Page 72 of Wild Wicked Scot
“Then take yourself from my sight. That is what I ask.”
“Oh God,” she said behind him. “Please don’t—”
He jerked around, forcing her hands off him. “What did you possibly think would come of your betrayal, Margot?”
She was on her knees in the middle of his bed, the wrap slipping from her shoulders. “I’m so very sorry, Arran. For everything. For leaving you. For—”
“Why did you read them?” he suddenly roared, his frustration with her exploding around them.
Margot anxiously rubbed the palms of her hands against her knees. “Why didn’t you send them? Why didn’t you say those things to me?”
He snorted. “Would it have made a bloody bit of difference?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I honestly don’t know. But it makes a difference now. I realize what a horrible, wretched mistake I made then.”
“Aye, that you did,” he said flatly.
“I want to make it up to you,” she said, reaching for him. Arran suddenly stood, moving away from her touch, and her hand fell to the bed. “I will do whatever it takes—I will beg your forgiveness.”
Arran laughed ruefully. “Forgiveyou? I can scarcely stand the sight of you,leannan.”
Margot scrambled off the bed and walked to where he stood. He tried to avoid her, but she matched his step, put her hands on his chest. “Maybe you will never forgive me. I understand. But I will die trying to set it to rights, Arran.”
He tried to turn away, but she caught his head in her hands. “Don’t give up on me!” she begged him. “You’ve kept your hope all this time. Please don’t let go of it now.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him.
Her touch, her kiss, was his undoing. It was always his undoing. He was burning inside with all the anger and disappointment he felt. He wanted for this all to be a bad dream, but the burn in him wouldn’t let him believe it. There were flames licking at his head and his heart, angry lustful flames.
He yanked the plaid from her shoulders and filled one hand with her breast. That didn’t satisfy him—he grabbed fistfuls of chemise, dragging it up until he held the flesh of her hip in his hand, squeezing it, kneading it. He pushed her back, kept pushing until she was against the bed, and then pushed her down. She landed on her back, her gaze devouring him. She was aroused by his frustration with her.
So was he.
The fire in him began to rage out of control; monstrous desire had erupted and there was no turning back. Arran yanked at his clothes, removing them, then pulling her free of the cotton chemise so that his hands could feel her warm, scented flesh, his mouth could taste her, his eyes could consume the curves and lines of the powerful potion that was the woman’s body.
His hands and mouth moved on her, sucking here, nipping there, his thoughts drinking from the well of lust. Margot groaned with pleasure, fanning the flames burning through him. He felt her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat, the heat of arousal, the wet slide of her body as he moved between her legs. She was panting, her legs open to him now, her hands moving so deftly over him, swirling around his thickness, cupping him, urging him to enter her.
He was lost, he was beyond hope, and he surged into her. She closed her legs around him and wildly sought his mouth as he moved in her, their tongues matching the rhythm of their bodies. Her hands flitted across his temples, his shoulders, his neck.
Arran never wanted to stop, never wanted this moment to end. He was almost delirious with the fever in him now, moving hard and long, striving to free himself from his tattered confidence, his waning faith, his fear of what was coming.
When at last his fury exploded into a rain of sparks, and Margot cried out with the ecstasy of it, Arran felt himself fading back to his windless self, the storm in him settling into smoother waters. He slowly removed his body from hers and rolled onto his back. “God help me,” he said breathlessly.
Margot draped her arm over his middle, kissed his back. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Arran had to think about that. He covered her arm with his own, felt the comfort of having her there beside him nudging in beside the unease. “Forgive you? I donna know. But I will never trust you.”
He heard her small sigh. She rolled away onto her side, her back to him.
The warmth of her body quickly dissipated in the coolness of the night, and Arran rolled onto his side, too, and shrouded himself in his mistrust of her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GRISELDASENTWORDto Margot at noon the next day that she was prepared to begin her riding lessons. The word arrived with a bundle of clothing that consisted of a pair of brown trews, a woolen coat and a lawn shirt that she was instructed to don.
“I can’t wear this!” Margot said, horrified at the pieces as Nell held them up.
“Must you go at all, milady?” Nell asked.
“Unfortunately, yes, I must,” Margot said, annoyed with Griselda for the clothing. She meant to humiliate her, surely. It would take more than this—Margot had been brought too low in the last twenty-four hours. “I shan’t be gone long,” she said, studying the trews.
