with every one of his thrusts. Lara fought not to surrender, but her body betrayed her. Under his expert control, he drew her moans and took her to the height of excitement. She felt him grow larger and harder and then, as his body tensed over her, she lost any ability to think at all. She could only feel—feel him filling her, feel herself thrumming with pleasure, feel her loss of control as she reached for what he offered. Matching his groan, she let go and followed where he led. He filled her with his seed and then they collapsed together, out of breath and covered in the sweat and smell of passion.
Minutes passed and neither spoke as their breathing returned to what it should be. Unsure now of what to do or say, Lara simply waited for him to move off her. It was the knock on her door that spurred him into action.
“Sebastien, ’tis time.” A man’s deep voice carried through the door to them.
Sebastien said nothing in response, but he rolled away from her and stood next to the bed. He tugged the ends of the top sheet from under the thick mattress and wiped himself off on it. Lara felt the heat of a blush in her cheeks at the sight of her blood on his member, but his next action completely surprised her.
He eased her legs apart and cleaned up the maiden’s blood and spent seed from between her thighs. He would not meet her gaze. Mayhap he was sparing her embarrassment of such a task? Once he finished wiping her, he held out her robe to her and helped her from the bed. Pulling his own robe back on, he tugged on the sheet until it came free, and carried it to the door of her chamber. She watched in horror as he opened the door halfway and handed the bloodied sheet to the man outside.
“Show this downstairs to those who must see it and then take it immediately to the Bruce. Tell him it is the Maid of Lorne’s blood, shed by me as he ordered.”
Shock and humiliation filled her even as she still felt the remnants of pleasure’s grip. She had not mattered to him. Even as he worked her body for the desired response, he had not been thinking of her, but of his king and his orders. As she betrayed her clan with her surrender to passion in his arms, he had used her to complete a mission from his king.
The gentleness he had shown her was simply a means to an end, and she had been beguiled by his soft words and touches. Pulling herself to stand, she wrapped her robe around her and picked up the belt from the ground where it lay. He stood near the door watching her, but he refused to meet her gaze. Finally, his words broke the silence.
“I will wait dinner for you in the hall. Get dressed and join me there.”
Then he was gone and the sound of the door closing released her from her reverie. Even as she collapsed on the floor and sobbed for all that had been lost that day, she vowed to herself that she would not fail her people again.
Chapter Three
Not one to prevaricate once he’d made a decision, Sebastien surprised himself by standing outside the bedchamber door and wondering if he’d handled things well enough. Orders, especially from his king, were orders, in spite of the fact that many times the Bruce allowed him to decide the method of implementation.
When innocents were involved, Sebastien preferred guile over bloodshed, seduction over force and negotiations over murder. When facing his enemies, there were no such alternatives. When dealing with women outside his bed, no rules or reason seemed to work.
Now, listening to the sobbing inside the chamber, Sebastien knew he would not be able to handle his wife in the same manner as he had handled everyone in his life before this day.
Leaning back against the cold stone wall, he remembered the moment of her surrender. In an instant he’d felt her resistance melt away and her stiff body soften under his hands and mouth. Knowing she was untried and nervous, he’d used his experience against her innocence, and bedded her without force. Consummating the marriage was no chore and had brought both of them pleasure, so why did it weigh on his mind so much now?
Shaking off this introspection, Sebastien nodded to the guard posted at the door and walked back toward the chamber that he was using on a temporary basis. A form separated from the shadows in the corner of the corridor and he tensed for a moment. Then he recognized the red-haired young woman as Lara’s maid.
“Sir,” she said, nodding her head in an unsuccessful attempt at obeisance. Anger flashed in her dark eyes as she met his gaze, and showed in the set of her chin. Anger?
“What is your name?” He stepped closer, forcing her to look up at him. He was a master at this game.
“Margaret,” she said. No “sir” this time.
Did she not realize the precarious position she was in? He held her life and the lives of everyone in this keep in his hands and could order her death at any moment. Then he noticed that her own hands, clasped tightly before her, trembled slightly. Good. She was worried.
“What do you want, Margaret?”
Before she could speak, an older woman reached her side and then moved to stand in front of her, as if to protect the maid from him. The sound of running followed, and a moment later, his man François rounded the corner and stopped before him.
“Your pardon, sir,” he began, out of breath from hurrying. “I did not realize this one had slipped from the hall.”
François took hold of Margaret’s arm and tugged her away, obviously intent on dragging her back to where Sebastien had ordered all of Lara’s people to stay. Another guard arrived, took hold of the other woman and awaited his orders.
“I would see my lady,” Margaret called out to him, struggling with François and slipping from his grasp. “Sir, I beg you…”
Somehow he knew the cost of her words, and he held up his hand to halt his men. The two women moved closer and Sebastien waited for their explanation.
“I would see my lady,” Margaret repeated.
“You will see her, girl. She will arrive in the hall for the meal in a short time.”
He had not thought that faces could pale as quickly as theirs did then. All of the color in their cheeks drained and they looked at each other in dread.
“Who are you and why are you here against my orders?” he asked, pointing at the older one.
“I am called Gara, sir.” She showed the wisdom of her age and bowed her head to him. “I served the MacDougalls as a healer, sir.” She raised her head and gazed at him, but did not challenge him as the maid had.
A healer? Now he saw their purpose and their mistake.
“The lady needs no healer, Gara. Go back and take this one with you to await Lara’s arrival in the hall.”
Margaret broke free at that moment and ran to him. Slamming her fists ineffectually against his chest, she cried out, “Is it not enough that you have shamed her before her people? Must you now add to her humiliation by forcing her to face them before her blood on that sheet is even dried?”
François reached her before she could say anything else, grabbed her by her hair and forced her to her knees on the floor. Sebastien looked at Gara and knew now what they thought had happened. Startled by Margaret’s words and her vehemence, he first thought to explain, but realized he owed them nothing. He was the victor here, not they.
“Release her,” he ordered. “Go back to the hall now.”
When the maid looked as though she would argue, Gara grabbed her arm and pulled her along the corridor, whispering harshly as they moved.
“I want no other MacDougalls in this tower, François. Not without my orders.”
His men bowed and retraced their path away from him. Alone once more, he turned back to his chamber and entered it. It took no more than a few minutes for him to ready himself for the meal—his only clean surcoat and mail replaced the robe, which had been a gift from the Bruce. A warrior did not have many wardrobe choices and his trunks had not yet caught up to him. His squire, Philippe, fretted over him and