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She missed that, anyway. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss it, how empty her life would become. She missed knowing that someone could be gentle with her, careful of her.
Margot felt the sickly warmth of fear as she thought of it. She had wounded him in the worst way one could wound a man, and she had no hope that he would care much for her now—she had seen the harshness in his gaze. She was afraid of him, disgusted by him, attracted to him.
Anxiety swelled in her, and she abruptly stood, suddenly desperate to escape to the privacy of her old rooms.
The moment she came to her feet, however, Jock appeared. “Madam.”
“Jock!” she said with a cheerfulness that belied the fright he’d given her. It seemed impossible that anyone could be larger than her husband, but Jock was. His dark ginger hair was streaked with gray and had always given her the impression that he carried the gloomy mists of the Highlands around with him.
“How good to see you. You are well?” she asked as pleasantly as she could force herself.
His brows dipped. He was not fooled by her. “Whatever you require, I am at your service, aye?”
Her wish was too complicated for poor Jock. But in that space of hesitation, Jock rubbed a finger against his cheek, and a movement to her left caught her eye. A rat, in the form of a man, went scurrying in the direction Arran had gone to report her attempt to flee.
She sighed and frowned at Jock. “That wasn’t necessary, was it?”
His eyes narrowed with his silent disagreement.
He’d always been a worthy adversary. He’d never trusted the marriage brokered between her and Arran. Margot put her hands to the small of her back. “I mean only to stretch my legs. I’ve come quite a long way.”
Jock merely stood there. Typical.
“And I am in need of a ladies’ retiring room.” She arched a brow, expecting him to retreat as all men did when confronted by women and their bodily functions. But Jock stood like a mountain before her, his expression unchanged.
“Perhaps my old rooms are available?”
“There are no rooms for you, madam. We didna expect you.”
Obviously. “You mustn’t trouble yourself, Jock. I’m certain my maid has made them ready by now,” she said, and slipped past him.
“Milady—”
“I know my way very well, thank you!” She walked quickly down the side of the hall before he could stop her, smiling blindly at all the unsmiling, distant faces. All she had to do was reach the main entrance to the hall. She knew exactly where she was going. In the four months she’d lived here as Mackenzie’s bride, when her husband was out hunting or training soldiers or away on one of his ships, Margot had nothing to occupy her. She’d spent many lonely hours wandering about this sprawling castle. She knew every turn, every stairwell, every room.
But just as she reached the main doors, one of them swung open and Arran entered the hall, the rat directly behind him. She instantly turned and started in the opposite direction. Arran caught up to her in a step, clasped her elbow and jerked her backward. Margot’s heart climbed to her throat. She put a hand to her heart and said laughingly, “You frightened me!”
He stood with his legs braced apart, and his brows formed a dark vee above his eyes. “You’d no’ be running from your husband so soon, would you, mo gradh?” he asked hotly. “Having just this night returned to...what was it you said, then...to try our marriage again? Because you have missed me so?” His lips curved into a cool smile.
Aware that several pairs of eyes were on them, Margot forced a light laugh, as if this was friendly banter between husband and wife. “I meant only to freshen a bit. Wash the dust of road from my skin, as it were.”
His smile turned wolfish. “If you wish to wash, I’ll have a bath brought to my chamber, aye? It will be like old times.”
“Oh, that is...” Predictable. Infuriatingly manipulative. “Helpful,” she said. “But, ah...” She shifted forward, standing close so that she could whisper. She laid her hand lightly on his arm, watched his gaze move to her hand, then to her bosom, and whispered, “I have need of a retiring room.”
“Then you shall have one,” he said instantly.
Margot smiled in the way she’d learned at the soirees and dinner parties, where she’d mastered the art of making time pass by testing all the silly things men would do for a mere smile. “Thank you for understanding.” She patted his arm, then slid her hand off it. She bobbed a bit of a curtsy. “I shan’t be long.” Unless he considered all night a long time.
She moved to step around him, but Arran caught her arm once more. Not her hand, but her forearm, and his grip was tight. “No’ a retiring room as you might expect, having come from Norwood Park, but a closet that will suit. There is one in my chambers, you may recall, aye?”
Oh, she remembered. Margot tried to tug her arm free, but he held tight. “I won’t trouble you.”
“You already have,” he said curtly.
She didn’t like the look in his eye. He looked a little as if he intended to carve her up, stuff an apple in her mouth and serve her up on a platter.
“And I thought you bloody well missed me,” he said, his eyes going dark as he squeezed her arm.
There was a time he might have intimidated her into utter silence with such a predatory look, but Margot had changed. She wasn’t the inexperienced debutante anymore, and she knew how to fight back. She tilted her head and gave him an even sultrier smile. “Oh, but I have, Arran. I’m afraid you’ve seen through me—the truth is that the journey has left me quite fatigued.” She glanced surreptitiously about—she could see how people near them strained to hear. So she rose up on her toes and whispered, “I want very much to please you, my lord, but I really must rest to be especially pleasing.”
Arran’s gaze turned ferocious. It was full of lust and anger, and Margot’s pulse quickened with apprehension. He could kill her and no one here would say a word. No one in England would know for weeks, long after she’d turned to dust. He slid his arm around her waist and anchored her there, holding tight. “I think you misjudge your own strength, milady. Thank the saints that you’re a sturdy lass, aye? You’ll manage, I’ve no doubt.” He began to pull her through the hall, his grip on her unyielding.
“This is hardly necessary,” she said, struggling to keep up with his stride. “Naturally I assumed you’d be concerned for my welfare. But never mind—if you desire that I accompany you, then of course I shall. You need only ask.”
Arran stopped. He stepped away from her and bowed low. “My apologies, then,” he said. “By all means—I desire that you accompany me to my chambers. Now.” He gestured to the path in front of him, his jaw set, his eyes boring through hers. There was the hawk again, ready to swoop down and cart her off to be fed to his clan.
Speaking of which... Margot glanced over her shoulder. Necks were craning. Ears were pointed like dogs’ ears to them. All eyes were locked on the laird and his wife. That was the way it had always been at Balhaire—a perpetual audience to her marriage.
Margot sniffed. She nervously fingered a loose curl. She had no choice, really—she’d not have word going back to her father that she had been less than a dutiful wife on her first night at Balhaire. God only knew what he would do with her then.
So she lifted her chin, smiled sweetly and began to walk along the path he’d indicated. Arran was right beside her, his hand possessively on the small of her back, the expanse of it covering her waist. She was reminded of other moments when his hands were on more exposed parts of her body, and her stomach began to turn little somersaults.
“That’s a good lass,” Arran said into her ear, his voice trickling into her bloodstream. “Obedient and eager, just as a man’s wife ought to be.”
Margot resisted the overwhelming urge to elbow him in the ribs and then run.
They walked up the wide staircase that curled past paintings of Mackenzies, past historic armor that men liked to display for reasons that completely escaped her, past an array of swords fanned above the arched entrance to the hallway. Arran kept his hand on her as he steered her toward the two oak doors that led into the master’s chambers.
Their arrival startled two boys in that long hallway who were replacing candles in the sconces.
“Light the laird’s chamber!” Jock bellowed from behind them, startling Margot. She hadn’t even known he was there. The two lads scurried ahead, into Arran’s private rooms.
When they reached the doors to the master’s chambers, Arran glanced over his shoulder and said to Jock, “We are no’ to be disturbed by anyone, aye? We’ve a bit of bad business to conduct.” He reached around Margot and gave the door a push, then pushed her through. He just as quickly ushered the young boys out, then closed the door and turned the lock.
He slowly faced her and leaned against the closed doors, his head down, his gaze terrifyingly hard. Bad business. What did that mean, exactly? She had never thought him violent. Whatever he meant, she would likely die before he did anything—her heart was beating that wildly.
“The chamber pot and a basin are just in there,” he said, nodding to a door at the far end of the room. “Avail yourself.”
Margot glanced at the closet door warily and walked away from him and into the closet to collect herself.
When she emerged, he was still standing at the door. He suddenly pushed away from it and strolled to the sideboard. He poured two goblets of wine and held one out, offering it to her. “For my wife, who has, remarkably, returned to me. To my bonny wife, who gave me no’ a word of apology, nor hope, nor explanation, who now claims to have missed me. Aye, what a day this has become.”
His expression was so stormy that Margot felt herself begin to shake as she dried her hands. She had to be as convincing as she’d ever been in her life. “People have a change of heart all the time,” she said, and turned around to him. She took the wine he offered, drinking more than was polite in the hopes it would calm her nerves.
Arran didn’t drink. His goblet dangled between two fingers as he watched her.
Margot warily lowered her goblet.
His gaze moved casually over her now, lingering on her bosom and her hem. But then he clenched his jaw and turned away, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. “You’re as beautiful as ever, then. Boidheach,” he said low, and tossed back his wine in one long swallow.
Margot wasn’t expecting that. Anger, indignation, indifference, yes, and any number of questions about why she’d left and why she’d come back. But not that she was beautiful. The sentiment made her feel ill. She was not beautiful—she was bad business. How could he think otherwise?
“Aye, my bonny wife,” he said again, putting aside his goblet. “How often I’ve thought of her.”
Margot’s cheeks flooded with shame. Was that true, or was he toying with her now? She wished he would rail at her, demand answers—but not tease her. “Surely you’ve not wasted your energy thinking of me,” she said.
He snorted at that. “And why no’? Because you’ve wasted no time thinking of me?”
That wasn’t true. It was far from true. She’d thought of him so often, trying to remember how, exactly, it had all gone wrong. But Margot couldn’t pretend with him now—she knew him well enough to know he was teetering on the edge of fury, and beyond that, who knew? She looked him directly in the eye and said, “Actually, Arran, I’ve thought of you often.”
One dark brow arched above the other, as if that amused him. He began moving toward her, around her, behind her. “You’ve a peculiar way of showing it. Have you thought, then, of what I did to make you so unhappy? I have. But do you know what I wonder even more?”
Margot tried not to show any emotion and tried to stand perfectly still. She shook her head.
“I wonder,” he said softly as his palm glided across her shoulder, to the back of her neck and to the other shoulder, “what has made you so miraculously eager to return to me that you’d no’ send a messenger.” His hands closed around her shoulders, and he leaned down and kissed her neck.
A sudden heat rushed through her.
“No’ a bloody word of warning. The only party who might arrive here at Balhaire without sending word is the English army. Tell me, Margot—is there an English army lying in wait in the hills?” he asked, and licked the spot on her neck behind her earlobe.
The sensation of his tongue against her skin glittered in every nerve. She grabbed a fistful of her gown in an attempt to steady herself. “That’s ridiculous,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Perhaps I misjudged you.” She closed her eyes as his lips moved on her skin. “I thought you’d want to reconcile.”
“With you?” He laughed coldly. “With a woman who has betrayed me? You’re no’ a stupid lass, Margot. You’ve no misjudged a bloody thing,” he said against her neck, and deftly removed the goblet from her hand and put it aside on a table as he continued his mouth’s exploration of her nape. “As much as it amuses me to hear it, I donna believe you’ve thought of me at all, except perhaps to wonder when your next purse would arrive from Scotland.” He slid his hand around to her breast and roughly squeezed it. “Is that no’ so?”
Margot’s lips parted with the sharp intake of her breath. His rough handling of her was causing the heat in her to rise and bloom in her skin. “That is not so,” she said, trying futilely not to sound as breathless as she felt in his arms.
Arran grabbed her waist and twirled her around to face him. “Donna lie to me,” he said, and clasped her head in his enormous hands and kissed her. It was a hard kiss, one full of frustration. He kissed her in a way he had never kissed her before, his tongue tangling hotly with hers, his teeth grazing her lips.
Margot tumbled off some interior ledge. She wasn’t prepared for this, would have said it impossible—but his rough wooing was invoking a fiery response in her. She panicked and pushed hard against his chest. She had to control this between them. She had to keep her wits about her. “Unhand me,” she said roughly.
That did nothing to stop him; in fact, his eyes fired with the challenge. “You’re still my wife. That you canna change. Thank your stars I’ve no’ locked you away just yet.”
Her heart leaped painfully. That would be the utter end of her, to be sent back here, only to be locked away. Margot tried to walk out of his arms, but Arran pushed her up against the wall. When she freed herself, he grabbed both her hands and lifted them over her head, pinning them to the wall with one hand. He held her there, his gaze greedily scraping over her, studying her, as if reacquainting himself with every inch of her body.
She hated how quickly his stark gaze aroused her. It was so virile, so full of lust. This man was a far cry from the one who had so tenderly initiated her into lovemaking. “You’re a beast,” she breathed.
“You donna know the half of it,” he bit out, and dipped his head to kiss her. Margot stubbornly turned her head, but Arran was not deterred—he lightly bit the swell of her breast above the bodice of her gown, and she gasped with pleasure. “Is this no’ what you want, then?” His breath was hot on her skin. “To show me just how much you missed your poor, dear husband, the damn fool you left behind?”
Her pulse soared with fear, with want. “I would prefer a gentler reunion,” she lied.
“Then you might have taken a gentler leave of me,” he snapped, and pressed his body against hers.
She could feel all of him—the hard plane of his abdomen and muscular legs, his enormous erection. Margot was losing herself in the sensation of his hands and mouth on her. She closed her eyes and tried to drag air into her lungs, alarmed by how badly she wanted him, however he would have her—in his bed, or on her knees. “Are you such an animal that you would force yourself on me?” she demanded, desperate to stop herself from giving in completely.
“Are you such a witch that you would have me stop?” he breathed into her neck before biting her ear as he pressed his erection against her.
His sensual assault was intoxicating and exhilarating, an explosion of light and color and scents that were dangerously arousing. “Yes. I want you to stop,” she hissed.
Arran abruptly hiked her skirt and slipped his hand between her legs. Margot was wet. He pressed his mouth against her cheek and whispered, “Liar.”
“You’re insufferable,” she breathed, turning her head to him now, her mouth only a breath from his. “A wild beast of a man, rutting on his wife because his pride has been wounded.”
“Aye, I am wild with anger, that I willna deny. But I know that no matter what else has gone between us, you’ve always wanted me. At times rather desperately, aye? Just as you do now.” He slipped his fingers into her body.
She couldn’t suppress a gasp of pure desire. “You have mistaken boredom for want,” she said breathlessly, and tried to kiss him, but Arran, still holding her hands above her head, jerked back, just out of her reach, removing his hand from between her legs.
He grinned at her expression of fury. “You’re a moment from seeing the back of my hand, so donna sweet-talk me, leannan.”
Oh, that word, that word! It had always dripped down her spine like warm honey, and he knew it, too, the bloody bounder. She couldn’t even say what it meant, precisely, but it was the endearment he had used with her in this very room. “Take your hands from me,” she said. “You’re filthy and you’re half-drunk.”
He pressed against her again, roughly cupped her face with his free hand. “My clothes are soiled, but they’ll come off soon enough. I’m only pleasantly drunk, no’ enough to interfere with my husbandly duty.” He silenced her attempt to argue with a kiss. This time, a sweetly tender kiss.
And Margot disintegrated.
Everything in her surrendered. He tasted like ale and spice, smelled musky and powerful. Her blood stirred violently in her as he yanked the pins from her hair, let one long tress fall after the other. He claimed her breast with his hand once more, kneading it through the fabric of her gown, his thumb flicking over her hardened nipple.
Arran let go of her hands and slipped one arm around her waist. Lost in the moment between them, Margot let her hands fall to his shoulders as he kissed her and, lifting her off her feet, twirled her away from the wall and stalked across the room to his bed with her. He tossed her down, rolled her over and yanked at the laces of her gown at her back.
She wanted to feel him inside her once more. It felt to Margot as if their estrangement was shedding away from them and an unholy, improbable passion was rising up in its place. He roughly pulled her dress from her, then her stays, then slipped his arm under her belly and effortlessly flipped her onto her back. He pinned her there with his body as his hands freely roamed her, slipping under the silk of her chemise, rough and warm and searching.
His weight was familiar, but his manner was not one she’d ever known. He was wild with lust, wild with anger, and even though he was touching her, he was grunting as if it pained him. His coarse behavior with her was so arousing that Margot was disappearing into nothing but sensation as his hands and mouth moved over her. Her hands sought his flesh. Her mouth sought his. She forgot why she’d come. She forgot everything but the need to have him inside her.
When he pushed her chemise over her head and put his mouth to her breast, to her abdomen and between her legs, Margot groaned with desire, dragging her fingers over his buttocks and his back as he kicked free of his boots and buckskins. He incited a fire the moment he thrust into her, thick and hard, and carried her away on a cloud of physical pleasure so intense that it clawed at her throat, releasing in a soft growl of delight.
They were moving together, his breath hot in her hair. They were each of them desperate to have that primal release of ecstasy...
But then Arran did something Margot did not anticipate in that frenetic coupling—he stroked her face. It was a clumsy stroke at that, as one might try to caress a moving child. But she knew instantly it was a caress of true affection. It startled her; she opened her eyes and looked up at him, wide-eyed.
Arran stopped moving. He gritted his teeth as if he was holding himself back. “Turn your head.”
“Pardon?”
“Turn your head,” he said, and pushed her face away from him, so that she was looking now at the windows. She felt his scorching gaze on her as he began to move in her again.
Margot’s heart was racing dangerously hard. She was confused and inflamed, suspended between wild desire and the realization that he did not want to see her face. Something in her womb fluttered. A rush of breath escaped her. Her body simmered with the touch of his hands and the stroke of his body, her heart racing too far ahead of her thoughts. She was losing the game already; she was no match for him. He knew how to make her mewl, cry out, laugh. He could ask her anything now and, with a stroke of his tongue, force the answer from her.
And all he wanted from her was that she turn her head. Don’t look at him, she commanded herself. Don’t show him your face.
His arousal pressed hard and long into her, and the prurient sensations unfurling in her body numbed her to her misgivings. She tangled her fingers in his hair, scraped her hands across his shoulders and the muscles in his back, moving with him. She burned everywhere he touched and slid deeper into that fog of pleasure.
When he slipped his hand between them and began to stroke her in time to his body sliding inside her, Margot arched into him. She groped for an anchor, her hand hitting a bedside table. She heard something clatter to the ground as she surged up on that pitch to the release of intolerable pleasure.
Arran growled, thrusting hard into her as his own release came.
For several moments afterward, neither of them moved. Both of them sucked air into their lungs until Arran slowly rolled off her and onto the bed beside her.
Margot was stunned. She swallowed hard, then pushed herself up and gathered the bedclothes around her naked body.
Arran had no such bashfulness. He lay sprawled on his belly, one arm hanging off the bed, his face turned away from her. She admired his physique, made hard and lean by his youthful thirty years and his lust for life. She had long appreciated his good looks and his strength, and had felt that flame of attraction from their first meeting when he appeared at Norwood Park with hair that was too long and muddied boots.
Yes, the spark had always been there. But the marriage had been wrong. Surely, in his heart of hearts, he knew that was true.
Margot leaned over him now. His hair had come undone from its queue. She could see a nick or two in his skin, as well. Fresh scars, undoubtedly earned in training his men for war. That was part of their marriage bargain—he would provide the renowned Highland soldiers for the British army. He would have lands in England, and she would have lands in Scotland, belonging to each of them outright. He was made a baron, too, and she...she was made the chattel by which two men had feathered their nests. She was the shiny bauble that had brought Mackenzie to the bargaining table.
How could such a glorious specimen of a man be a traitor? She touched one of the scars.
Arran instantly pushed himself up, coming off the bed. He ignored her and walked to the hearth, squatting down to build a fire. When he finished, he refilled his goblet and drank thirstily. He glanced at her over his shoulder, quite at ease with his nudity. But his hand, she noticed, was gripping the goblet. “Why?” he asked gruffly.
It was curious how two people, separated longer than they’d been together, could still understand one another. Margot knew very well that he was asking why she’d left. “You know why.”
“Was I unkind, then?” he asked impatiently. “Did I mistreat you?”