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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

GRISELDA SENT WORD to 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.

“Must you go to England, that is, milady.”

“Pardon?” Margot shifted her gaze to Nell. She was wringing the kid gloves Knox had given Margot for riding. Margot reached for them, gently removing them from Nell’s grip.