There was a time he might have intimidated her into utter silence with such a predatory look, but Margot had changed. She wasn’t the inexperienced debutante anymore, and she knew how to fight back. She tilted her head and gave him an even sultrier smile. “Oh, but I have, Arran. I’m afraid you’ve seen through me—the truth is that the journey has left me quite fatigued.” She glanced surreptitiously about—she could see how people near them strained to hear. So she rose up on her toes and whispered, “I want very much to please you, my lord, but I really must rest to be especially pleasing.”

Arran’s gaze turned ferocious. It was full of lust and anger, and Margot’s pulse quickened with apprehension. He could kill her and no one here would say a word. No one in England would know for weeks, long after she’d turned to dust. He slid his arm around her waist and anchored her there, holding tight. “I think you misjudge your own strength, milady. Thank the saints that you’re a sturdy lass, aye? You’ll manage, I’ve no doubt.” He began to pull her through the hall, his grip on her unyielding.

“This is hardly necessary,” she said, struggling to keep up with his stride. “Naturally I assumed you’d be concerned for my welfare. But never mind—if you desire that I accompany you, then of course I shall. You need only ask.”

Arran stopped. He stepped away from her and bowed low. “My apologies, then,” he said. “By all means—I desire that you accompany me to my chambers. Now.” He gestured to the path in front of him, his jaw set, his eyes boring through hers. There was the hawk again, ready to swoop down and cart her off to be fed to his clan.

Speaking of which... Margot glanced over her shoulder. Necks were craning. Ears were pointed like dogs’ ears to them. All eyes were locked on the laird and his wife. That was the way it had always been at Balhaire—a perpetual audience to her marriage.

Margot sniffed. She nervously fingered a loose curl. She had no choice, really—she’d not have word going back to her father that she had been less than a dutiful wife on her first night at Balhaire. God only knew what he would do with her then.

So she lifted her chin, smiled sweetly and began to walk along the path he’d indicated. Arran was right beside her, his hand possessively on the small of her back, the expanse of it covering her waist. She was reminded of other moments when his hands were on more exposed parts of her body, and her stomach began to turn little somersaults.

“That’s a good lass,” Arran said into her ear, his voice trickling into her bloodstream. “Obedient and eager, just as a man’s wife ought to be.”