Wild Wicked Scot Page 3

  “Thank you,” she said politely, and lifted her chin slightly. “And you look...” She paused as she took another look at his disheveled self. “The same.” One corner of her mouth tipped up in a wry smile.

  Her scent made him heady, and a flash of memories flooded his brain. Of her naked in his bed. Of her long legs wrapped around his, of her perfumed hair, of her young, plump breasts in his hands.

  She was aware of his thoughts, too; he could see it spark in her eyes. She turned slightly away from him and said, “May I introduce Mr. Pepper and Mr. Worthing? They’ve been kind enough to see me safely here.”

  There was some rumbling in the crowd—in spite of the recent union of Scotland and England, there was no love for the English among his clan, particularly not after the disaster that was his marriage.

  Arran scarcely spared the English fops a glance. “Had I known that you meant to return to Balhaire, I’d have sent my best men for you, aye? How curious you didna send word.”

  “That would have been very kind,” she said vaguely. “Might we trouble you for supper? I’m famished, as I am sure these good men are. I’d forgotten how few inns there are in the Highlands.”

  Arran was slightly inebriated and a wee bit shocked...but not so much that he would allow his wife to swan into his castle after three bloody years and pretend all was well and ask to be served without any explanation at all. He meant to demand an answer from her, but he was uncomfortably aware that every Mackenzie ear was trained on them. “Music!” he bellowed.

  Someone picked up a flute and began to play, and Arran caught Margot’s wrist and pulled her closer. He spoke low so others couldn’t hear what he said. “You come to Balhaire, unannounced, after leaving like you did, and you are so insolent as to ask for supper?”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly, just as they had the first night he’d ever laid eyes on her. “Will you refuse to feed the men who have seen your wife safely returned to you?”

  “Are you returned to me?” he scoffed.

  “As I recall, you were forever impressing on me that the Scots are well-known for their hospitality.”

  “Donna think to tell me what I ought to do, madam. Answer me—why are you here?”

  “Oh, Arran,” she said, and smiled suddenly. “Isn’t it obvious? Because I’ve missed you. Because I’ve come to my senses. Because I want to try our marriage again, of course. Why else would I have taken such a hard road to reach you?”

  He watched her lush mouth move, heard the words she said and shook his head. “Why else? I have my suspicions, aye?” he said to her mouth. “Murder. Bedlam. To slit my throat in the night, then.”

  “Oh no!” she said gravely. “That would be too foul, all that blood. You can’t really believe it’s impossible that I would have a change of heart,” she said. “After all, you’re not unlikable in your own way.”

  She was teasing him now? His fury surged.

  “Frankly, I would have come earlier had I been given any indication that you wanted me to,” she added matter-of-factly.

  Arran couldn’t help a bark of incredulous laughter. “Have you gone mad, then, woman? I’ve heard no’ a bloody word from you in all the time you’ve been gone.”

  “I haven’t had a word from you, either.”

  This was outrageous. Arran couldn’t begin to guess what game she was playing, but she would not win. He slid his arm around her back and yanked her into his body, holding her firmly. He pressed his palm against the side of her head, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Will you no’ admit the truth, then?”

  “Will you not believe me?” she asked sweetly.

  He could see that wicked little sparkle in eyes the shade of ripe pears, that glimmer of deceit. “No’ a bloody word.”

  She smiled and lifted her chin. He realized suddenly that she wasn’t afraid of him now. She’d always been a wee bit fearful of him, but he saw no trace of that in her now.

  “You’re awfully distrusting,” she said. “Haven’t I always been perfectly frank with you? Why ever should I be any different now? I’m your wife yet, Mackenzie. If you won’t believe me, I suppose I’ll just have to convince you, won’t I?”

  Arran’s blood began to rush in his veins. He gazed into her face, at the slender nose, the dark brows. “You have surprised me,” he admitted as his gaze moved down to her enticing décolletage. “That’s what your wretched little heart wanted, aye? But be warned, wife, I am no fool. The last time I saw you, you were fleeing. I willna believe you’ve suddenly found room in there for me,” he said, and tapped the swell of her breast over her heart very deliberately.

  She continued to smile as if she were unfazed by him, but he could see the faint blush creeping into her cheeks. “I should be delighted to prove you wrong. But please do allow me to dine, will you? It is obvious that I will need all my strength.”

  Arran’s pulse raced harder now with a combustible mix of fury and desire. “I wonder where the fragile little primrose who left me has gone.”

  “She grew into a rosebush.” She patted his chest. “Some food, if you would be so kind, for Mr. Pepper and Mr. Worthing.”

  “Fergus!” he said sharply, his gaze still on Margot’s face. “Bring the Lady Mackenzie and her men some bread and something to eat, aye? Make haste, lad.”

  He curled his fingers around her elbow, digging into the fabric, and pulled her along. She said not a word about his dirtied hand on her clothing as she would have before, but came along obediently. Almost as if she expected to be handled in this manner. As if she was prepared for it.

  Arran was aware of a flutter of activity and whispered voices around him as people strained to get a glimpse of the mysterious Lady Mackenzie and the two bulldogs who followed closely behind.

  “It wasna necessary to come with an armed guard,” Arran snapped as he led her to the dais, glancing over his shoulder at the two Englishmen. “You frightened Sweeney near unto death.”

  “My father insisted. One never knows when one will encounter highwaymen.” She glanced at him sidelong.

  He’d always thought her uncommonly beautiful, and somehow, she seemed even more so now. But he did not have the same longing in him he’d once felt for her—he felt only disdain. There was a time her smile would have swayed him to accept her bad behavior. Now he felt numb to it. He should deny her food, toss her into rooms and have her held there for leaving him as she had.

  It was not yet out of the question.

  Margot removed her cloak and sat gingerly in the seat Arran held out for her on the dais, perching on the edge of it. Her fastidious nature was still lurking beneath that cool exterior.

  “Your men, they can sit there,” he said, pointing to a table down below.

  Her guards hesitated, but Margot gave them a slight nod to indicate that they should obey.

  Arran resisted the urge to remind her she was not queen here, especially not now, but he took his seat beside her and kept his mouth shut. For the moment.

  “You’ve been keeping company, I see,” she said congenially as her gaze settled on the lass who had been sitting on his lap and was now off the dais, pouting.

  “I’ve kept the company of my clan, aye.”

  “Male and female alike?”

  He put his hand on her wrist once more, squeezing lightly. “What did you think, Margot, that I’d live like a monk? That once you left me I’d take my vows and prostrate myself before your shrine during vespers?”

  She smiled as she pulled her arm from his grip. “I’ve no doubt you were prostrate at someone’s shrine.” She glanced away and curled a ringlet around her finger.

  “And I suppose you’ve been a chaste little princess,” he snorted.

  “Well,” she said airily, “I can’t say I’ve been completely chaste. But who among us has?” She turned her head and looked him dir
ectly in the eye, a cool smile on her lips, the color in her cheeks high.

  What game was this now? She would flirt with him, hint at bad behavior? It made no sense, and it stank of trickery. Who was this woman? The woman who had left him would have been appalled by the mere suggestion that her chastity was not practically virginal. But this woman was toying with him, making suggestions and smiling in a way that could make a man’s knees give way.

  He turned away from that smile to signal the serving boy to pour wine and noticed that half of his men were still gaping at her. “All right, all right,” he said irritably, gesturing for them to do something other than stare. “Can you no’ play something a bit livelier, Geordie?” he demanded of his musician.

  Geordie put down his flute, picked up his fiddle and began to play again.

  As Margot lifted the cup to her lips, he said, “Now that you’ve had your grand entrance, I’ll know what has brought you to Balhaire. Has someone died, then? Has your da lost his fortune? Are you hiding from the queen?”

  She laughed. “My family is in good health, thank you. Our fortune is quite intact, and the queen is generally not aware of me at all.”

  He sprawled back in his chair, studying her.

  She smiled pertly. “You seem skeptical. I had forgotten what a suspicious nature you have, but I did always quite like that about you, I must say.”

  “Should I not be suspicious of you? When you appear as you have without a bloody word?”

  “Can you tell me a better way to return to you?” she asked. “If I’d sent word, you would have denied me. Is that not so? I thought that perhaps if you saw me before you heard my name...” She shrugged.

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought that maybe you would realize you’d missed me, too.” She smiled softly. Hopefully.

  There it was, that stir of blood in him again, accompanied by another rash of images of his wife’s long legs on either side of him, her silky hair pooling on his chest. He swallowed that image down. The truth was that he couldn’t bear the sight of her. “I donna miss you, Margot. I loathe you.”

  Her cheeks turned crimson, and she glanced down at her lap.

  “Aye, and how long has it been, precisely, since you began to miss me, then, leannan? Did I no’ send enough money?”

  “You’ve been entirely too generous, my lord.”

  “Aye, that I have,” he said with an adamant nod.

  “As to when I began to miss you so ardently?” She pretended to ponder that as she fidgeted with the necklace at her throat. “I can’t say precisely when. But it’s a notion that’s taken root and continues to grow.”

  “Like a bloody cancer,” he scoffed.

  “Something like that. I always thought you’d come to assure yourself of my welfare instead of sending Dermid as you did.”

  “You thought I’d come all the way to England, chasing after you like a fox after a hen?”

  “Chase is a strong word. I rather prefer visit.”

  “I didna receive an invitation to visit, aye?”

  “You never needed an invitation! You’re my husband! You might have come to me whenever you liked. Didn’t you always before?” she asked with a salacious look. “Didn’t you miss me, Arran? Perhaps only a little?”

  “I’ve missed you in my bed,” he said, holding her gaze. “It’s been a damn long time.”

  Color crept into Margot’s cheeks again, but she steadily held his gaze. “Has it really been so long?”

  His gaze drifted to her mouth. An eternity. He sat up, leaning in. “A verra long time, lass. It’s been three years, three months and a handful of days.”

  Margot’s smile faded. Her lips parted slightly and her lashes fluttered as she looked at him with surprise.

  “Aye, leannan, I know how long I’ve been free of the burden of you. Does that surprise you?”

  Something in her eyes dimmed. “A little,” she admitted softly.

  Arran smiled wolfishly. His pulse was thrumming now, beating the familiar rhythm of want. He pushed hair from her temple and said, “Pity that I donna care to reacquaint.”

  There it was again, a flicker of some emotion in her eyes. Had he struck a blow? He didn’t care if he had—it would never equal the blow she’d struck him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Balhaire, the Scottish Highlands

  1706

  BATTERED AND BRUISED, tossed about the inside of a chaise for days upon days now, making an arduous journey north, Margot was utterly exhausted. But at last they had arrived at the place she was to call home.

  She could not have been more despondent.

  Balhaire was a dark, bleak castle that rose up out of the ground and was shrouded in mist, just like the hills around it. It was a tremendous structure erected in some long-ago time, anchored by two towers and surrounded by a castle wall. Outside the wall there was a small village of humble thatch-roofed cottages with smoke curling up from the chimneys to a leaden sky.

  As the chaise slowed, Margot could hear dogs barking, children shouting. She heard the driver cursing a cow that would not move from the road. The coach slowed to a stop, then jerked forward again.

  She moved across to see out the other coach window and saw people coming out of their cottages, lining the road, calling up to Mackenzie, who rode somewhere in front of the chaise. She heard his response, too—one word or two, all in a language she did not know.

  Margot shrank back from the window. This place frightened her.

  She was still in shock that she was here at all. She’d never once thought it was even remotely possible that she would be forced into a marriage against her will, but that was precisely what had happened to her. She’d begged her father, pleaded with him, but he’d been doggedly determined. He’d been adamant that this marriage was her duty to her family and to England, and that the union between her and Mackenzie would safeguard the Armstrong fortune for generations to come. “You’re the only daughter I have, Margot,” he’d said. “You have a duty to do as I deem best, and you will obey me in this.”

  Margot had fought back, but her father had threatened her. He swore he would never provide a dowry for any other suitor. He wouldn’t allow her to see Lynetta, knowing full well that the two girls would conspire. She would have no society; she would be locked away at Norwood Park and turned into a spinster with no hope of happiness.

  At only seventeen years old, Margot hadn’t known what to do or how to escape her father’s tyranny. In the end, her father had bartered against her confusion and uncertainty and fear and had worn her down.

  A fortnight before her eighteenth birthday, Mackenzie was granted a barony. That night, he arrived at Norwood Park to dine with Margot and her family. She scarcely looked at him. At least he wore proper clothes and had shaved his dreadful beard. But when he attempted to make conversation, she responded as blandly as she could in a desperate hope he would find her tedious and vapid and would want to cry off.

  Apparently he was quite at ease with the picture she presented. Two days after her eighteenth birthday, Margot took her marriage vows in the Norwood Park chapel before her father and two brothers. Mackenzie had a giant of a man stand up with him.

  On her wedding night, her new husband had bedded her quickly, as if the task displeased him, and then had disappeared. Two days later, they departed for Scotland. On the first day of the journey, Margot cried until she made herself ill. When there were no more tears to cry, she felt numb. Her husband asked her more than once if there was anything he could do to help ease her, and she shook her head and looked away from him.

  By the time they reached the Highlands of Scotland, having traveled for days without seeing any sort of civilization, Margot was afraid.

  Now the chaise rolled through the village where people lined the roads, trying to get a gl
impse of her before the chaise disappeared behind the thick walls that surrounded the enormous castle.

  The castle was even more imposing up close. Margot had to crane her neck to see the tops of the towers as the conveyance slowed and rolled to a stop. She sat up, her fingers curling tightly around the edges of the cushions on the bench.

  The door suddenly swung open. Someone put a step there. Margot quickly tried to repair her hair—she must have looked a fright, especially since she’d had to come all this way without her ladies’ maid. Nell Grady was traveling behind with Margot’s many trunks.

  The dark head of her husband appeared in the door. “Come,” he said simply, and held out his gloved hand to her.

  It was only her desire to be out of that miserable coach that propelled Margot to step out of the chaise. She faltered only slightly, her legs feeling quite stiff after such a long journey. But she managed to right herself and paused to look around her.

  “Welcome to Balhaire,” Mackenzie said.

  Welcome to this? Margot was so overwhelmed by the sight of the bailey, she couldn’t speak. It was teeming with animals and people. Chickens hurried out of the way of horses, and dogs sniffed around the boots of the men who had come down from their mounts. She scarcely had time to take it all in before the main doors opened and a woman swept out with a shout. She was tall and slender and had a long braid of dark red hair. The woman didn’t look at Margot—she was speaking in the language of the Highlands to Mackenzie.

  Whatever he said in return caused the woman to jerk a disdainful gaze to Margot.

  “Miss Griselda Mackenzie. My cousin,” Arran said, sighing.

  Margot curtsied. Griselda’s brows rose to almost the top of her head, and she folded her arms across her chest, her long fingers drumming on her arm as she studied Margot. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Margot said.

  The woman pressed her lips together.

  “I hope we might be friends,” Margot added as an afterthought.

  It was clearly the wrong thing to say; the woman said something quickly and quite vehemently to Mackenzie, then twirled about and went inside.