Brenda Joyce - A Rose in the Storm

Would she really beguile, play and outwit the Wolf of Lochaber? Could she really go up against such a warrior and win?

Hadn’t women seduced men for their own ends, throughout the course of time?

And then she had the oddest recollection—of how dearly her parents had loved one another, and how they were so open about stealing off to make love.

But their marriage had been an unusual one. Few married couples cared for one another. Although most were deeply bonded for political and familial reasons, love was a different matter. Love affairs abounded, and so often defied not just politics and family, but common sense.

This love affair would be entirely political—a seduction meant to save the lives of the men of Castle Fyne.

Margaret stood. “Wish me well.”

Peg seized her hand. “Forget he is the enemy. He is big and handsome—think about that!”

Margaret wished she could, but she could not. As she walked to the door she thought about her uncle Buchan. After what she meant to do, she would probably be sent to a nunnery for the rest of her life. But she had to save her people.

Margaret opened her door and the guard leapt to his feet. “I wish a word with Alexander,” she said with what dignity she could muster. And ignoring any response he might mean to make, as well as his surprise, she walked over to the Wolf’s open door.

He was standing in the center of the chamber, and he had just shed his boots and sword belt. The latter hung on the back of the room’s single chair; the boots were on the floor. He stood barefoot on a fur rug—the stone floors were freezing cold in winter—and he turned to face her, his hands on his waist belt.

Margaret had paused in the doorway. As their eyes met, his gaze did not even flicker, he was so still—and so watchful.

She knew she flushed—her cheeks felt warm. Did he know what she intended?

The bedchamber was strikingly silent now. She stepped inside, aware that he was watching her with the kind of care one reserved for the enemy, and that he hadn’t said a word in response to her appearance.

Margaret closed the door. Then she turned back to the Wolf. “Are you well fed, my lord? Have you had enough to drink?”

He began to smile, now unfastening his belt and tossing it aside, onto the bed. As he did, Margaret stared at the sheathed dagger on it.

“Do ye really wish to play this game?” he asked softly. But his gaze had slipped to her mouth.

He did want her, she thought, stunned. Peg had been right. “It is time for me to accept the fact that I am your prisoner, and in your care. We should not be rivals.” She thought she sounded calm—an amazing feat.

His smile remained, and even as cynical as it was, it changed his hard face. Even she had to admit that he was a striking man. “And now ye wish fer my company?”

“I wish to do what I must do to make my stay with you as pleasant as possible,” Margaret said tersely. There was no point in playing him for a fool—he was hardly that. But he might believe she had decided to make the best of their situation—and seek opportunity in her captivity, through a relationship with him.

His smile vanished. “I despise liars, Lady Margaret.”

His warning was clear. “I have never been a liar,” she said, and that was true—but she was certainly lying now. “I have had a few hours in which to think. I am your prisoner and entirely dependent upon you for my welfare. Only a very foolish woman would continue to fight you, my lord.”

“So instead of fighting, ye come to my bed?”

“Why is it so strange? You are master here, I was once the 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.