He rubbed himself in her creamy dampness, lingering, wanting to prolong the pleasure. He knew that when he was inside her, it would be too late.
His body was on fire. Every muscle tense, poised for entry. Blood pounded in his veins. In his ears. In his bones. His skin felt tight and hot.
Thrust. God, he wanted to thrust. He’d never wanted to thrust into someone so badly.
He knew it would be incredible. Her body would grip him like a hot glove. Milking him in long, hard pulls. Sending him deeper and deeper into mindless oblivion. He wanted to see her moving under him with the power of his thrusts. Lifting her hips to meet each deep stroke. He wanted to watch his cock sliding in and out of her.
He clenched, the urge to plunge inside almost overpowering.
But he couldn’t hurt her.
So, he forced himself to go slow, teasing her with his thickness, getting her used to the size and strength of him, slicking the head of his cock with her dampness to ease his entry.
It felt too good. The pressure was coiling at the base of his spine, cinching tighter and tighter.
She was moaning again, her breath coming hard and heavy. Desire flushed her beautiful face. Her leg tightened around his hip, trying to draw him inside her.
It was all he could take. He started to push.
She cried out in surprise.
Jesus. He gritted his teeth. Sweat gathered on his brow. Blood drummed through his veins. Tight. So incredibly tight. He had to go slow and easy. God, he wanted to come.
Almost there …
A faint sound penetrated the haze.
He froze, a flicker of premonition brushing the back of his neck. The air shifted.
He swore and pulled away, his body throbbing in protest. “Cover yourself,” he said, yanking up her gown while simultaneously fumbling with the ties of his braies.
But it was too late—or too soon, if the frustration burning in his bollocks right now meant anything.
The door opened with a crash.
Sir Hugh Ross stood in the doorway, his steely gaze taking in every detail.
Though they’d managed to cover themselves, nothing could hide what they’d just been doing. Anna was still leaned back on the table—cheeks flushed and eyes hazy—Arthur was still positioned between her legs, and the small room was hot and heavy with the musky scent of mating—or near mating.
She gasped. Horror draining the blush of pleasure from her face.
Instinctively, Arthur moved in front of her, trying to block her from view, as if he could protect her from the venom shooting from the other man with the shield of his body.
The dead silence—punctuated only by the flicker of flames—extended to well past uncomfortable.
Sir Hugh stood stone still. Too still. As if he were waiting to pounce. Arthur watched him like a hawk, waiting for the first sign of movement. Hell, he hoped for it, wanting the excuse.
“I heard a cry,” Sir Hugh finally said. “I thought you might be hurt.” The proud knight’s face twisted with disgust, contempt dripping from his voice. “But I guess you didn’t need rescue.”
Anna made a sound of pain that tore at Arthur’s heart. Knowing he had to protect her from Sir Hugh’s anger, he turned and took her by the shoulders. “Go to your chamber,” he said roughly. She tried to protest, but he stopped her. “We will talk about this later. Right now I need to speak with Sir Hugh. Let me handle this.”
He looked into her eyes. She looked confused, horrified, and frightened at the same time, ready to burst into tears at any moment. It was hard for him to breathe. A knife of pain twisted in his heart. He’d done this to her. This was his fault.
He shook her gently, trying to get her to focus. “Anna, do you understand?”
She looked at him then, seeming so lost he almost dragged her into his arms again.
“It will be all right,” he promised, knowing that it wasn’t true. How could it ever be all right? Not only was he lying to her, but he’d just destroyed her chances of an alliance with Ross, and he knew how much that meant to her. She loved her family. Failing them … it would shatter her.
She nodded, and the look of utter trust she gave him lodged like a giant albatross in his chest. He was a bastard. A cold-hearted bastard. He’d never forgive himself for what he was doing to her. Anna didn’t deserve this. She deserved to be safe and protected, to have a happy home, a husband who loved her, and a half-dozen children clinging to her skirts.
He could never give that to her. All he would leave her with was a broken heart. He might not have taken her maidenhood, but when she learned the truth about him, he would have taken her innocence all the same.
Where desire had burned a moment ago, now there was only sorrow and pain.
Sir Hugh had not moved from his position in the doorway, but as Arthur ushered her out, he stepped to the side to let her pass. Feeling cornered in the small room himself, Arthur followed her out and into the solar. It wasn’t much larger, but at least he would have room to maneuver if necessary. Sir Hugh seemed eager for a fight, and Arthur was just as eager to give him one.
She glanced at him uncertainly once more before she left.
“Go,” he said gently, trying to reassure her. Her gaze flickered to Sir Hugh, and her face crumpled. The knight wouldn’t meet her eye, but animosity radiated from every proud, noble inch of him.
Arthur’s mouth thinned, wanting to kill the man for hurting her. Anna wasn’t to blame. This was his doing.
Jesus. The realization struck him. Had he wanted this? Had this been his intention all along?
He’d wanted to ruin her chance for an alliance.
Nay. Not this way. He hadn’t meant to push it so far.
But he’d overestimated his control and underestimated the intensity of his desire for her. Arthur was in too deep. He’d gotten too close, and it was only going to hurt them both.
“I should kill you,” Ross said when the door had closed behind her.
The knight was trying to stare him down, but Arthur met the challenge with his own. “Why don’t you?”
Ross’s gaze hardened. “Because then I would have to explain why.”
The certainty in his voice made Arthur smile. They were near the same age and evenly matched in height and muscle. But not in skill. Arthur would not be the one to die. Sir Hugh, however, didn’t know that. Then why …
Suddenly the reason came to him. “And you don’t want anyone to know that the lass humiliated you—twice. First in refusing your offer and then in being caught with another man right under your nose.”
The truth of his accusation was revealed on Ross’s face. It turned florid with anger, the white lines around his mouth sharp in contrast. “Did you defile her?”
Arthur’s jaw clenched. It was none of his damned business. He wanted to lie—to claim her as his own—but to salvage what he could of her reputation, he spoke the truth. “Nay.”
Sir Hugh’s eyes were cold. “But you would have had I not interrupted.”
Arthur shrugged as if the answer didn’t matter to him.
Ross took a step toward him, hand on his sword. “You bastard! You’re a knight. Have you no honor? She was betrothed—”
Arthur moved quickly. Using a maneuver he’d learned from Boyd, he knocked Ross’s arm, forcing him to release the grip of his sword, and then twisted the same arm behind his back, leveraging his own body weight against him. “Nay. Not betrothed.”
Ross instinctively tried to free himself, but his movements only increased the twisting—and thus the pain—in his arm.
“Close enough,” he bit out, his voice tight with pain. “I’ll kill you for this! Let go of me.”
“Not until we reach an understanding about what happened here. I don’t want the lass hurt. She is not to blame.”
Wisely, Ross chose not to argue, but Arthur could see the rage in his eyes. He twisted harder, eliciting a grunt of pain from the spitting-angry knight.
“Why did you come back here?”
Arthur asked.
“I heard a cry—”
“Bollocks,” Arthur cut him off. Unless Ross possessed senses akin to his, he hadn’t heard anything.
Ross eyed him murderously. Pained sweat seeped from his brow. “I saw you staring at her, and her trying too hard not to look back. I knew you’d follow us.”
Arthur swore. “So this was some kind of test?”
“I wasn’t going to be made a fool of. I’ll not marry a woman in love with another man. No matter how much I want to fu—”
Arthur twisted his arm harder. “Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t say it.”
Knowing he was damned close to breaking Ross’s arm, he pushed him harshly away. Ross was right about one thing—the less they had to explain, the better.
Ross exhaled, massaging the top of his arm and shoulder. But something in his eyes made Arthur wonder whether he’d just been tested again. Whether Ross’s crude remark had been uttered to elicit a reaction. If so, it had worked.
“You care for her,” Arthur said, realizing the truth. “This wasn’t just a political alliance to you.”
Ross didn’t respond by word or expression, but Arthur knew he was right. Hell, he almost felt sorry for the bastard. “But you know what brought her here?”
Having restored the feeling to his arm, Ross had turned to watching him suspiciously. “Aye. For support against Bruce. I hoped to win her hand without it.”
Arthur’s gaze shot to his, comprehension dawning. “Your father has no intention of sending men with or without the betrothal, does he?” Ross didn’t need to respond. Damn. Arthur felt like killing him all over. “You let her believe …”
Ross shrugged.
Devious bastard. Hell, Arthur might have admired his determination if it wasn’t Anna he’d been manipulating.
“We’ll leave as soon as it can be arranged. After you inform Anna and Sir Alan of what you just told me.”
The other man scoffed. “And why in Hades would I do that?”
Arthur took a threatening step toward him. To Ross’s credit, he didn’t move. But Arthur could see the wariness in his eyes. “Because I don’t want to see her hurting any more than she already is. And despite what happened here, I don’t think you want that either.”
They looked at each other a moment, and then Ross nodded. Arthur started to leave.
“Campbell.” He turned, seeing Ross gripping his injured shoulder again. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
Arthur’s mouth curved wryly. “Do this right, and maybe one day I’ll tell you.”
Anna wiped her hands on her skirts and tried to calm the nausea threatening to rise in her stomach as she scanned the crowd of clansmen who’d gathered in the Great Hall to break their fast.
Unconsciously, she found herself looking for Arthur, as if seeing his face would give her some much-needed courage. When she didn’t find him seated among her brother’s men, she told herself not to worry. It was still early. He’d sent a serving lad to her room last night to tell her everything had been taken care of and not to worry.
Not to worry. As if such a thing were possible after what had happened. His thoughtful message might not have eased her restless night, but it was appreciated. At least she didn’t need to fear one of them dead or lying in a pit prison somewhere.
She took a deep breath, forced her shoulders back, her chin up, and stepped into the Hall.
Her leg buckled it was shaking so hard, and her heart fluttered like the wings of a bird against the cage of her ribs. Every instinct screamed to flee, but she forced her feet forward.
The blood of kings ran through her blood. She was a MacDougall, not a coward.
Though she’d wanted nothing more than to hide in her chamber, curled up in a ball, and pretend none of this had ever happened, it had. At the very least, she owed Sir Hugh an apology.
When she thought of what she’d done …
Her stomach twisted. Shame washed over her. Not for succumbing to Arthur—she wasn’t ashamed of the passion that lay between them—but for failing her family and horribly misusing Sir Hugh in the process. He hadn’t deserved that. The proud knight had treated her with nothing but kindness. It wasn’t his fault she was in love with another.
Love. Even as she weighed the enormous gravity of what she’d done, a tiny ray of happiness peeked out from behind the clouds of despair. She loved him. And he cared for her—he must.
But that spot of joy in her heart only made her feel guiltier. In finding love, she’d failed her family. How could she ever forgive herself? She’d ruined everything. Her father and clan would stand alone against Robert Bruce. There would be no alliance after what Sir Hugh had witnessed last night.
Her cheeks heated at the memory—at what he must think of her.
Harlot. Whore.
She half-expected to hear the jeers as she crossed the Hall to her seat on the dais beside the man she’d wronged. But her entrance caused no unusual comment. The earl and countess greeted her with their normal pleasantries—as did their son, when she took her seat beside him.
She forced herself to eat, though each mouthful of food added to the queasiness tumbling around in her stomach. As the meal stretched on, her anxiety only grew worse.
The brief good humor she’d glimpsed in Sir Hugh yesterday was—not surprisingly—gone. He sat stiffly beside her, too proud and engrained with knightly chivalry to completely ignore her, but coming close. She was grateful for the presence of Hugh’s sister on his other side, and Ross’s henchman beside her, to break up the awkward periods of silence.
Anna knew she had to say something but didn’t know how to broach the subject in so public a setting. She was still waiting for the right opportunity, when Sir Hugh rose from the table and excused himself.
“Wait!” She flushed, feeling a few eyes turn in her direction and realizing she’d spoken a touch too loudly.
Sir Hugh glanced down at her, giving her his full attention for the first time. He waited for her to finish while she tried not to squirm.
“I …” She said the first thing that came to her, wishing she’d done this earlier, when other people weren’t so obviously listening. “It’s a lovely morning. If you aren’t too busy, I thought you might show me around the castle as you promised.”
He’d made no such promise, and it would serve her right if he said as much, showing her pretense to get him alone as exactly that.
His eyes held her, and for a moment, she thought he meant to deny her. But his knightly sensibilities apparently won out. He bowed and extended his hand. “It would be my pleasure, my lady.”
As she’d done a few short but significant hours before, she allowed him to lead her out of the hall. If he was aware of the speculative whispers that followed them, he didn’t show it.
This time when they reached the end of the corridor, he led her outside into the yard. There were plenty of people bustling about—soldiers practicing and guarding the gates, servants attending to their duties, and a steady stream of clansmen passing through the gate—but no one paid them too much attention.
“Is there anything in particular you would like to see?” he asked.
She gave him a sidelong glance from under the veil of her lashes, hearing the dryness in his voice. He knew it had been an excuse—and a weak one at that. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I needed to talk to you.” She stopped and looked at him fully. “I must apologize for what happened last night.”
His mouth hardened, and her nerve faltered.
But she had to do this. Her clenched fingers bit into her palms. She couldn’t manage a deep breath, so she burst out, “I can offer no excuses, other than to say how dreadfully sorry I am.”
He held her gaze for a moment, and then nodded. She thought he would turn and leave her there, but surprisingly he led her to a quiet spot along the rampart, overlooking the bailey and the town of Nairn beyond.
It was windy, and she had to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear. But aft
er the long night of darkness, the bright sunshine on her face was rejuvenating.
“Do you love him?”
Anna startled. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say, but it certainly wasn’t that. Sir Hugh didn’t seem like a man to hold much value or give much credence to romantic love. He seemed far too cold and practical for that.
But he deserved the truth. “Aye,” she said softly.
“But you would have married me to secure additional men for your father?”
When he put it like that it suddenly seemed wrong, though marriage and duty went hand in hand—it was love that didn’t matter. “Aye.” The desperateness of the situation rose in her chest. She pleaded with him, trying to make him understand. “Don’t you see? The only way to fight the rebels is for us to stand together. If our clans join forces, we can defeat the usurper. Alone we risk defeat.”
If her words held any sway, he did not show it. His expression remained stern and implacable, as he studied her face.
It was strange. Now that there was no hope of a betrothal between them, her fear and nervousness seemed to have vanished.
“You can absolve yourself of guilt, Lady Anna.”
She blinked at him questioningly, shielding the sun with her hand to see him more clearly.
His mouth twisted in an odd grimace. “My father had no intention of sending men to Lorn.”
She gasped in surprise. “But the betrothal. You let me believe …”
He shrugged unrepentantly.
A spike of anger cut through her guilt. “And when did you plan to tell me this?”
“You would have found out soon enough.”
“After we announced our betrothal?”
He met the accusation in her eyes without flinching. “Perhaps.”
“But why?”
He seemed to purposefully misunderstand her question. “We don’t have men to spare. Bruce will be coming after us as well, and when he does …” His voice drifted off in the wind. “King Robert has grown too powerful. Our allies have deserted us. The Comyns, the MacDowells, the English. My father has much too much to lose.”