"Worry?" he repeated. "The Campbells meant harm, Elise. Did you think I would let them touch you?"
Her brow furrowed. He discerned the quick lift and fall of her breasts, the surprise—uncertainty perhaps? His body tightened. He realized the desire to take her with quick and hard actions.
"No," she replied.
He jarred from the erotic picture of her against the wall, him pressed between her legs. "Seeing you"—she faltered—"seeing them…" She shook her head, ending with a quiet, "It was strange."
"The Highlands are far more violent than Boston," he shot back.
She hesitated and his blood chilled when he realized it wasn't the violence of the Highlands that had startled her, but the violence in him. He felt anew the cut of his sword through Campbell flesh. He tensed, this time in fury.
"God damn bastards," he whispered, "they knew exactly what they were doing."
"What do you mean?"
He watched her carefully. "They knew when to attack—were aware of our weakness."
"Weakness?"
"Their attack coincided with the change of guard."
A tiny pause, then she said, "But that would mean—" She gasped. "That's not possible."
"Aye, 'tis not only possible, but true."
She shook her head vehemently. "I don't believe it."
The swirl of her hair, the tight-lipped determination, cut Marcus to the quick and he suddenly wished for nothing more than to hold her, to feel her heart beat against his chest as she slept in his arms. She fastened her gaze on him and he registered the lines of strain around her eyes.
"To bed," he said, and opened her bedchamber door. "And don't leave your room again this night."
She started to protest, but he shoved her inside and closed the door behind her. Marcus still gripped the handle. God damn it, he'd allowed his father's suspicions to poison his thoughts. Elise had been with Nell all evening. She wasn't the traitor… unless she had made those boot prints in the dungeon some time before tonight.
The following afternoon, Marcus entered his library to find Elise sitting in the chair before a low burning fire, looking just as he prayed he'd find her the night before. She jumped, the book she was clearly not reading sliding from her lap to the carpet.
He closed the door behind him. "You are the most unpredictable creature."
She bent to retrieve the book. "What have I done now?" She placed the book beside her on the chair.
Marcus walked to her and squatted beside the chair. He ran a finger down her arm. "Nothing, love. I'm preparing to leave for London and my mind is elsewhere." He smiled slightly. "It is my own shortcomings that plague me today. Not you."
Elise frowned. "Your shortcomings?"
He rose and strode to the sideboard "Never mind." He poured a drink. "It doesn't concern you."
A pause followed, then she said, "I think it does."
At her clipped tone, he looked over his shoulder. Her lips were pursed. Despite his mood, he smiled ruefully.
"I am no fool, Marcus MacGregor," she said.
He raised a brow.
"What shortcomings?" she demanded.
Marcus remained silent.
She shrugged. "I can easily find out."
He turned, leaving his drink untouched, and leaned against the sideboard. "How do you propose to do that?"
Elise slid him a sidelong glance. "Milord, do you think you are the only one with powers of persuasion?"
The sensual lift of her mouth startled him. He couldn't believe it. Was the little minx threatening to use her charms against him? A thrill reverberated deep within him. Lounging against the chair, she tipped her head back. His excitement grew as, closing her eyes, she reached back to tousle her hair. The locks cascaded in silken layers about her shoulders. Her fingers slid from her hair and along her throat. His body tightened when her fingertips skimmed the valley between her breasts. Her palms flattened across her belly, smoothing her dress, and finally came to rest in her lap. She toyed with him—but he wanted her. He commanded his gaze to break from the sultry picture, but his mind refused to comply.
Elise patted the tiny space on the seat beside her. "Come sit with me, milord."
Her use of "milord" tantalized him, despite the knowledge she used the title only when angry or mocking him. "Nay, lass. I think not."
"Afraid?" She gave a low laugh.
Confound the woman! She hadn't even bothered to open her eyes when addressing him.
"Not afraid, love," he replied. "Cautious."
"Ah, I see."
Aye, he was sure she did.
She stretched her legs in one fluid motion. She opened her eyes and, leaning forward, shook out her skirt, a flash of white chemise showing before the fabric settled about her. She rose and glided over to him.
"If you're not in the mood," she tugged the collar on his shirt, "we can discuss this later."
She smoothed his shirt with the same maddening slowness she had used when straightening her dress. When her fingers tucked his shirt into the waistband of his kilt, he yanked her to him.
"You're playing with fire," he said.
She gazed up at him. "Am I?"