An Excerpt from BRIDE OF LOCHBARR by Margaret Moore ISBN #0-373-77003-0

Suddenly a man -- a broad-shouldered man in the outlandish skirted garment of a Scot and a sleeveless shirt -- appeared at the other end of the ally.

Before Marianne could recover from the shock and run or hide, he quietly addressed her in French. "Bit of an odd time for a stroll, isn't it, my lady?"

She recognized that voice. Thank God it wasn't Nicholas, or one of his men -- but what was that Scot doing here? And where was Polly?

She froze as a guard called out a challenge.

Had they been seen? Had a lascivious Scot cost her the chance of escape?

Mercifully, another man's voice answered, calm and steady. The guards hadn't seen her, or the Scot.

Yet.

She spotted the open door to the mason's hut to the right of the Scot. Hurrying forward, she shoved him inside, coming in after him.

He never made a sound as the wooden door hinged with leather strips swung shut behind them. The only light filtered through cracks in the wall and the shutters over the window.

The Scot seemed taller in the darkness. Silhouetted against the wall of the hut, his body appeared huge, with his long, bare, muscular legs and strong, equally bare arms.

Perhaps this was a mistake. But before she could leave, he spoke.

"Why, my lady, this is an unexpected pleasure," he said, his deep voice low and slightly husky.

"Be quiet," she commanded in a whisper. "Or do you want the guards to catch you here, where you have no right to be?"

"No, I don't want the guards to find me here," he answered quietly. "But unless they can see through walls and hear like dogs, I doubt they will. They're too far away, and too busy looking for enemies beyond the walls."

"Where's Polly?"

"Who?"

"Polly. The maidservant who served the wine."

The Scot strolled toward her. "Ah. The one with the mole on her breast?"

As if he could fool her with his bogus innocence. She knew full well the deceit men were capable of. "Yes. Where is she?"

"I have no idea."

Giving him a cold stare, she backed away from him until her body collided with a workbench covered with masons' tools -- chisels and trowels, levels and measuring sticks. She set her bundle down, so that her hands were free. She could defend herself now, if she had to. "I don't believe you. I'm sure you were with her."

"I'm sure I wasn't. I think I'd remember if I were."

Splaying her hands behind her and leaning back, her fingers encountered a chisel. Thrilled that she had some kind of weapon, her hand closed around it. "Then what are you doing skulking about my brother's castle?"

"Searching for the plans to this fortress."

No spy would confess so quickly and so easily, to anyone. "You must think I'm a simpleton."

He strolled closer. "Whatever I think of you, my lady, I don't think you're dimwitted."

She swallowed hard.

Suddenly, his hand shot out and grabbed hers, tightening until she dropped the chisel.

"Were you really planning to attack me with that?" he asked as he let go of her.

She rubbed her sore hand and didn't answer.

"You're quite safe with me, my lady. My taste doesn't run to Normans, not ones as beautiful as you."

She'd never before felt simultaneously insulted and flattered.

Perhaps this was his way of trying to confuse her. "What are you doing outside the hall?" she demanded, although that in itself was no crime. "Answer me honestly, or I'll call the guard."

"You won't do that."

She'd heard some Scots had what they called The Sight, the ability to see things by supernatural means, things they couldn't possibly know otherwise. Yet surely he didn't such a power. "Oh yes, I will."

"No, you won't," he answered, reaching around her for the chisel, coming so close, she could feel his breath warm on her cheek.

Gripping the edge of the table with both hands, she froze until he retreated.

"You won't because then you'd have to explain what you're doing wandering about at this time of night and with a bundle in your hands," he said as he toyed with the tools. "I'm thinking you had a clandestine rendezvous planned, although sadly not with me." He nodded at the bundle. "And you've thoughtfully brought a blanket to lie on and perhaps some wine to drink."

"What a base suggestion!"

"I didn't mean to be insulting," he replied as he tossed the chisel back onto the table, close enough for her to reach. "I'm impressed you planned so well."

Now she really was insulted. "I am not some hussy of the sort you're obviously used to."

The Scot strolled over to another table and workbench. "What else could lead a beautiful Norman lady to sneak around alone in her brother's fortress in the middle of the night?" he mused aloud. "Perhaps it's a sign that all is not well with the lady." He turned to regard her steadily. "I could be mistaken, of course. I'd be glad to think I was, and that nothing is amiss with you."

He sounded completely sincere. Yet she'd heard enough stories in the convent to know better than to take any man's words at face value, no matter how sincere he sounded.

So she lied, easily and without compunction. "I couldn't sleep and decided to take some linen to the kitchen to be washed in the morning. I heard noises and thought it was a cat. I wanted to chase it outside, lest it make a mess of the mason's things."

"Really?" the Scot answered. He lazily picked up some tools one at a time and examined them. "You didn't think it might be somebody up to no good? You weren't bravely coming to confront an enemy?"

"I wouldn't be so foolish as to confront an armed man when I have only a bundle of laundry. And I don't think any intelligent man would attack the sister of Sir Nicholas de Beauxville in his own fortress, or confess a crime to her face."

The Scot put down a trowel and turned to face her. "This place is Dunkeathe, not Beauxville."

"Since my brother has possession of it, he can call it whatever he likes."

"Aye, so he may, and so might the Normans, but to the Scots it is, and always will be, Dunkeathe."

"Proudly spoken, but whatever it's called, I want to know what you're really doing out of the hall in the middle of the night."

He tilted his head and studied her a moment before answering. "All right then, my lady, the truth. It's just as I said. I was trying to find the plans to the castle." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "It has to be obvious I'm up to no good."

Then his full lips curved upward into a devilish smile that seemed to reach right into her breast and set her heart to beating as it never had before. "And since I'm not dimwitted, either, I'm sure that you're doing something you don't want your brother to know about, whether it's meeting a lover or not."

She reached for her bundle. "I told you, I'm taking some linen to be laundered."

"When you're ill? That's what your brother said when you weren't at the evening meal."

"I am recovered."

"And making bundles, which you then carry out of your quarters in the middle of the night, heading for the postern gate. If I were to make a guess, Lady Marianne, I'd say you were running away."

"Why would I run away?"

"I can think of plenty of reasons you'd want to flee. For one, that brother of yours is as arrogant as they come. It must be difficult living under his thumb."

"He's a wonderful brother."

"Well, maybe for a Norman, he is. Thank God, I wouldn't know." The Scot took a step closer. "Whether he is or not, you're willing to risk fleeing his castle and traveling alone rather than stay here."

"Even if that were true -- which it isn't -- is traveling alone in this country such a great risk? Are you saying I should be afraid of the Scots?"

"There are men who would steal cattle roaming about. Alone on the open road, you'd be a target for every outlaw between here and York."

She fought the urge to believe that he cared about her welfare. Most men were scoundrels and liars; even her own brother would use her to further his selfish ambitions. "If I were running away, I'd have enough sense to stay off the open road."

"And not get lost?"

"I need only get to the nearest church or monastery or convent by myself. They would give me sanctuary."

That would also be the first place her brother would look for her, which is why she wouldn't risk doing that. It had to be the village, then York, then France.

The Scot came closer. "If you were running away, my lady, I'd think again. Or are you quite certain you'd have nothing to fear from the cattle thieves because they're Normans, too?"

"I don't believe the men who took your cattle came from here," she replied, hoping it was true, although she wouldn't put it past some of the soldiers her brother had hired.

"Then so much the worse for you -- or any lone woman -- who meets them."

The Scot's gaze searched her face. When he spoke, his voice was firm, and stern. "Does he beat you?"

She instinctively drew back, putting a little more distance between them. "Who?"

"Your brother."

"No!"

"He doesn't...lay hands on you?"

She guessed what terrible thing he was implying. "Never!"

His stern visage relaxed. "So why do you want to run away?"

"I don't!"

"I think you're lying. I think you desperately want to get away from here. I just don't know why."

Her reasons simply couldn't be important to him, no matter how concerned he sounded. "You have no idea what I want," she replied, mustering her resolve. "I'm a Norman lady and you're nothing but a...but a..."

"What am I but a man who doesn't want to see you hurt -- or worse? Do you really find that so hard to believe?" he asked softly, laying his strong hands lightly on her shoulders, the slight pressure warm and surprisingly welcome.

But it shouldn't be. She should slap his face for daring to touch her. She should raise the alarm. Call out the guards. Shout for help. She should push him away. She shouldn't let him pull her into his arms, as he was doing at that very moment.

Her bundle fell to the ground, the garments and shoes tumbling to the ground like so many scattered leaves.

She shouldn't put her arms around his waist and look up into his handsome face. She should try to get away from him and his deep, seductive voice. She shouldn't feel this thrilling excitement coursing through her body, or allow the images bursting into her head.

Yet in spite of all the inner warnings and orders, all the things she'd heard about men and their evil ways, Marianne closed her eyes in anticipation and welcomed the first touch of the Scot's lips upon hers. They were as light as the caress of a feathertip before they settled and moved with slow, sinuous deliberation.

This was how that girl under the tree must have felt, except this was no stripling youth kissing her. This was a warrior in his prime, handsome and confident.

Nothing could prepare her for the astonishing reality of his passionate kiss. Not the girl and the boy beneath the tree. Not the whispered descriptions from the other girls in the dark at the convent. Not a troubadour's ballad.

Nothing.