my naked body… thinking of you, of course.”
He disappeared around the corner.
Onora continued in the other direction, then stopped suddenly and sank onto a bench against the wall. Frustrated with herself, she squeezed her hair in both fists and let out a near feral growl.
Flirting with Lachlan MacDonald was supposed to be about power and strategy, not fluttering hearts and girlish crushes. If she was going to accomplish anything here, she would have to work harder to control her impulses, for this was a volatile situation that required a cool head and a steady hand. She could not afford to become infatuated.
She stood up, smoothed out her skirts, and hurried to the stairs.
***
That evening, after the music and dancing had begun, Angus lounged back against a stone column in the Great Hall. He used his knife to cut into an apple, one slow slice at a time, and placed each juicy sliver into his mouth on the edge of the blade.
He watched his wife across the crowded room, dancing a reel with other members of both clans. The music was lively, the spirit of the room infectious with laughter and merriment, but it was all he could do to watch Gwendolen with narrowed, ravenous eyes while he absentmindedly ate his apple.
A young MacEwen lad with red hair and bony legs encouraged her to dance a second time. It put Angus in a foul mood. The mere idea of any man touching her or bringing a smile to her face sent his thoughts into a storm of possessive hunger.
He finished the apple, slipped his knife into his boot, and strode with purpose to the center of the hall, where she was still dancing the reel. All it took was one look, and her smile transformed into a shared sexual awareness that burned in her eyes. When the dance ended, she placed her hand in his, and he led her out of the hall toward the stairs to her bedchamber in the East Tower.
He had never known such desire could exist—and for the first time, he didn’t care if he was distracted by it. All he wanted to think about was kissing his wife and burying himself in her soft, heated depths.
Everything else, he could lay aside until morning.
***
Onora watched Angus stalk through the crowd toward Gwendolen.
It was lost on no one that the great MacDonald chief had become infatuated with his wife and was growing more obsessed with her each day. He looked at her like she was something delicious to eat, and he was a starving man.
Gwendolen responded in kind. They were two young lovers overcome by fresh passions, which was an astounding turn of events, to be sure—for on that first day, Gwendolen had loathed their conqueror with such intensity, she’d wanted to see him hanged.
Onora’s gaze traveled across the hall to Lachlan, who was taking a young MacEwen clanswoman onto the floor.
Though one could hardly call her a woman. What was she? Seventeen? Eighteen? She was slender and blond and looked as stupid as a bag of hammers, but Onora nevertheless felt a harsh pang of jealousy in the pit of her stomach.
Was he attracted to such youthful innocence? she wondered irritably. Would he set his sights on seducing that trembling young lass tonight, instead of coming to her bedchamber for a more advanced and sophisticated program of activities?
“What has you lookin’ so melancholy, Onora?”
Startled by the interruption, she turned toward Gordon MacEwen, the castle steward. His belly was round, his head bald, and there was a film of greasy perspiration on his nose.
