Bride of the Black Scot by Elaine Coffman

instinctively
knew would destroy the beauty of what they had shared. As she gazed at him,
sadness swept over her. He was separate from her now. Distant. Withdrawn.
Alone.
    Had she been wrong to deny him his confession before he made
love to her?
    Taking her hand, he drew her to her feet and wrapped the
tartan around her before slipping into his own clothes.
    She felt suddenly chilled. “If you must tell me, then tell
me now. You will not rest until you do.”
    Even in the dim light, she could see the muscle in his jaw
work as he threw his head back and stared up at the sky. “I have misled you. I
am not the person you think I am. I had good reasons for deceiving you, but
they dinna seem verra important now.”
    Her heart seemed to stop. She stared at him with a look of
disbelief upon her face. She did not want to hear what he had to confess. She
did not want to believe what she suddenly knew was the truth.
    “Forgive me, lass. I am not who I claim to be.”
    “You are my betrothed,” she said. “You are the Black Scot.”
    “Aye,” he said, “but never have I been less proud of it.”
    “All along, it was you. I should have known from the
beginning…the way your men revere you…your fondness for wearing black…the
hundreds of hints you gave me along the way.”
    He took a step toward her. She backed away. “Stay away from
me,” she said. “You are both my heart’s desire and my terror. You watched me
fall in love with you, little by little, knowing the pain I suffered, when all
the time it was in your power to give me that which I most desired. You could
have eased my agony.”
    “I am sorry, love.”
    She knew that expression on his face, knew he wanted to come
to her, to comfort her, but something held him back. Perhaps it was the look
she gave him…the look that said he was not welcome.
    Not now.
    Perhaps not ever.
    She had done the unpardonable. She had thought herself
betrothed to one man while she had shamelessly thrown herself at another,
begging him to make love to her, in spite of all he did to dissuade her. Shame
and desire warred within her, and she turned away, her low voice filled with
anguish. “Too much,” she whispered. “There has been too much deception between
us. I cannot go on pretending it does not matter, for that would go against
everything I believe in. For above all else I respect honesty and abhor
deceit.”
    His look was soft, gentle. “It wasna your fault. I was the
one who wronged you, but if you will give me the chance, I will make it up to
you.”
    Her look was incredulous. “You cannot mean you expect me to
go through with this mockery of a marriage.”
    He gave her a dark look. “We just made love, Juliette. In
the eyes of God you are my wife already.”
    “I cannot marry you, Stephen. I want to return to England.”
    Stephen stood staring at her slender back, her bent head,
unable to believe her words. Return to England? Was she daft? He reached
for her, taking her by the arms, turning her around. She kept her gaze fastened
on the ground.
    “What did you say?” he asked.
    A horse nickered in the distance. The wind stirred the
trees. She looked at him, her face twisted with anguish, and a wrenching pain
tore at him. “I said I want to return to England.”
    “You are here by order of the king. Do you no understand
what would happen to you and your family if you defied that order?”
    “Then I will go to France… anywhere …but I cannot marry
you. Not now.”
    “Did our lovemaking change so much?” he asked, but in his
heart he knew it had. He had acted dishonorably. He had deceived his betrothed.
He had made love to her without revealing who he was. The thought of it
sickened him. How could he have stooped so low, when he knew how much she had
come to care for him—when he knew it was love that had compelled her to ask him
to make love to her in the first place? Frustration ate at him. How could he
make her understand why he had had to test her, why he had