A/N I would like to claim to be the true writer of Shakespeare's plays...but I'm not. I was Marlowe, the guy who took a knife to the eye. Now, on with the show.
The castle was silent as she padded up the stone steps. She needed no candle; Margaret had grown up in this castle and could negotiate every corridor, down to the secret passages beneath the gate, in her sleep. When at last she came to the door she sought and knocked upon it, the answering candlelight from behind the cracked door sent her hand to her face for the protection of her dark-loving eyes.
"Margaret!"
When her hand returned to its place upon the door, it left a shyly serene grin in its place. "Duncan..." she purred, "I...feel that we didn't have the opportunity to properly discuss our situations at supper."
"Our...situations..."
"May I come in?" Margaret slid into his room before Duncan had the chance to reply, which was just as well, since his mouth's fishlike gulping produced no sound, and his equally fishlike eyes couldn't decide whether they shloud rest upon her bosom, her hips, both of which accentuated by her nightgown, a gift from him years ago, or her face. "As I recall, it's been quite some time since we last met...like this." She let her eyes range across the room to return to his, now beginning to register something more than shocked awe.
"I remember," he said cooly. "Tell me, was that one week or two before you married my best friend?"
"My guess would be three days before you married my sister."
He cringed visibly from the rebuke. For a moment Margaret's smile took a hint of cruelty, but she trained it smooth, and once again reminded him of the paintings of the Virgin Mary like she always had, even after they had both married...and immediately he hated himself for the blasphemy she evoked in him; he turned from her and stalked to the small table next to the bed which he grasped for dear life. "Do you come here to torture me with our past, woman?" When Duncan dared turn to face her, her proximity nearly made him jump with surprise.
Margaret reached one soft, white hand out to stroke his face. It could not have been Duncan who closed the distance between them, who encircled her trim waist with his arms to draw her tighter still, who leaned in to...But it was Duncan who heard the thunder outside the window. In that moment, his situation became clear, and it was not once of which he was overly fond. He set his former lover from him, and stalked to the other side of the bed. "Duncan," she whispered, "I think you torture here more than I."
Bright blue eyes met calm, steely gray, and the rush they sent through his body told Duncan in no uncertain terms that he was a lost man. But that did not mean that he couldn't delay his fate as long as possible. Couldn't Achilles have worn shields across his heels? "You wanted to discuss our situation?" The steadiness of his voice shocked him; he tried not to let it show too much. Margaret veritably floated to his side, holding him in place with that arresting stare. Her hand flew out again, this time to rest upon his chest. Spasms of electricty shot from the contact point. Duncan closed his eyes, but there was nothing he could do to bring his traitorous body to heel.
And she knew it. "I think," she breathed more than said the words, and each brought her that much closer to him. Another moment and he would break into a thousand pieces..."I think that there are more ways than one to ...'discuss'..." Her lips now brushed his skin as she spoke. He was losing control of his hands, either that or the fabric of her nightgown flew of its own volition to his hands..."Don't you...your highness?" Not even the rain against the windows could have told who kissed whom, suffice to say that had it fallen upon them, it may well have risen as steam before contact.
Duncan cradled her head in his large hands. "You know," he rested his forehead on hers, "I never knew whether it was me or my promise of power that you loved."
She kissed him. "Would you ask me now?"
"Under the circumstances, I think it would be of interest."
Margaret toyed with the laces on his shirt. "Perhaps it was always a bit of both. Does that satisfy your curiosity, my King?"
"Not nearly...Lady Macbeth."
The collapsed onto the bed.