Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  Arran wanted to put his fist in MacLeary’s face for saying a single word against his wife. But he wasn’t sure what the landscape was between them now, especially with this swirl of rumors. “Aye, that it was,” he agreed. He moved for the door, his head spinning with questions. “We’ve a warm bed for you and your men,” he forced himself to say. “I’ll see you at Coigeach on the morrow.” He walked out of the room, leaving Jock to deal with the MacLearys.

  He could well imagine what Jock was thinking just now—that he should never have married Margot Armstrong. That his warnings of the trouble it would cause were coming home to roost. Jock could very well be right, and yet there was something about it that didn’t ring true to Arran. No matter what had happened between him and his wife, he couldn’t believe Margot was involved in any attempt to make him a scapegoat. She might dislike him, and she might have been sent by Norwood for some purpose. But he didn’t believe she wanted to see him hanged.

  If she did, she was the finest liar he’d ever met.

  And yet, Arran had a gut-wrenching feeling as he walked back through Balhaire and up the staircase to his suite. Oh, the irony of having built a small empire here in part by marrying a woman who would, in the end, see him hanged.

  When he reached his chambers, he opened the door and stepped inside. It was dark—he’d not sent the lad up to light the room. He stood a moment at the threshold, allowing his vision to adjust with the moonlight streaming in through the open window so that he might find a candle. He slowly became aware that something was different.

  There was nothing on the floor.

  The clothes and boots and hats and coats he’d left scattered about the room were gone. And there was a dark shadow draped across the back of a chair. He recognized the shimmering threads that seemed to move in the moonlight. Aye, that was the gown Margot had worn this evening. She’d taken his breath away, arriving in all her glory as she had, that swath of plaid across her breast. There was not a fairer woman in all the Highlands, and he’d been acutely and painfully aware that she was his.

  He might have treated her more fairly. But her appearance had reminded him of a night long ago, when two Mackenzie chieftains had come to Balhaire to meet with him. Arran had ordered supper to be served in true Scotch hospitality. He’d informed his unhappy bride of her obligation to play the dutiful wife of a new Scottish baron.

  Margot had attended in all her finery. She’d been a bonny vision, a jewel in this rugged, heather-strewn landscape. And then she’d proceeded to express her ennui. “Is that all you talk about, you Scots—seafaring and sheep?” she’d asked disdainfully.

  “Aye, madam, when one or the other will provide for our people,” Brian Mackenzie had said.

  Margot had rolled her eyes, propped her head on her hand and carried on as if she were a sulking child instead of a grown woman and a chieftain’s wife, as responsible for the welfare of their clan as he.

  She had embarrassed him, and they’d quarreled about it afterward. Arran had accused her of sabotaging his friendships and affiliations. She’d claimed not to have understood the importance of the men who had come to dine, and blamed him for failing to inform her.

  That night had ended as many of their nights had—with each of them retreating from the other.

  In truth, Arran had expected the same of her tonight. He’d pushed her, had challenged her and had fully expected—even hoped—she would cry off and go scampering back to England and free him of his doubts. But Margot had kept her countenance serene, had done her best to be one of them. She’d danced, for God’s sake, something she’d steadfastly refused in the four months they’d lived as husband and wife.

  He touched her gown now, felt the smooth texture of the silk, the raised bits of thread so artfully woven into the skirt. If her gown was here, where was she?

  He squinted into the darkened room and spotted the mound of a person beneath the coverlet, three dogs beside her. That was a surprise.

  Arran leaned down and quietly removed all but his plaid and his shirt. He padded over to the bed, pulled his shirt free of his plaid, and then, with hands on his hips, he stared down at his wife. The dogs lifted their heads and began to beat their tails against the coverlet. He signaled them down and ushered them out of the room, then returned to the bed.

  She lay on her side. A thick braid of her hair spilled behind her like a rope. Her face was buried in a pillow and her limbs, covered by the bed linens, seemed to be folded at strange angles. It was strange finding her here like this—she’d never slept a full night in his bed without being commanded to do it.

  He stripped out of his shirt and plaid, leaving them where they fell, and lifted the bedsheet to slide in beside her. He moved to her back, draping his arm across her abdomen. She was wearing a silk chemise that felt like water to his hand, and her hair was fragrant, as if a vine of clematis had curled around his bed. Her small, supple body was invitingly warm, and he was suddenly and unwelcomingly filled with longing. A desire to protect. To keep, to hold.

  “Where were you?” she murmured sleepily into her pillow.

  “Minding things.”

  “Do you have a mistress?”

  Arran sighed impatiently. “No. I’ve been unfailingly and uncomfortably and some say foolishly loyal to the marriage vows I made before you and God, aye?”

  Margot shifted onto her back and blinked up at him with lids heavy with sleep. She smiled softly and touched a lock of hair on his forehead. “Truly?”

  “I would no’ say so were it false. There has been no one but you since we wed. Can you say the same?”

  She touched the tip of her finger to his lips.

  “Before you answer, I will caution you against falsehood,” he said, and lightly bit the tip of her finger before pulling her hand down. “Dermid has been near Norwood Park since you left, aye?”

  “Oh, indeed he has,” she said with a sigh. “Someone is always watching me. I will be entirely honest, but you will not like my answer.”

  Bloody hell. He steeled himself. “Go on, then. Donna trifle with me.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Shortly after I returned to Norwood Park, I allowed a gentleman to kiss me.”

  Arran frowned. He waited. Surely there was more to it. “Who?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Aye, it matters,” he said, catching her hand and keeping her from touching him again. “Who?”

  “Sir William Dalton,” she said, and pulled her hand free. “I shouldn’t think you’d know of him.”

  Arran didn’t know him, but he would commit that name to memory and kill the bloody bounder one day. “Why did you allow it, then?” he demanded. “Do you love him?”

  “Love?” She giggled. “No! Not for a moment.” She rolled onto her belly beside him and came up on her elbows; the scent of her perfume wafted over him. She smelled like flowers. A bouquet of flowers. “God’s truth, I don’t know why I did it,” she said low. “I’d had a bit of port that evening and I was feeling a bit morose. And vexed.”

  “What had you vexed?”

  “Well, you, my darling husband,” she said, as if he should have guessed as much. “I was angry that I’d been forced into marriage and suddenly had no hope of another one.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and fell onto his back. He threw one arm over his eyes, not wanting to see her face.

  Margot clucked her tongue. “Don’t be missish, Mackenzie. You know very well what I mean.”

  “I donna know what you mean, Margot. I never know what you mean.”

  “Are you really surprised? Our marriage was arranged to expand my father’s and your fortunes. It was not made for compatibility. Surely you can see it is not one I would ever have chosen for myself.”

  “I donna see why no’,” he said petulantly.

  “Because I’d only m
et you! One cannot determine compatibility for a lifetime in one or two meetings. And the marriage didn’t seem to suit either of us, did it? And there I was, come home from the disaster of it—”

  “It wasna a disaster—”

  “—and Sir Dalton was quite convincing in his esteem for me.”

  “This is no’ easing me,” he said gruffly.

  “I allowed him to kiss me in a moment of weakness. And then...” Her voice trailed off.

  Arran removed his arm from his eyes and peered over at her. “And then?”

  “And then I realized what I was doing. And I further realized that I didn’t want to do it. I’d been caught up in a moment, and thank heaven, I remembered myself, for I never would have forgiven myself.”

  He didn’t know if he believed her. “Why no’ go on with it, then?” he scoffed. “You clearly held no regard for me.”

  “Now, that is simply not true,” she said patiently, and lightly kissed his shoulder. “I hold a great deal of regard for you. I didn’t go on with it for the same reason you didn’t. Because I had taken vows before God and made them to you.”

  “Aye, that you did,” he snapped.

  For some reason, his irritation made her giggle. Before Arran could say that he did not find it the least bit amusing, she bent down and kissed his nipple, her teeth grazing it and igniting a fire in him. He rolled away from her, onto his side.

  Margot stubbornly kissed the point between his shoulder blades. “Were you never tempted?” she asked.

  “Aye, of course I was tempted,” he said, making a feeble attempt to bat her away. “I’m a man. But I was married and I didna act on it.”

  “Then you’re much stronger of character than am I.”

  He grunted at that. “You’ll be astonished, no doubt, that admitting your weakness does no’ pacify me in the least. It only makes me more suspicious of you.”

  She kissed the back of his neck. “I didn’t tell you to pacify you. I told you to be completely honest and offer you my sincerest apologies.”

  “Then you’d best start offering, madam—the list is quite long.”

  “Yes, it is, and I do offer them, Arran,” she said, and her hand slid around to his chest. “I offer my apologies for everything.”

  Everything. What did that mean, really? He looked over his shoulder at her. Diah, but the woman could fire his blood, her lips dark rose against her skin made milky by the moonlight. She looked so earnest. So treacherous. So desirable. His head warred with his heart. His heart warred with his cock. What was he doing with her? Why had he not sent her home straightaway?

  “I am sorry,” she said, biting his arm lightly. “Can you not see how I’ve tried to show you? I danced. I drank ale. I came to you. It’s not pretense—it’s my sincere effort to please you.”

  “Ach, it shows me nothing,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “You might do the same for a new gown.”

  “Then perhaps this will convince you,” she said, and kissed his ribs.

  Arran jerked. He was ticklish there. “Donna do that.”

  Margot moved lower, her hair trailing down his arm as her mouth moved across him. She kissed his abdomen, lingering there.

  He wouldn’t fight it. He was incapable of fighting it. He was brought to mind of their wedding night, of how beautiful and innocent she’d been. And completely ignorant of what went on between a man and a woman. It was utterly impossible that she should have reached adulthood with no carnal knowledge, but it appeared that was precisely the case. He had not relished taking her virginity the way some men did, but when the task was done, he had loved teaching her what pleased her. And what pleased him. And the many ways they could enjoy each other.

  She moved lower, her tongue teasing the tip of his cock. Had he taught her this, as well? How to drive a man to utter madness? “I’m no’ a woman,” he warned her. “I’ll no’ be swayed by a bloody kiss. I’ll trust you no more by morning’s light.”

  “You most certainly are not a woman,” she agreed, and took him into her mouth.

  Arran lost his will to argue; his eyes fluttered shut as her lips moved over him, her tongue circling the girth of him. She wasn’t an innocent virgin anymore. Just a touch, a kiss, and he found himself unable to deny her a bloody thing. He’d always been tender with her, conscience of her youth and naïveté. But she was different now. She was lustier. Mature. Seasoned in a way that could only come from a marriage bed and time. She stoked something unworldly in him that made him feel as if he could hurl cabers, swim oceans and wrestle bears.

  She was quickly driving him to the point of oblivion, and Arran suddenly surged up. He caught her beneath her arms, and in one swift movement, he put her on her back and moved between her legs, pushing them aside with his knees. Margot clawed at her chemise, pulling it up, clear of her pelvis, and Arran pressed the tip of his massive erection against her, moving in tantalizingly slow motions against her wet, warm sex.

  Margot grasped his hips, pulling him closer, arching her back so that he could feel her body pulsating against his. She was clearly enjoying herself. She was as willing a partner as a man could ever hope to have, unafraid of Arran or his body, unafraid to take pleasure where she could. She had become the sort of lover that men dreamed of possessing in a moment like this.

  He slid into her body, and Margot flung her arms wide with a sigh of pure pleasure. Arran closed his eyes and lost himself in that exquisite sensation, slipping his hand between her legs to caress her as he moved with increasing urgency. She responded by raking her hands down his back and lifting her knees, locking her feet behind his back. She was breathing heavily, as lost as he was in the physical sensations of their lovemaking. Her deepening pleasure made him burn madly to give her more.

  When she began to pant, Arran clasped her tightly, lifted his hips and thrust deep into her, over and over again until Margot cried out and her body spasmed around his. His own release followed, the force of it racking his body.

  He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, and it was several moments before he could find the strength to lift his head again. When he did, Margot’s smile was seductive and sated. “Oh, Arran, you’ve always pleased me so,” she murmured, and kissed his eyes, his temple.

  This woman was terrifying. She could snatch his breath with only a smile. She could make him overlook her perfidy, could make him forgive everything just so that he might have her. “Have I pleased you more than Sir Dalton?”

  “Infinitely,” she assured him.

  Arran grunted his satisfaction with that answer. He kissed her again as he eased out of her body and rolled onto his back. Margot sighed happily and nestled against him with her head on his chest, her arm draped across him.

  He casually stroked her arm. “You’ll tell me the truth now, aye, Margot? Why have you come back?”

  She sighed, her breath warm on his skin. “This again?”

  “Aye, this again, until I have whatever it is you’re hiding.”

  “Why won’t you believe me?”

  “Because it seems verra convenient, your sudden appearance like a waif in the night.”

  “It wasn’t convenient at all, really. Very inconvenient, if you must know, what with all the packing, and the journey is really quite long and difficult. And did you see my companions?”

  “Aye. English fops, the both of them.”

  Margot lifted her head and smiled at him.

  Diah, that smile.

  “Weren’t you even a tiny bit happy to see me?” she asked as she traced his initials on his bare chest.

  “No,” he said. A lie. “And if you willna tell me the truth, you may go back to your rooms. Shall I put you in your gown?”

  “No.”

  “Do you intend to walk through Balhaire in only this?” he asked, slipping his finger under her chemise
.

  “I intend to stay here, with you. I’m not keeping separate rooms.”

  “Aye, you are—”

  “You always wanted me with you before. You never liked for me to have separate chambers.”

  “It’s different now,” he said, panicking a little at the thought of having her in his bed every night.

  “Yes, because I’m different now. I want to please you. And besides, you need someone here. This chamber is in utter disarray.”

  “Mrs. Abernathy’s sister is ailing and she’s away. I donna trust anyone else to tend my rooms.”

  “There, you see? All the more reason you need me,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.

  She was winning this battle. Arran roughly took her face in his hand. “Have you no’ heard me? I donna need you, Margot. Donna convince yourself that I do,” he said coldly.

  “Whatever you say,” she murmured sweetly, and pushed his hand from her face, then floated down, nestling against him, in the crook of his arm and shoulder, just like she used to do after they made love.

  It felt maddeningly right. God damn this, Arran thought. The woman knew very well what she was doing—she was playing him like a bloody fiddle, wooing him to her, countering him at every turn. She might as well run a sword through him. She had rendered him that useless.

  And for what—to see him hanged? Not if he could help it.

  Unfortunately, judging by his patent inability to dismiss her, he could not help it. He was doomed.

  * * *

  A GENTLE SLAP to her bottom startled Margot awake; she rose up with a sleepy mewl of alarm to see Arran standing beside the bed, already dressed for the day. The dawn sky was pink, and yet she could hear voices drifting up to them from the bailey below. She pressed her fingertips to her eyes a moment before opening them again.

  Arran grinned at her. “How does a woman go to bed looking as bonny as a woman has ever looked, and wake up the very next morning looking like this?” he asked, tousling her hair. “Come, then, it’s time to rise. Summon the lass who attends you.” He shrugged into a coat. “I’m to Coigeach for the day.”