Page 47 of The Forest Bride
“Thank you,” she said in a whispered rush of relief. “Can we ride out?”
“I do not trust the man. And I agree that what you say may be possible. But Sir John is an officer appointed by Edward to uphold Scottish and English law, just as I am. I have to consider that until I know more.”
“You say you do not trust him. Do you know him well?”
“We were captured at Dunbar and held together with others—our friend the Earl of Lennox, Sir Constantine. Sir Andrew Murray too. I know Menteith all too well.”
“Then why hold back? We can accuse him now. Taking Lilias is treason.”
“Which means I must be very careful how I approach this. And—” he paused, “I have some matters here at Brechlinn that must be protected at all costs. If this goes wrong, I could lose all that. Menteith—is not a forgiving sort. Which is why I brought you here.”
She nodded, grateful. This time with him was a revelation. Something had shifted within her, as if she had crossed a bridge that spanned the past to this exact moment.
Drawing a breath, she leaned a little toward him, her shoulder brushing his arm, part apology, part plea. Feeling shy, a little uncertain but wanting so much to take the risk of it, she nudged him. A step toward peace, forgiveness. She was not sure what. But she wanted, desperately just then, to cross the distance between them.
In silence, he set an arm around her shoulders. Another step, a gesture they both needed. His body felt warm, solid, his strength palpable. She glanced up at his aquiline features in the shadows, the dark brows and long-lidded eyes, the fine arch of the nose, the mouth’s tenderness in a lean masculine face.
“Would we solve this problem of Lilias and then go our ways?” she asked.
“I hope it is that simple.”
“I see.” She was not sure what he meant by that. A powerful urge to mark this moment before he left, before the distance between them opened up again. “Can I—give you something? Before you go.”
His arm light on her shoulders, he moved back to look at her. “What is that?”
She leaned toward him quickly and touched his bristled jaw, the beard like fine sand over his skin, and raised her face. He leaned down and she kissed his lips. Soft yet firm, warm and supple, his mouth moved over hers. He broke away.
“Lass—”
“I used to dream about—well, it is done. I just wanted to do that. Take it as my apology.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. You dreamed about us?”
“Sometimes.”
A little exhale. “I was a lout then. A fool.”
“I was a fool too. But later, even when I thought you dead, I still—” She stopped, feeling a hot blush rise, not sure she was ready to admit her feelings.
“Still what?” His hand rubbed her shoulder affectionately, like a friend. If it were to be over, she could be honest.
“I—I wanted to love you.” It was perhaps the most difficult thing she had ever admitted to anyone. “I suppose I loved theideaof you. And I was sad you were gone, and I did not want to let that go.”
His fingers stilled. He was silent.
She could not look at him. “You should leave. The past is the past, but I understand better now. And you have your secrets and I will not ask. I only ask your help in one matter. And I hope—I hope you will do that for me.”
“Margaret.” He paused. “I felt a trace—of that too. Feelings that stayed with me. Guilt. Regret that I hurt you. And more,” he murmured. “But it has been ten years, and life has become quite complicated.”
“I know.” She smiled, anticipating the refusal again, yet she felt something powerful, sudden, billow warm through her. Compassion, forgiveness. Love.
She surged toward him, looping her arms around his neck, wanting for one moment here in this cocoon, to grab her countless dreams before he left, and the sun rose, and everything changed again. Pressing her lips to his, she drew back.
But he pulled her to him, slipping his hands along her jaw. He tilted her head back and kissed her in a way that she had not dared to kiss him. Her simple kiss took on a force, a fervor, that drove through her body, swirled, heated. With a soft moan, she curved to him, slid her hands into the thick silk of his hair. He stirred another kiss, tender at first, then lightning.
He pulled her into his arms, turning her across his body, kissing her again. A fiery sense stirred in her, like the euphoric punch of releasing a perfect arrow—or the wild delight of a dream coming true—
But he straightened away, brought her up to sit. “Sorry. That was not well done.”
