A Rose in the Storm. Brenda Joyce

lady.”

      His stare had intensified. Margaret remained in front of the closed door, unmoving. Her heart was thundering so loudly that she thought he could hear it. He surely knew of the game she played; he surely knew how desperate and afraid she was.

      For a long moment, he did not speak. Then, “Yer no bawd.”

      How right he was. “I’m no bawdy woman, but I’m afraid, my lord,” Margaret said softly. “My uncle will be furious with me for losing the keep. So will Sir Guy. I need a protector.”

      “They will be more furious if they learn ye have slept in my bed.”

      He was so very right. But why was he making objections? Did he think to resist her? “They do not have to know.”

      He eyed her. “If ye stay here, everyone will know.”

      Margaret hadn’t thought this would be easy, but she had not expected him to object, nor could she fathom why he did not simply seize her, as most men would. She smiled tightly and walked past him to the bed.

      As she did, he turned, so he continued to face her, his gaze still wary and watchful.

      “I need a protector,” she said, her back to him. She untied her girdle, hoping he did not note how her hands trembled, placing it on the bed beside his waist belt and dagger. The latter winked up at her.

      It was in easy reach.

      “Yer uncle will disavow ye as his blood if ye sleep here tonight. Then ye will need a champion.”

      She shook her head, pulling up her gown—a surcote—and removing it over her head. She heard him inhale. She did not turn, clad now in a thin cote and her chemise. “You do not know Buchan. I will be blamed for the loss of the castle, for allowing you in, for the deaths of everyone—I am afraid.” She was lying now—Buchan would not blame her for attempting to fight the great Wolf off.

      He did not answer her.

      What should she do next? she wondered. Continue to disrobe? If she removed her undergown, she would be wearing nothing but her shoes and her thigh-length chemise.

      “I willna spare the prisoners, Lady Margaret,” he said softly, from directly behind her. “If that is the reason ye have come.”

      She jumped, as he was so close now his breath feathered her ear—and he had taken a hold of her left wrist—but the movement caused her shoulders to hit his chest. His grasp on her wrist tightened, while he clasped her waist with his other hand.

      Her heart somersaulted wildly. What was he doing? She was in his arms. Yet wasn’t this what she wanted of him?

      Had he really just said that he would not spare her men? The intimate position they were in was making serious reflection impossible. Margaret could only feel his breath on her ear, his hard chest, rising and falling against her back, and the heat of his pelvis and loins.

      Her heart was pounding. Every nerve ending she had was taut. “Am I asking you to spare them?” she gasped hoarsely. “I am coming freely, my lord.”

      “Ye do not come freely. Ye despise me with yer every breath.” But he spoke in a harsh murmur, and his mouth now brushed her ear.

      She gasped, because a fire was racing along her arms, and up and down her legs. Did she desire the Wolf of Lochaber? For his arms were around her, and she could not think clearly, except to note how strong and muscular he was, and how warm she was becoming. “No,” she managed to answer. “I have come freely, my lord.”

      His hand on her waist tightened. “Ye think to ask me on the morrow for mercy for yer men. That is why ye seek me in my bed—not for any other reason. If ye stay with me, my answer willna change,” he warned. And his mouth was so close to her earlobe, she could feel his lips brushing her there as he spoke. It was almost a feathering kiss.

      She couldn’t breathe, much less move. An explosion of sparks accompanied his words, his breath. It was as if he had set her on fire, and that fire was racing through her entire body. She was aware of how aroused he was. There was no mistaking his condition. His body was hard and heated.

      What should she do? she wondered, with both panic and breathlessness.

      Alexander clasped her shoulders, pulling her back even more closely against him, and he kissed the side of her neck. Margaret felt the rush of deeper desire then. It was as if her abdomen had been hollowed out, and she felt faint with the expectation of pleasure.

      His hand slid from her shoulder to her breast and over it entirely, causing her erect nipples to tighten painfully. “So ye will stay, anyway?”

      She almost wanted to say yes! But how could she stay with him? What was she thinking? She was Lady Margaret Comyn, the great Earl of Buchan’s niece and ward—she was Mary MacDougall’s daughter! They were the worst of enemies! And he would hang her men tomorrow anyway.

      “I want to stay—I want to save my men,” she somehow breathed.

      “Ye canna save them.” He turned her around abruptly, so she was no longer in his embrace, and their gazes collided. His blue eyes smoldered with lust. She wondered what her own eyes looked like. “I wish ye were a bawd.”

      She hugged herself and stepped back breathlessly. What had just happened? She began to shake, still feeling feverishly hot. “I’m not a bawd,” she admitted hoarsely. “I thought I could seduce you.”

      “Ye could seduce me—if ye truly wished to.”

      He sounded odd, as if rueful. Margaret trembled as he paced away, and glanced again at his belt and dagger on the bed. The blade winked up at her, but she did not have the courage to seize it. She was no more a murderess than she was a seductress.

      She realized he was watching her. But he knew she would never grab that knife and use it, just as he had known she was incapable of a casual lover’s tryst, no matter how much desire had just arisen between them.

      “Ye should leave matters of war alone, Lady Margaret. And the prisoners are a matter of war. Buchan will forgive ye the loss of the keep, he will expect his men to be hanged, but he would never forgive ye for lying with the enemy—on the eve of yer marriage to Sir Guy.”

      She suddenly wondered if he was trying to protect her. But they were enemies. Why would he do that? “I care more for my men than I do for my uncle’s approval. But it doesn’t matter now. I can’t go forward with a seduction, my men will hang even if I do, and I doubt there will be a marriage now,” she finally said, thickly.

      “Why would ye think that? Buchan needs Sir Guy now more than ever. Sir Guy will wish to have Castle Fyne now more than ever.”

      “You have stolen Castle Fyne,” she cried, “leaving me with nothing.”

      “Sir Guy is a man of great ambition, like his brother, Aymer. I am certain he will come to take this castle back, and with it, his bride.”

      Margaret wanted to believe him. The only problem was, if Sir Guy attacked Castle Fyne, how would he ever best such an opponent? And that would not help her men—they would already be dead. The implications of her failure to seduce him—and dissuade him from the executions—were settling in. She was ill.

      “Ye need to leave matters of war to the men,” Alexander said again. “And ye should leave my chamber. Good night.”

      She had achieved nothing. And she would never understand MacDonald. Why hadn’t he taken what she offered? Most men would have leapt at such an opportunity, especially as it would drive a wedge between her and Sir Guy, which was to his advantage. She did not want to think of him as an honorable man, so she refused to do so. But while she knew she should leave—she should flee—she did not. “Most men would not have refused my advances.”

      “I’m not like most men.”

      “Why? Why did you dissuade me from my folly? What have you gained tonight?”

      His stare was unwavering. “Ye’d