Why had she let Marcus touch her? When he left for London, she had counted on him being away longer than seven days and intended on being gone before he returned. Given enough time, Cameron would have seen her confinement for the prison sentence it was. She had planned on approaching him with care. When he thought she had been wronged by Margaret, he understood her desire to leave. An out-and-out demand for release, however, would be viewed with suspicion. After all, why would a woman with only fifty pounds to her name and no place to go want to leave?
She finished the second half of the scone. If she had listened to her head and not her heart and had shunned Marcus… Elise gave a mirthless laugh. She hadn't—and now she had to deal with him while searching for the secret passage Winnie had spoken of.
She reached for another scone, then decided to take some to her room. She found a cloth napkin in the cabinet and wrapped two scones. Male voices sounded in the direction of the great hall as she had folded the napkin's last flap.
Elise cocked an ear. They approached from the hall leading from the main entrance. Scooping up the scones, she froze at sound of a familiar laugh. Marcus. She tightened her hold on the tartan and darted through the kitchen door toward the stairs but was still half a dozen steps from the concealment offered by the staircase when the men burst into the room. Their laughter ceased.
Marcus's "Good evening, lass. What mischief brings you to the great hall tonight?" stopped Elise. She gripped the tartan more tightly about her throat and turned, lifting her hand to display the wrapped scones.
The men looked at the proffered scones and burst into laughter. She began to relax, then caught sight of Marcus's intense gaze.
The colors of the throw Elise wore dissolved in Marcus's mind in a blur of red and blue to the memory of her lying alongside him in the ivy. He felt again her body as she trembled beneath his hand, the moist heat of her—
"Good night, gentlemen," she said.
Marcus jerked his attention back to her as she turned to the staircase and started up. He brushed past his comrades and hurried after her. She paused midway up the staircase and looked over her shoulder. He continued forward and she hurried up the stairs and down the corridor to her bedchamber door where she whirled to face him.
"Marcus, perhaps—"
He leaned forward, his shoulder brushing hers as he reached around her and pushed open the door. The door swung wide and he cupped her bottom, lifting her from the floor. She squeaked and threw her arms around his neck, dropping the plaide and the scones. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and took the final steps to the bed. He fell atop her on the soft mattress.
"I need you," he whispered.
The spicy scent of clean bed linen met his nostrils as he kissed her. The fire crackled and it seemed the heat in his blood ignited in unison. Elise gripped his shoulders. The power in her hold belied the soft compliance of her lips. Marcus ended the kiss.
He rose to his knees and pulled her up and off the bed with him. He tugged the straps of her night rail down over her shoulders, forcing her arms down so that the garment skimmed along her body and pooled at her feet. His heart hammered. At last, she willingly stood before him, soft curves his to touch, her charms his to take. He forced back the need to crush her beneath him and pound into her heat with all the force in his body and drew her into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder. He held her quietly until the pounding in his ears dulled to a low roar, then bent and brushed his lips across hers.
When Marcus lifted his head, he held her gaze as he rotated his hips against her. Uncertainty played across her face. She dropped her lashes at the second, more ardent grinding of his arousal against her mound. He stepped back and she looked up in surprise. He raked his gaze over her, then brought his attention back to her face. A furious blush crept up her cheeks.
He unbuttoned his shirt and dropped the garment on the floor. His left boot followed, then the right, leaving him standing in nothing but his kilt. Marcus studied her as he removed his belt and let it, along with the kilt, fall to the floor. The belt buckle clinked on the stone, but Elise's eyes remained fixed on his face. He took the few steps to her and, grasping her wrist, gently brought her hand to his shaft. Her gaze jerked down to where he firmly held her. He wrapped her fingers around him and nearly came to his knees at the cool feel of her fingers against his pounding heat.
"Do I frighten you, lass?" he asked.
Her head snapped up. "No."
Marcus gave a hoarse laugh. Bloody hell, mayhap she wasn't afraid, but he was. He picked her up and carried her to the bed. Placing her on the mattress, he lay down beside her. He ignored the hammering in his head and ran a shaky finger along her arm.
"I'll be gentle," he said.
She frowned. "I won't break."
"Nay, love," he agreed. "But compared to me, you are naught but a feather."
Elise sat upright. "I am no porcelain doll to be kept on a shelf."
Marcus opened his mouth to deny the implication but stopped. "Is that how your husband treated you?"
A long silence drew out.
"You cannot compare me to him," Marcus finally said. "I'm no fool."
She blinked, then rolled to her side and started toward the edge of the bed.
"Nay." Marcus grabbed her.
"You can leave now." She twisted as he yanked her back.