At present, however, she had begun to move on his cock, her eyes the color of a warm summer sea now. She leaned over him and said, “Do you find me haughty now?”

“Uist,” he said, silencing her, and began to move more earnestly inside her. He watched her face this time. She’d seen the naked truth in him the first time they’d come together tonight, and this time, he was looking for something, anything, to inform him. But Arran was soon swept under by the ecstasy of her body, of the pleasure of a woman’s touch, of the desire that had been buried for three years. In the midst of it, when her hair formed a curtain around them, in the low light of the hearth, he saw an unexpected glimmer in her eyes.

He saw sorrow. Sorrow.

For him? For their marriage? For herself?

Their lovemaking had at last exhausted them both, and he fell asleep, wondering.

Early in the morning, Arran had to extract himself from her limbs—she’d rolled into him, tangling herself around him.

It was not yet dawn, so he washed with the cold water of the basin in an adjoining room and dressed. When he returned to the bedchamber, Margot hadn’t moved. She was sound asleep, her face deceivingly angelic. He glanced around the clutter of his chamber. Margot had brought nothing other than her clothes last night. He’d send her maid to dress her.

He walked to his chest, retrieved the vellum from beneath his gloves, tucked it into his waistcoat and then stepped out of the room.

There was a sleeping, slack-jawed lad sprawled just outside his door on a cloak. Jock had put him there, probably fearing Margot intended to cut his laird’s throat. Arran couldn’t help but smile at that—Jock trusted the English and women even less than he. He nudged the lad with his boot, and the young man came up like a shot, his eyes wide with sleep and fear.

“Milord,” he said.

“Go to your bed now. The lady is sleeping.”

The lad picked up his cloak and stumbled clumsily down the hall.

Arran walked down the hall to his study. It was a small room, the original purpose lost. He liked that it adjoined his dressing room. He sat himself at a desk stacked with papers and books, shipping ledgers and the household accounts. He’d been hard at work of late, preparing for a voyage that would take him to France to trade wool for cloth and wine, which he would then ferry to Ireland to sell or trade for leather goods.

Fergus appeared at the door of his study, looking bleary-eyed, his thinning hair in complete disarray. “Will you break your fast, laird?”

“Aye,” he said. “I’ll have it here. Send Jock to me when he comes.”