Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  “You’re leaving Balhaire again?” she asked plaintively.

  “I’ll return by nightfall,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her forehead. “Mind you behave. Donna frighten my clan with a lot of wandering about, aye?”

  “Oh, I think there is no danger of frightening them,” she said with a yawn. “You’ve always confused their dislike for fear.”

  “On the contrary, I’ve known it to be both dislike and fear.” He winked, tossed her gown onto the bed and strode out of the chamber.

  Margot fell back against the pillows and yawned again. She didn’t want to think of anything at the moment. She felt content lying in his bed with a cool morning breeze drifting in through the window. It had been quite nice sleeping with her husband last night. She had liked the warmth of him at her back. She’d liked the feeling of utter safety with his arm anchored firmly around her waist.

  She rolled over and buried her face in Arran’s pillow, breathing in the musky scent of him. God, what a little cake-headed fool she’d been before. There was something so intimate about sleeping with him. She’d never realized how it adhered two people to each other. She couldn’t help but wonder what other things she’d been so desperately wrong about.

  Her reasons for being here were becoming muddier and muddier to her. She wanted to know if she had ruined any chance of a marriage with him. But she also wanted to know where it was he was going, what he was doing. Was she feeling these intimate ties to a traitor?

  She looked around her. She supposed she had the perfect opportunity now to have a look about, but she had no stomach for it. Last night, when she’d picked up this room, she’d made a halfhearted attempt to look for some clue as to what he was involved in by poking under the bed and into his chest of drawers.

  She didn’t like it. It felt wrong, dishonest. Especially when she wasn’t certain what, exactly, she should be seeking. Especially when she was going to crawl into the man’s bed and kiss him.

  Maybe she’d ride today, she thought idly. She was not a good rider, but she could manage. She had to do something with Pepper and Worthing watching her all day. She would tell them she was going to pay a call to someone—she’d think of someone, anyway—then slip out, perhaps ride down to the cove to have a look. It would be a relief to go beyond the castle walls. She needed time to think and reassess, away from everyone.

  Margot groped over her head for the little bell that would summon Nell from the antechamber.

  An hour or so later, Margot emerged dressed for riding. She wandered down to the great hall, where she knew she would find a sideboard laden with breakfast food. Since the laird lived with his entire extended family—and their families, et cetera and so forth—it was necessary to lay out a feast most mornings. These large breakfasts had vexed her before, particularly when Arran had told her she was expected to be present. Margot had never been one to enjoy early mornings. She had reasoned that while an early breakfast might be prudent for the many Mackenzies who had many things to accomplish in a day, it was hardly the thing for the lady of the house.

  What foolishness.

  The hall was still crowded, mostly with women and children. A few looked at her as if they expected her to cock up her toes at any moment, but their numbers were dwindling.

  The sideboard was filled with food, as she knew it would be, and she perused the selection.

  “Madainn mhath, milady.”

  She turned her head and saw Lennon Mackenzie, the blacksmith at Balhaire. “Good morning,” she said.

  “Good day for a reel, aye?” he asked. His companions snickered.

  Margot smiled, too, and turned around to him, surprising him, judging by the way the man swayed back and away from her. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Mackenzie. Did I kick you last night? My apologies! I have not yet learned the fine art of the reel, but I am quite determined.”

  He looked uncertainly at his companions. “It’s all in the skip, it is. You master that wee kick, and you’ve learned it.”

  “Will you teach me?” she asked, and popped a berry in her mouth, her eyes fixed on him, amused at how many emotions flit across the man’s face. Lennon Mackenzie and his companions looked shocked. They waited, wide-eyed, for his answer.

  “Aye, milady,” he said. “Aye, I’ll teach you.”

  “That’s a promise,” she said, and patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you.” She turned around and continued her perusal of the sideboard.

  She was dithering over the cheeses when she felt someone sidle up to her. She half expected Lennon Mackenzie begging to be relieved of his promise. But it was Mr. Pepper standing beside her, holding a lace handkerchief to his nose, as if he were offended by the smell of breakfast. “Good morrow, Lady Mackenzie,” he said, inclining his head.

  “Mr. Pepper.” She returned her attention to the sideboard. “Have you come to ridicule my dancing, too?”

  “I don’t consider what they do here to be dancing,” he said primly. “I have heard that the laird has left Balhaire.”

  Well, then, Mr. Pepper didn’t miss a thing, did he? “So he has.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “He did not say,” she said, and began to pile cheeses onto her plate.

  Mr. Pepper watched her. “You are dressed for riding.”

  A rather ridiculous observation, seeing as how she clearly already knew she was dressed for riding. “Yes.”

  “Where do you mean to ride?” he asked casually.

  Margot paused and looked at him. “Why?”

  “Why indeed,” he said impatiently. “I am here to ensure your safety. I would not like to see you ride out alone without even a proper dog to accompany you.” He looked meaningfully to his left.

  Margot followed his gaze. An old hound with a white muzzle was stretched out on his side near the hearth.

  “The laird is quite fond of dogs,” she said coolly. And she thought if Mr. Pepper didn’t care for them, he ought to find lodging elsewhere. She was suddenly reminded of a young dog here at Balhaire who’d been badly injured by a trap that had been set illegally. When the gamekeeper determined the poor dog could not be saved and, furthermore, would suffer in his last hours, she had watched Arran scoop the dog up in his arms and carry him from this very hall with tears on his face.

  He’d taken the dog into the woods and mercifully put it out of its misery.

  She shivered at the painful recollection of how he’d grieved for the dog.

  “I heard the laird departed in the company of several other men. Highland clansmen.”

  She glanced curiously at him. Mr. Pepper had a handful of berries and was casually eating them. “He did?”

  “You don’t know?” Mr. Pepper asked irritably. “Here now, you must have at least a groom to accompany you. You cannot be too cautious now—”

  “I am at home here, Mr. Pepper. I won’t need a dog or groom to accompany me. I mean to call on a friend who might have something to tell me.” She arched a brow. “But she won’t tell me a thing if I come in the company of anyone.”

  Mr. Pepper popped another berry in his mouth, shrewdly assessing her.

  “But thank you kindly for your concern for my safety.” She moved down the sideboard, ending the conversation.

  Mr. Pepper didn’t press her further, but she noticed that the moment Worthing appeared, Pepper was at his side, whispering in his ear. How long did these two men intend to remain at Balhaire? They really served no purpose other than to make her anxious. She would be much more at ease in her odious task if she didn’t feel as if someone was constantly watching her.

  When she finished her breakfast and was certain she’d not be accosted by either Mr. Pepper or Sir Worthing, Margot put on her hat and gloves and went out into the bailey in search of Sweeney.

  She found him easily enough. “A horse please, Swee
ney,” she said after she’d greeted him. “Preferably one a bit smaller than the one you saddled for me earlier this week. One that I might actually ride without fear of being thrown. Oh, and if you please, a proper saddle.”

  “Proper,” Sweeney said, his nerves apparently calmer today.

  “Yes. One suitable for a lady to ride.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ll have a look around, then,” he said, and disappeared into the stables. When he at last reemerged, he was leading a black Fell pony behind him. The horse had a shaggy, thick mane that covered his eyes. He was broad, but much shorter than the one she’d ridden two days ago.

  “Oh, this one is lovely,” Margot said, stroking the horse’s nose.

  “Aye, he’s a good-tempered mount, and sure-footed, he is. He’s good with inexperienced riders, aye?”

  “Yes, well. I suppose that would suit me perfectly.” She sighed.

  Sweeney cupped his hands for her and helped her up onto a sidesaddle so ancient that it was cracked across the seat. It took her several moments to find her balance, but when she felt as if she was sitting as confidently as she could, she said, “Should anyone inquire, I am calling on a friend.”

  “You are?” Sweeney asked, clearly dubious.

  Margot looked pointedly at him.

  “Aye, mu’um,” Sweeney said with the confidence of a man who knew no one would inquire.

  After she made several attempts to get the pony to move, Sweeney resorted to giving the beast a slap on the rump. Margot eventually rode out, the pony trotting out the gates as sure-footedly as Sweeney had promised.

  She rode down a wide, flat path that took her through fields of heather before becoming noticeably steeper. The path moved from there into the woods, where patches of primrose and harebells grew, and the air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle. There wasn’t a sound in the air besides birds chirping and the tide coming in to shore, and Margot very much appreciated the solitude. Remarkably for a woman who was estranged from her husband, she never had solitude. Someone was always watching her. Her father, her brothers. The man Arran had sent from Scotland.

  The pony seemed to know precisely where she wanted to go and moved down the path with ease. When she reached the beach, she could see a ship anchored quite far out. She could see the figures of men moving about on the deck of that ship and noticed that someone had pulled a rowboat up onto the shore.

  A month ago, Margot would have thought nothing of this ship. She would not have been particularly interested if it had just come in or was preparing to sail. But now she wondered if that ship was a key to her husband’s guilt or innocence.

  She was gazing out at the ship when a movement caught her eye, and she turned to see a man coming out of the woods. When he saw her, he stopped. He rubbed his hands on his dirty trousers and glanced at the ship, then at her.

  Apprehension swooned in Margot’s belly. “Ah...good afternoon,” she said uncertainly.

  He said nothing; he stared warily.

  Perhaps she should have heeded Mr. Pepper and at least brought a dog along with her. “I am Lady Mackenzie.”

  “Aye, I know who you be, mu’um.”

  Well, then. At least he knew there would be consequences for murdering her. Or rather, she at least hoped the possibility of dire consequences might cross his mind. Frankly, she wasn’t entirely confident of it. “What...what were you doing there, in the woods?” she asked. When all else failed, assume an air of authority and hope for the best.

  The man glanced back over his shoulder. Several wooden crates had been stacked in the shadow of the trees, and she immediately assumed guns. If her husband was planning a rebellion, he would need guns. And didn’t guns generally arrive in crates?

  “Nothing, milady,” he said. “We’ve brung back bolts of cloth and fine china. We’ve got to get them off the ship.”

  “But...where have you come from?”

  “From the Continent, milady.” He was nervously twisting the cap around in his hands.

  The Continent. Margot felt a little ill. Guns from France! First guns, then men. Didn’t that seem logical? “Have you brought any men with you? Any soldiers or officers?”

  He looked confused and glanced at the ship. “No.”

  Another rowboat had been put in the water at the ship, and two men were slowly making their way toward shore with several crates between them. She didn’t have much time.

  “Who has commanded the ship?” she demanded, as if that would enlighten her in any way.

  “Cap’n Mackenzie, mu’um.”

  That was no help—there could be dozens of Captain Mackenzies around here.

  “Aye, Cap’n Mackenzie,” he said again.

  He began to move toward her, and Margot’s heart climbed to her throat. “The laird shall be along at any moment,” she said, and even glanced over her shoulder with the insane hope that he might somehow miraculously appear.

  “The laird?” the man said. “But he’s gone to Coigeach,” he said, moving closer.

  Margot’s short breath turned to sheer panic. She imagined this man tossing down his cap just before he tackled her. She’d fall like a rock, as she’d never be able to hold her balance on this ridiculous sidesaddle. Arran was right—he’d once said she should have a pair of buckskins fashioned and learn to ride astride. If she lived to see another morning, she would do precisely that.

  As he moved closer, he shoved one hand in his pocket.

  “Dear God,” she murmured. She expected him to produce a knife and tried to pull the fool horse around. But the horse wouldn’t budge at first, confused as to what Margot wanted. She jerked hard to the right and the horse came around halfway.

  “Milady!” the man said, walking faster.

  Margot begged the beast with the pull of the reins and her heel to turn around—

  “I’ve something for you, I do,” he said. “A gift.” He had reached the pony’s head and grabbed the bridle, holding the horse in place.

  “Let go,” Margot said, her voice shaking with fear.

  The man pulled his hand free of his pocket and held it out to her. In his palm was a small, exquisitely carved figurine of a woman, dressed in a court dress. One of her legs was extended, and she held the sides of her skirt up in her outstretched hands, bowing over it. But one of her arms had been broken off at the shoulder.

  Not a knife. A figurine. She tried to understand what it was, what it meant.

  “One of them boxes, it was dropped, aye? The china, it’s packed tight in straw, so we lost only a few fine things. But a few come up broken, and Cap’n said to throw it all overboard, he did. But I fancied it. Thought it would make a fine gift, aye?” He held up his hand to Margot. “Her arm’s broken, but she’s bonny all the same. A gift for the laird’s lady. If you’ll have it.”

  “You mean to give it to me?” Margot asked uncertainly.

  “Aye, mu’um. Please,” he said.

  Margot hesitated. She gingerly lifted the figurine from his hand. “Thank you.”

  “I wasna stealing it,” he said. “I donna thieve.”

  “No, no—I never thought so.” Of course she’d thought so, and he knew it.

  “I only put it in my pocket to give the laird, aye? But then we heard his wife had come beg—” He blanched at what he’d just said and looked down, ran a hand over his head.

  “That she’d come back, I mean to say,” he hastily corrected himself. “And I thought it a fitting gift for ye, then. To welcome you to Balhaire once more.”

  She blushed, bent her head to examine the figurine. “Well, at least I have crawled back for a fine gift, haven’t I?”

  The poor man looked stricken, and Margot had to laugh. “Thank you, sir. You cannot imagine how I appreciate this.” Or how much she appreciated he did not mean to harm her, but to g
reet her.

  The man nodded and stepped back. “No’ all of them are happy to see you. I’d be a liar if I said otherwise. But a man needs his wife, aye? Me, I didna know how much I needed the wife ’til she’d gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Black fever.”

  “Oh. Oh my. I’m so—My condolences, sir.” She didn’t know quite what more to say to that. She couldn’t imagine how devastating that would be. She and Arran had their differences, but to think of that possibility...

  Margot swallowed. “Thank you again.” She tucked the figurine into her pocket for safekeeping.

  This time, she managed to pull the pony around.

  She thought about what the man had said as the pony picked its way up the hill to ride along the low cliff above the shore. She had never pondered if Arran needed her or not—she’d thought only how she’d needed him.

  Did he need her? How could she ever be useful beyond her dowry to a man like him? She was more burden than helpmate.

  She looked out to the sea. From here, she could see the ship more clearly. It was a small ship, the sort designed for speed. She was no expert on sailing vessels, but she was aware that the ships carrying troops were generally larger. This was absurd—she would never find evidence of Arran’s treachery by riding around the land, looking for clues. It was absurd.

  She turned the pony away from the sea and rode up the glen. Her progress was slow as she didn’t know how to persuade the pony to do more than plod along. It hardly mattered—she was entranced with the landscape. She had forgotten how the green Highlands turned gold in a certain light, purple in another light. The air smelled of wet leaves and the musky scent of peat.

  Presently she heard voices, and as the pony followed the path out of the forest, she rode past crofters working to cut and bind hay. Such a simple but meaningful existence. These people worked to fuel their lives and raise their children. They didn’t worry about social standing or connections.