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“Forgive me, Lady Euphemia,” he said, shielding his face with his palm and looking down at the floor. “I have ye at a disadvantage. I’ll come back later.”

“Nae,” she moaned. “Nae. Stay.”

Surprised, he glanced at her. Her face was in complete ecstasy, and she was looking right at him. He realized she must be imagining him instead of that man.

By God’s blood, he wasn’t going to be part of that. Without another word, he pushed the astonished guard back into the corridor and shut the door after him.

The guard frowned and exchanged a puzzled look with Angus. Angus crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall. She was sending him a message. She didn’t need him, and she could have any man she wanted. He had refused her, but she wouldn’t wait for him.

But he didn’t care if she wanted to sleep with the whole army. If he was to have a son with her, he had to make sure the boy was his. If anything, what she did gave him an advantage in negotiations because she was impure, and before the wedding, he needed to make sure she was not with child.

After a while, the man left the room, and Angus entered. Euphemia was dressed and tying up a long, golden braid before a large mirror. Mirrors were a luxury he hadn’t seen often.

“Lord Angus,” she said, looking at his reflection. “Too bad ye didna stay. I did have a large appetite, enough for two men.”

“I never share my woman.”

As he said “my woman,” she threw a sad, longing glance at him, and her expression changed from a sly, smug mask into the face of someone who’d lost something important.

“I’m nae yer woman nae more,” she said. “Is that what ye’re implying?”

He slowly walked farther into the room. It was richly decorated, and he’d never seen one quite like it. Large, with a big canopy bed with beautifully carved poles and a rich blanket with gold-and-silver threads. A bearskin lay by the fireplace. Beautiful tapestries hung from the wall, showing women gathering herbs and flowers, a hunt, and the image of the crucified Christ. Several carved chests lined the wall. Two chairs flanked the mirror, again with masterfully carved arms.

The room smelled of the expensive rose water she preferred. The scent made him sick as it brought back memories of him handcuffed in her possession.

“Ye’re nae my woman,” he said. “But I came here to renegotiate our marriage.”

As he said the words, something hung heavily in his chest, sucking all the life out of him.

Euphemia turned to him, her eyes wide, frowning.

“Dinna jest with me, Lord Angus,” she hissed.

“I dinna jest.”

She stared at him, her cheeks flushing. “Why did ye change yer mind?”

He couldn’t tell her exactly what Rogene had told him, but he could give a version of that. One that would likely make her accept his terms, because there was something she equally wanted.

A son.

“Someone who kens the future told me that we’re destined to be marrit. That we’ll have a son who will one day save the life of a Scottish king.”

Her lips parted in surprise, her eyes shining in delight. “A son…”

“Aye.”

“But…what about what I did to ye? Are you ready to forgive me?”

Angus frowned at the change in her. Where was the arrogant, self-righteous woman who was so sure in her power and her beauty? She stood looking at him almost sheepishly. Was it an act? Or was she revealing a side of herself he hadn’t known she had?

“I will have to, wilna I?” he said.

She came to him in three large steps and took his hand. Her hands were small and pale and cold, and unlike Rogene’s touch, they caused an urge to pull away.

But he didn’t. If Euphemia could be humble, if she could open up to him and be more human, he could imagine their marriage to be functional in some way.

A deep, aching, sucking wound opened in his gut. The longing for Rogene that he knew would never go away as long as he lived.