His other thoughts were equally troubling—especially when he recognized the young woman in his arms. Having lustful thoughts about Bella MacDuff now MacRuairi’s daughter shamed him. But Christ, the lass was even more stunning than he remembered (and old enough for him to notice, as opposed to the last time he’d seen her). With her dark-as-midnight long, wavy, and naughtily mussed hair, her wide, red mouth, snow-white skin, and take-me-to-the-bedchamber-and-ravish-me-senseless eyes, the lass was sin and sensual pleasure personified.

It didn’t help that she looked like she’d just tumbled out of bed. She was wearing a dressing gown, for Christ’s sake, and the soft, sensual, barely covered womanly curves had been crushed against his chest. He would have had to be a eunuch not to have been affected by such intimate and not-much-separating-them contact with a body divined for pleasure. Generous breasts, a dainty waist, slender hips, long legs perfect to wrap around . . .

He stopped. What the hell was wrong with him?

He knew exactly what was wrong with him, and it was bloody inconvenient to be reminded of it right now. Hell, he usually had better control. He always had better control.

But then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been alone in a dark stairwell with a beautiful, scantily clad woman in his arms in the middle of the night. Actually, as he realized that had never occurred before, he probably could be excused for the inappropriate direction of his thoughts and the swift reaction of his body.

Both of which vanished, however, when he realized she was hurt.

“My lady?” he asked when she didn’t respond to his question right away. She was looking at him so strangely. Almost as if she knew him. Had she noticed him all those years ago? He hoped not. God knows, any connection to the Guard could be disastrous for him. King Edward would be furious that he’d kept such information from him and would demand to know their secrets and their identities. Alex may have left the Guard, but that was a betrayal he could not stomach.

“Nay,” she said hurriedly, lowering her gaze from his. “There is nothing wrong. I just realized I do not know who I should thank for saving me from a lot more than a twisted ankle.”

“Alex Seton at your service, my lady,” he said with a surprisingly lighthearted bow. He didn’t usually go out of his way to charm young ladies—actually he usually avoided them—but he wanted to put her at ease.

Her mouth quirked, catching on to his game. “Lady Joan Comyn, Sir Alex. I would curtsey, but I’m afraid you might have to catch me again if I tried.”

Just how much he wouldn’t mind holding her again surprised him—as did the resulting wave of heat that coursed through his blood at the thought.