Wild Wicked Scot

Margot panicked slightly, but then again, Worthing had warned her they’d not be allowed to stay. He was her father’s confidant—in fact, it was Worthing and two other gentlemen who had brought from London the rumors and accusations against Arran to her father.

“He’ll not want any Englishmen in his hall,” Worthing had warned Margot. “You must be prepared to see us depart.”

“No,” Margot had said. “I’ll ask him—”

“He will instantly suspect you if you speak for us, madam. You must play the part of a disobedient wife who means to make amends.”

Disobedient wife. Is that what they thought of her? As if she were a child who had disobeyed all the men in her life? As if she’d been expected to stay in an untenable position merely because men had put her there? Frankly, it would have helped tremendously if she knew just how a disobedient wife behaved when she wanted to make amends. Margot did not.

She watched Arran walk through the hall, pausing to speak to one or two people, glancing meaningfully back at her once or twice. His long, dark hair was a tangled queue, and his buckskins, lawn shirt and waistcoat were soiled, his boots scuffed. Who knew what the man had done all day? Margot bowed her head and recalled the sensation of his body in hers, carrying her away to that sensual place.

She missed that, anyway. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss it, how empty her life would become. She missed knowing that someone could be gentle with her, careful of her.

Margot felt the sickly warmth of fear as she thought of it. She had wounded him in the worst way one could wound a man, and she had no hope that he would care much for her now—she had seen the harshness in his gaze. She was afraid of him, disgusted by him, attracted to him.

Anxiety swelled in her, and she abruptly stood, suddenly desperate to escape to the privacy of her old rooms.

The moment she came to her feet, however, Jock appeared. “Madam.”

“Jock!” she said with a cheerfulness that belied the fright he’d given her. It seemed impossible that anyone could be larger than her husband, but Jock was. His dark ginger hair was streaked with gray and had always given her the impression that he carried the gloomy mists of the Highlands around with him.

“How good to see you. You are well?” she asked as pleasantly as she could force herself.

His brows dipped. He was not fooled by her. “Whatever you require, I am at your service, aye?”

Her wish was too complicated for poor Jock. But in that space of hesitation, Jock rubbed a finger against his cheek, and a movement to her left caught her eye. A rat, in the form of a man, went scurrying in the direction Arran had gone to report her attempt to flee.

She sighed and frowned at Jock. “That wasn’t necessary, was it?”

His eyes narrowed with his silent disagreement.

He’d always been a worthy adversary. He’d never trusted the marriage brokered between her and Arran. Margot put her hands to the small of her back. “I mean only to stretch my legs. I’ve come quite a long way.”

Jock merely stood there. Typical.

“And I am in need of a ladies’ retiring room.” She arched a brow, expecting him to retreat as all men did when confronted by women and their bodily functions. But Jock stood like a mountain before her, his expression unchanged.

“Perhaps my old rooms are available?”

“There are no rooms for you, madam. We didna expect you.”

Obviously. “You mustn’t trouble yourself, Jock. I’m certain my maid has made them ready by now,” she said, and slipped past him.

“Milady—”

“I know my way very well, thank you!” She walked quickly down the side of the hall before he could stop her, smiling blindly at all the unsmiling, distant faces. All she had to do was reach the main entrance to the hall. She knew exactly where she was going. In the four months she’d lived here as Mackenzie’s bride, when her husband was out hunting or training soldiers or away on one of his ships, Margot had nothing to occupy her. She’d spent many lonely hours wandering about this sprawling castle. She knew every turn, every stairwell, every room.

But just as she reached the main doors, one of them swung open and Arran entered the hall, the rat directly behind him. She instantly turned and started in the opposite direction. Arran caught up to her in a step, clasped her elbow and jerked her backward. Margot’s heart climbed to her throat. She put a hand to her heart and said laughingly, “You frightened me!”

He stood with his legs braced apart, and his brows formed a dark vee above his eyes. “You’d no’ be running from your husband so soon, would you, mo gradh?” he asked hotly. “Having just this night returned to...what was it you said, then...to try our marriage again? Because you have missed me so?” His lips curved into a cool smile.

Aware that several pairs of eyes were on them, Margot forced a light laugh, as if this was friendly banter between husband and wife. “I meant only to freshen a bit. Wash the dust of road from my skin, as it were.”

His smile turned wolfish. “If you wish to wash, I’ll have a bath brought to my chamber, aye? It will be like old times.”

“Oh, that is...” Predictable. Infuriatingly manipulative. “Helpful,” she said. “But, ah...” She shifted forward, standing close so that she could whisper. She laid her hand lightly on his arm, watched his gaze move to her hand, then to her bosom, and whispered, “I have need of a retiring room.”

“Then you shall have one,” he said instantly.

Margot smiled in the way she’d learned at the soirees and dinner parties, where she’d mastered the art of making time pass by testing all the silly things men would do for a mere smile. “Thank you for understanding.” She patted his arm, then slid her hand off it. She bobbed a bit of a curtsy. “I shan’t be long.” Unless he considered all night a long time.

She moved to step around him, but Arran caught her arm once more. Not her hand, but her forearm, and his grip was tight. “No’ a retiring room as you might expect, having come from Norwood Park, but a closet that will suit. There is one in my chambers, you may recall, aye?”

Oh, she remembered. Margot tried to tug her arm free, but he held tight. “I won’t trouble you.”

“You already have,” he said curtly.

She didn’t like the look in his eye. He looked a little as if he intended to carve her up, stuff an apple in her mouth and serve her up on a platter.

“And I thought you bloody well missed me,” he said, his eyes going dark as he squeezed her arm.

There was a time he might have intimidated her into utter silence with such a predatory look, but Margot had changed. She wasn’t the inexperienced debutante anymore, and she knew how to fight back. She tilted her head and gave him an even sultrier smile. “Oh, but I have, Arran. I’m afraid you’ve seen through me—the truth is that the journey has left me quite fatigued.” She glanced surreptitiously about—she could see how people near them strained to hear. So she rose up on her toes and whispered, “I want very much to please you, my lord, but I really must rest to be especially pleasing.”

Arran’s gaze turned ferocious. It was full of lust and anger, and Margot’s pulse quickened with apprehension. He could kill her and no one here would say a word. No one in England would know for weeks, long after she’d turned to dust. He slid his arm around her waist and anchored her there, holding tight. “I think you misjudge your own strength, milady. Thank the saints that you’re a sturdy lass, aye? You’ll manage, I’ve no doubt.” He began to pull her through the hall, his grip on her unyielding.

“This is hardly necessary,” she said, struggling to keep up with his stride. “Naturally I assumed you’d be concerned for my welfare. But never mind—if you desire that I accompany you, then of course I shall. You need only ask.”

Arran stopped. He stepped away from her and bowed low. “My apologies, then,” he said. “By all means—I desire that you accompany me to my chambers. Now.” He gestured to the path in front of him, his jaw set, his eyes boring through hers. There was the hawk again, ready to swoop down and cart her off to be fed to his clan.

Speaking of which... Margot glanced over her shoulder. Necks were craning. Ears were pointed like dogs’ ears to them. All eyes were locked on the laird and his wife. That was the way it had always been at Balhaire—a perpetual audience to her marriage.

Margot sniffed. She nervously fingered a loose curl. She had no choice, really—she’d not have word going back to her father that she had been less than a dutiful wife on her first night at Balhaire. God only knew what he would do with her then.

So she lifted her chin, smiled sweetly and began to walk along the path he’d indicated. Arran was right beside her, his hand possessively on the small of her back, the expanse of it covering her waist. She was reminded of other moments when his hands were on more exposed parts of her body, and her stomach began to turn little somersaults.

“That’s a good lass,” Arran said into her ear, his voice trickling into her bloodstream. “Obedient and eager, just as a man’s wife ought to be.”

Margot resisted the overwhelming urge to elbow him in the ribs and then run.

They walked up the wide staircase that curled past paintings of Mackenzies, past historic armor that men liked to display for reasons that completely escaped her, past an array of swords fanned above the arched entrance to the hallway. Arran kept his hand on her as he steered her toward the two oak doors that led into the master’s chambers.

Their arrival startled two boys in that long hallway who were replacing candles in the sconces.

“Light the laird’s chamber!” Jock bellowed from behind them, startling Margot. She hadn’t even known he was there. The two lads scurried ahead, into Arran’s private rooms.

When they reached the doors to the master’s chambers, Arran glanced over his shoulder and said to Jock, “We are no’ to be disturbed by anyone, aye? We’ve a bit of bad business to conduct.” He reached around Margot and gave the door a push, then pushed her through. He just as quickly ushered the young boys out, then closed the door and turned the lock.

He slowly faced her and leaned against the closed doors, his head down, his gaze terrifyingly hard. Bad business. What did that mean, exactly? She had never thought him violent. Whatever he meant, she would likely die before he did anything—her heart was beating that wildly.