Brenda Joyce by A Rose in the Storm Page A

well.”
    Peg seized her hand. “Forget he is the enemy. He is big and handsome—think about that!”
    Margaret wished she could, but she could not. As she walked to the door she thought about her uncle Buchan. After what she meant to do, she would probably be sent to a nunnery for the rest of her life. But she had to save her people.
    Margaret opened her door and the guard leapt to his feet. “I wish a word with Alexander,” she said with what dignity she could muster. And ignoring any response he might mean to make, as well as his surprise, she walked over to the Wolf’s open door.
    He was standing in the center of the chamber, and he had just shed his boots and sword belt. The latter hung on the back of the room’s single chair; the boots were on the floor. He stood barefoot on a fur rug—the stone floors were freezing cold in winter—and he turned to face her, his hands on his waist belt.
    Margaret had paused in the doorway. As their eyes met, his gaze did not even flicker, he was so still—and so watchful.
    She knew she flushed—her cheeks felt warm. Did he know what she intended?
    The bedchamber was strikingly silent now. She stepped inside, aware that he was watching her with the kind of care one reserved for the enemy, and that he hadn’t said a word in response to her appearance.
    Margaret closed the door. Then she turned back to the Wolf. “Are you well fed, my lord? Have you had enough to drink?”
    He began to smile, now unfastening his belt and tossing it aside, onto the bed. As he did, Margaret stared at the sheathed dagger on it.
    “Do ye really wish to play this game?” he asked softly. But his gaze had slipped to her mouth.
    He did want her, she thought, stunned. Peg had been right. “It is time for me to accept the fact that I am your prisoner, and in your care. We should not be rivals.” She thought she sounded calm—an amazing feat.
    His smile remained, and even as cynical as it was, it changed his hard face. Even she had to admit that he was a striking man. “And now ye wish fer my company?”
    “I wish to do what I must do to make my stay with you as pleasant as possible,” Margaret said tersely. There was no point in playing him for a fool—he was hardly that. But he might believe she had decided to make the best of their situation—and seek opportunity in her captivity, through a relationship with him.
    His smile vanished. “I despise liars, Lady Margaret.”
    His warning was clear. “I have never been a liar,” she said, and that was true—but she was certainly lying now. “I have had a few hours in which to think. I am your prisoner and entirely dependent upon you for my welfare. Only a very foolish woman would continue to fight you, my lord.”
    “So instead of fighting, ye come to my bed?”
    “Why is it so strange? You are master here, I was once the lady.”
    His stare had intensified. Margaret remained in front of the closed door, unmoving. Her heart was thundering so loudly that she thought he could hear it. He surely knew of the game she played; he surely knew how desperate and afraid she was.
    For a long moment, he did not speak. Then, “Yer no bawd.”
    How right he was. “I’m no bawdy woman, but I’m afraid, my lord,” Margaret said softly. “My uncle will be furious with me for losing the keep. So will Sir Guy. I need a protector.”
    “They will be more furious if they learn ye have slept in my bed.”
    He was so very right. But why was he making objections? Did he think to resist her? “They do not have to know.”
    He eyed her. “If ye stay here, everyone will know.”
    Margaret hadn’t thought this would be easy, but she had not expected him to object, nor could she fathom why he did not simply seize her, as most men would. She smiled tightly and walked past him to the bed.
    As she did, he turned, so he continued to face her, his gaze still wary and watchful.
    “I need a protector,” she said, her back to him. She untied her girdle, hoping he