Page 36 of The Forest Bride
“What are you doing?” She sank lower.
“Being considerate. Just leaving a towel and clothing for you.” He dropped the things to the floor. She stretched an arm out and down, fingers flexing.
“I cannot reach. Hand me a linen please. Then will you leave?”
When he lifted the toweling, she snatched it so fast the cloth trailed in the bathwater. She tucked the wet, translucent fabric over the high curves of her breasts. Another quick, inadvertent glimpse made his blood run hotter.
“Here.” He handed her another cloth.
“Thank you. Go, please. Send Effie here when she is done in the kitchen.”
“Euphemia MacArthur is not a servant. She is a friend.”
“Then I apologize. I thought her a housekeeper or suchlike.” She raked fingers through her hair, water trickling over her shoulders. “I need to get out now.”
“I will wait. Tell me when you are ready.” He turned to face the door, taking a sidestep so she could see his back.
He heard splashing as she stood, heard a foot meet the floor softly, then another, and finally, cloth rustling.
“There,” she said after a few moments.
He turned. The blue dress draped in generous folds on her tall and slender frame, dragging on the floor, its neckline slipping off one shoulder. The silver chain gleamed on her damp neck, its pendant hidden beneath the bodice. Her hair, dark and wet, trailed in ripples to her waist. Duncan breathed againstanother surge; the woman affected him despite all. He had never been able to distance himself from the memory of her, and now she was two strides away, grown and womanly.
“Lady Margaret.”How well I remember you, he wanted to say.How beautiful you have become.He kept his gaze steady on hers.
“Sir Duncan.” She lifted her chin, her neck long and graceful, her attitude clear in the tight lips, flared nostrils, hooded glance. Defiant, indignant.
Duncan pondered what to say, where to begin. Should he apologize? Tell her he had always cared for her? He stood silent. Then she touched her shoulder with a little wincing frown. “How is the shoulder? The knee?”
“Both will heal. What do you want of me, Duncan Campbell? Brechlinn, they call you now? Laird of Brechlinn and Justiciar of the North? And you been here all this time, and never let us know you were whole and well? No apologies?”
“Apologies?” He frowned; she read him too easily. “Why the disguise, Margaret Keith? I thought you a lad at the archery butts.” He did not mention that his first glimpse of the red-haired lass in the crowd had left him stunned, and somehow relieved.
“I thought you were dead. Clearly not.”
So that rumor had reached the Keiths. “I was a prisoner for years. I escaped with others—a long story. And I heard you entered a convent. You do not look like a nun to me. We can discuss all that later.”
“To what point? It is done between us.”
“At the moment, we have a more pressing matter between us. Why did you shoot Sir John Menteith?”
“An accident. I told you that. Though it could turn out to be a blessing.”
“Not for him.”
She huffed. He could not take his gaze from her. He wanted to drink in her vibrant presence here, let himself feel simple joy in that. He wanted to take in her wild beauty—she had matured into a desirable woman. And he wanted to understand what stirred now in his heart, the feelings he had locked up with regret and rumor. But his innate reserve, the ordeal of the last years, and the need to protect his secrets had given him the habit of wariness.
“You spoke of a missing girl. Tell me more,” he said.
Thoughts flickered through her green eyes. He sensed she was torn somehow. “I shot Menteith by accident. Truly. But if it delays him, all the better. You see, I believe he has Bruce’s daughter.”
“Bruce’s daughter.” He waited.
“Aye. You cannot keep me here,” she said urgently. “I must find her.”
“Is it your responsibility?”
“Aye!!”
