Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore

      “Let me go or I’ll call the guards!” she cried, meaning it, as she frantically picked up her things.

      She never should have weakened and given in to her lustful impulses. What would the Reverend Mother and Father Damien say if they could see her now? What would her friends think of her? God help her, what would Nicholas do?

      “You won’t call the guards,” the Scot said firmly, backing away, his body blocking the single exit.

      “If you don’t get away from the door, I certainly will,” she countered, whirling around to face him, holding her clothes against her chest.

      His expression hard and as cold as Nicholas’s could be, the Scot shook his head. “Oh no, you won’t, my fine Norman lady.” He nodded at her clothes. “That’s no bundle of laundry and you weren’t on your way to do washing. You were running away, until we met here. Why, I’m not sure, but I am sure you’ll never tell your brother that we met, because then you’d have to explain yourself.”

      “And you thought to take advantage of that, and me, didn’t you?” she charged.

      His whole body tensing, the Scot spread his hands wide. “I’d never take advantage of a woman, and I’m not keeping you here against your will. I haven’t done anything against your will.”

      “Yes, you have!”

      “No, I have not, my lady, and you know it.”

      “You were trying to seduce me.”

      “If I’d been trying, my lady, you’d have been seduced.”

      “Of all the insolent, despicable, arrogant—! Let me pass!”

      He stepped away from the door. “With pleasure, my lady. But we both know that you enjoyed that kiss as much as I.”

      Marianne knew nothing of the kind. She only knew that staying with him had been a terrible mistake, and not just because of that kiss. She’d lost her chance to escape, and who could say when she would get another before the week was up?

      “Fool!” she muttered, silently cursing both herself and the Scot as she pushed past him and hurried out the door.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ADAIR BOLDLY STRODE toward the hall, silently daring any of the Norman’s soldiers in the courtyard to question or challenge him. He’d like nothing better than to send a few of them sprawling in the mud.

      Yet as he headed toward the massive hall, no one—not the workmen, Sassunach for the most part, or the soldiers—said a word to stop him. Their master should thank God he wasn’t an assassin sent to kill him, if this was how they guarded his fortress.

      But what could you expect from men paid to serve you? Scots’ loyalty and power came from blood and family, not payment in coin, or the promise of reward.

      As for Lady Marianne, she was a lying, scheming Norman like all the rest. Of course she’d been sneaking somewhere, and either she was running away, or taking a change of clothes for some other purpose. She probably had been going to meet a lover, and was sorry she’d been caught.

      At least at first, because say what she would, she had wanted to kiss him. She’d relaxed against him and passionately pressed her lips to his as if she’d like nothing more than to be his lover.

      God save him, he’d wanted that, too, forgetting that she was a Norman. There was no excuse for his lustful weakness and he ought to be ashamed.

      He was ashamed.

      Adair shoved open the door to the hall and marched inside the chamber big enough to hold a herd of cattle.

      He spotted his father sitting on a bench, his shoulders slumped, not speaking or moving. Adair couldn’t remember ever seeing his father quite so still first thing in the morning, and there were circles of weariness under his eyes. Clearly, a night on a stone floor, even one cushioned with rushes, had proved intolerably uncomfortable.

      He marched toward his father. “The bastard should have offered you a bed.”

      Seamus rose, his movements slow and stiff. “It’s nae wise to call a man names in his own house, my son,” he said as he gave Adair a wry smile. “And he may not have an extra bed.”

      “The devil he does. He’s rich. This place is proof of that.”

      “This place, my son, is proof that he’s spending a lot of coin to fortify Dunkeathe,” his father replied, his gaze roving over the high-beamed ceiling and stone walls before returning to Adair. “It doesnae mean he has muckle in the way of beds.”

      “So you think he needs more money,” Adair inquired significantly, thinking of the missing cattle.

      “Maybe. But we don’t know the man’s business, so it’s better to make no guesses.”

      Lachlann nodded. “Especially when we’re in his castle.”

      “Aye, and where the devil have you been?” Cormag demanded.

      Adair saw no need to explain himself to Cormag. He also saw no reason to tell his father, or anyone else, about his encounter with the Norman’s sister. That unforeseen meeting represented no danger to his clan, because he was sure it would remain a secret. In spite of her bravado, the lady wouldn’t dare to tell her brother that they’d been alone together. Otherwise she’d have to explain how she came to be in the courtyard in the middle of the night.

      “I couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a wee walk about the place,” he replied, which was true, as far as it went.

      He’d left the hall after he’d lain awake for a long time, thinking of this fortress and the danger it represented to his clan and his country. He hadn’t planned on meeting the lady, and he should have left her the moment he saw her. Yet she had been frightened and tense, even after she’d pushed him into that hut. His curiosity had been roused enough to try to find out what she was up to, and then if she was in any danger.

      He should have known better than to have any sympathy for a Norman, even if the Norman was a woman.

      “The bonnie lass with the mole on her breast, was it?” Cormag asked with a sly, disgusting smirk as he adjusted his feileadh, pushing and pulling the fabric so that it bunched less around his middle. “Was she grateful that you acted like a servant to Sir Nicholas?”

      Adair’s lip curled. “I didn’t go out to meet a woman,” he replied. “And only a desperate lout—or a Norman—would expect a woman to show her gratitude the way that you’re implying.”

      “That’s enough, you two,” his father said. “I’ve plenty to think on without you fighting like mongrel dogs.”

      “Aye,” Lachlann seconded. “And we shouldn’t quarrel among ourselves while we’re here. How will that look to the Normans?”

      Lachlann had a point, and Adair resolved to try to ignore Cormag, at least until they were out of Dunkeathe.

      His father stretched and glanced at the servants setting up the tables. “That Norman’s idea of an evening meal was not mine, and they’ll have no notion at all of what a man needs in the morning, so I think it’s time we were on our way. Roban, see to the horses.”

      “Without another word about the cattle?” Adair asked as his friend dutifully headed out of the hall.

      His father nodded. “Aye, my son, there’ll be not another word about the cattle—for now. We’ve no proof, and arguing with Sir Nicholas like a hotheaded lad isn’t going to provide it. We’ve warned him and he knows we’re suspicious, so that will have to do.”

      “Aye, Adair. If you can’t hold your temper, you’ll have us at war with our neighbors,” Cormag added.

      Adair shot him a look. “I don’t mind a fight.”

      Cormag’s hand went for his missing