Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  Arran smiled, and she bristled at how patronizing his smile seemed to be. As if he thought she was a precocious child insisting that faeries were real.

  “All right, you don’t believe me. But I am certain of it,” Margot snapped. “I have done an awful thing, coming here as I did under false pretense. But that doesn’t mean my family is corrupt. It means only that my father is frightened.”

  He didn’t speak.

  She came to her feet. “Everyone around you is so convinced of it, aren’t they? But perhaps they forget that when something so horrible is said of you, it is also said of me. And I am the earl of Norwood’s daughter! I know my father, and he will not stand for such slander. He will protect us with all that he has.”

  Arran steadily held her gaze.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” she said, and stalked angrily from his study to her own rooms.

  Margot wished she felt as confident as she presented herself to Arran. She believed what she said...but nonetheless, the next morning, she took her lessons in earnest.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A QUICK DEPARTURE from Balhaire required a monumental effort, especially with the possibility of no return looming over Arran like a dark cloud. There were so many things to do, so many people to see and things that must be said.

  And yet, in spite of the gloom that surrounded him, the speed with which he was forced to muster was also a blessing—he had very little time to ponder the many what-ifs running through his thoughts.

  He and Margot hardly spoke at all, both of them preoccupied with the imminent departure. When Arran arrived at his chamber well after midnight, he would find her curled into a ball in a fast sleep. He was thankful for that, too—with the exception of the night he’d learned the depth of her betrayal, his mind could not be persuaded to amorous events.

  But when he gazed down at her, her face awash in the innocence of a mind quieted by sleep, he wondered...could she be leading him to his doom? Had this been the plan all along? Could he be so blind that he didn’t see the truth?

  Arran was not alone in his suspicions—Jock had them, too. Late Wednesday, a messenger sent by MacLeary arrived from Mallaig with the news that there was more talk of a traitor in their midst, a cancer to the ideals and spirit of the Highlands.

  “Aye, this news I know,” Arran said impatiently. “What else?”

  “The laird bids me tell you that there are those to the north who believe the cancer must be struck out before it corrodes their plans for the future of Scotland.”

  “Is that all there is?” Jock growled at the man.

  The messenger nodded.

  “Go on with you, then. Fergus will take you to the kitchens to fill your belly, aye?” Jock said, and handed the man a few coins before ushering him out.

  Having delivered him into Fergus’s hands, Jock shut the door, walked to the sideboard, poured two drams of whisky and handed one to Arran.

  “Well, then,” Arran said. “Either I might draw the cancer out myself or become the cancer, aye?” He downed his whisky.

  “Assuming the Lady Mackenzie has no’ begun to cut already,” Jock muttered.

  Arran understood his cousin’s grave doubts—God knew he had them, as well. But he didn’t know what else he might do. To stay at Balhaire with the Jacobite rumors swirling around him made him nervous. To go to England was to face arrest and execution. The only hope he had was to expose Tom Dunn before anything might happen.

  At four o’clock Thursday morning, he roused Margot out of a deep sleep and told her to ready herself. It was time to go.

  He stood in the foyer of Balhaire and looked around him. These familiar stone walls, the place of his youth, of his manhood. He spoke softly to Jock—and tried to ignore that the big man fought back tears. He squatted down and rubbed Old Roy behind the ears and received a thump thump thump of his tail against the floor in gratitude. Roy likely would be gone by the time Arran returned—if he returned. And looking into Roy’s brown eyes, he felt his own mortality.

  He stood and walked out of Balhaire without looking back, lest his grief bring him to his knees.

  They set sail with the morning tide. Two days later, they landed at Heysham on England’s shores and began the ride to Norwood Park. At least Margot’s riding had improved. She kept pace and seemed more at ease on a horse than before.

  They were guests at the modest home of Mr. Richard Burns near Carlisle their first night in England. Mr. Burns was a Scot and his wife’s cousin a Mackenzie. Burns generally was happy to welcome Scots entering England, but he looked quite unhappy to see Arran. He allowed Arran and Margot to enter his home but sent the four men who accompanied them to sleep with the horses. And even so, he glanced nervously about in the gloaming, as if expecting an army to emerge from the bushes and attack them.

  Inside the small foyer of the house, Margot removed the heavy woolen coat, revealing her trews. Mrs. Burns stared at her so intently, her gaze wandering over Margot’s frame, that Arran could see Margot’s cheeks blooming in shame.

  “You’ll forgive my wife,” he said to his hosts. “She takes no pleasure in these clothes, but it is a necessity for riding long hours over the course of two days.”

  “You’ll want some supper,” Mrs. Burns said stiffly, and gestured for them to follow her down a narrow hall and into a dining room.

  Mrs. Burns set the rough-hewn table with two tallow candles and pieces of tarnished silver and bowls. She poured ale from a ewer. A small lass, no more than ten years, appeared with a pot she could scarcely carry. Arran took it from her and ladled hare stew into his bowl, and then Margot’s, before giving the pot back to the girl to carry to the other side of the table.

  There was very little discussion over supper. Mrs. Burns asked after Balhaire and her cousin Mary.

  “She is well,” Arran said.

  “God keep her,” Mrs. Burns muttered.

  Mr. Burns ate quickly and stood when he’d finished his meal, apparently wanting to be gone from them as quickly as possible. Arran had been a guest in this house more than once, and Burns had never been anything but welcoming. He could only assume that word of treason had reached this man’s ears.

  When the meal was finished, Mrs. Burns led Arran and Margot by the light of a single tallow candle up to a room at the far end of the hall.

  “It’s lovely. You are very kind to offer us a bed,” Margot said.

  Mrs. Burns grunted some response and went out, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Arran locked the door. He walked around the small room, moving the drapes so he could see what was out the window in the unlikely event they should be forced to exit from here. He wouldn’t rule anything out—he did not feel entirely safe.

  When he was convinced there was no one lurking to slay them in their sleep, no poisonous asps, no deadly spiders, he turned around. Margot was standing in the middle of the room, her shirttails pulled free of her trews. Her hair was sticking up in strange places, and her coat was dirty, as if she’d brushed up against a tree covered in lichen. Dark circles were beginning to shadow her eyes.

  “You are weary,” he said. He took the coat from her and laid it on a chair. “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to a bed so small he couldn’t imagine how it would hold both of them.

  Margot sat and watched impassively as he knelt down on one knee to remove her boots.

  When he’d pulled them off her feet, he glanced up. Her face was ashen. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t do that,” she said, looking at her feet. “Don’t be kind to me. I don’t deserve your kindness—”

  “Margot—”

  “I don’t!” she exclaimed, and covered her face with her hands. “I’ve been so cake-headed. You’re all right, I’ve been the biggest fool—how could I have been so stupid?”

  Arran wait
ed for tears. Three years ago, she would have disintegrated with them. But when she lifted her face from her hands, Arran didn’t see tears. He saw the fire of anger in her eyes. “I am filled with fury,” she said low, her hands curling into fists.

  “You canna blame yourself for believing those who are duty-bound to protect you.”

  She seemed not to have heard him. “It will be all right, Arran. I know you don’t believe me, but I swear it on my life.”

  “I’d rather you no’ swear so zealously in the event—”

  “I mean it. I will never be so naive again.”

  Arran couldn’t help a wry smile. He cupped her face with his hand. “Donna promise what’s impossible, leannan.”

  She ignored his teasing and wrapped her fingers around his wrist. “Are you still angry with me?”

  “Ach, no,” he admitted. He understood the untenable situation in which she’d been placed. “But I am disheartened.”

  Margot groaned and bowed her head. She dropped her hand from his wrist. “I think that is far worse.”

  Arran heaved himself up, falling onto that lumpy bed. Margot curled up against him. He felt some small comfort in her soft shape against his and slipped his arm beneath her, holding her firmly against him.

  * * *

  AT DAWN THE next morning, they rode out. Their travel was long and grueling, and Arran expected Margot to crumple the closer they drew to Norwood Park. He expected tears and complaints. But she surprised him—she stoically bore the hardship, and to his greater surprise, she even took responsibility for her horse. She fed the pony and brushed him. She led him to drink and delighted when she found brambles to feed him. This woman, with the tangled auburn hair and filthy clothes, was so far removed from the lass in the ball gown he’d first seen on the balcony at Norwood Park that Arran scarcely recognized her.

  He loved the woman she was now. She was slowly becoming the sort of woman he’d always imagined he would marry. Seductive and elegant, yet battle-tested and strong. And as he looked at her on the back of the pony, he couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the end of their story.

  The story seemed unfinished.

  Perhaps that was his wishful thinking.

  They were only hours from Norwood Park when they stopped at a proper inn for the night to rest and prepare for meeting her family. Arran sent for a bath—it cost him a proper fortune, but he didn’t care. Margot was delighted; when the lads had filled the tub, she quickly stripped down and sank into the steaming water. “Oh my,” she said, and closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the edge of the tub. “It’s heaven, Arran. A white fluffy piece of heaven.”

  “I’ll wash your hair, shall I?”

  “Oh, please.”

  He used a pitcher from the water basin and poured water over her tresses.

  She’d closed her eyes, and dark lashes fanned out against skin that had turned pink and freckled in the sun during this journey.

  “Do you think Roger has enough to eat?” she asked as she idly trailed her fingers across the surface of the water.

  “Roger?”

  “My pony,” she clarified.

  “You’ve named him, have you?”

  “Of course! I’ve been so intimate with only one other being in my life, so it seemed proper that I at least know his name.” She opened one eye and smiled up at him.

  Arran began to lather her hair. “And what, then, does Roger call you?”

  “Heavy.” She laughed at her jest. “Do you know what I wish, Arran? I wish I had learned to ride astride before now. There is something quite freeing about it, riding without a lot of rules and expectations about how one should sit, or how long one should ride, or what one should wear. I’ve never had that sort of freedom in England. But in Scotland, it seems as if no one is the least bit scandalized by a woman doing as she pleases. All that coming and going from Balhaire—do you know that no one ever tried to stop me? I thought it was because they reviled me and didn’t care if I was set upon by thieves. But now I think it is that everyone is...free.”

  Arran pondered that. “They might have reviled you a wee bit.”

  Margot laughed and playfully splashed water on him.

  “Sit up now.”

  Margot did as he asked, hugging her knees to her chest as he poured warm water over her head, rinsing the last bit of soap from her hair.

  “Now you,” she said. “I’ll shave you if you like.”

  Arran was happy to join her. He arranged the razor and strop next to the tub, then stripped off his clothes and crowded into the tub with her, splashing water over the sides as he tried to fit his much larger frame in the small bath with her. Margot had to settle on top of him to allow room; he held her hips in his hands.

  She hummed as she lathered his face, and then leaned in to scrape the beard from his face. “Do you remember when I first tried to help you shave your whiskers?” she asked.

  “How could I forget it, then? You came quite close to slitting my throat.”

  “You fidgeted so! You’d not sit still for a moment.”

  “That’s because you were so timid, Margot. You’d no’ employ the razor as it needed.” He mimicked her technique.

  Margot giggled, and when she did, the razor slipped a little. “That was an accident,” she said solemnly, then giggled again.

  He watched his wife, with her lips pursed and her brow furrowed in concentration, shave the beard from his face.

  She glanced sidelong at him. “What do you think would have happened had I remained at Balhaire? Would we have found our way, do you think?”

  “I’d like to think we would have overcome our differences, aye.”

  “You mean I might have overcome my differences.”

  He smiled.

  “And what of you, Laird Mackenzie? You were not so pleased with me, if you’ve forgotten.”

  “I wanted to turn you over my bloody knee,” he agreed.

  She giggled again and pushed wet hair from his face. She was so bloody bonny when she smiled. Eyes sparkling with mirth, a smile that seemed to reach from ear to ear.

  “Aye, but I was smitten,” he grumbled as she sank down onto his chest. “The mistake I made was thinking you might be a wee bit smitten, too.”

  “Some fall hard into affection, while others land softly. I was intrigued by you, but I was so fearful. I’d scarcely been away from Norwood Park in all my life.”

  “No matter—look at you now, leannan. No’ a trembling bone in your body, aye?”

  Margot leaned forward and kissed him. “What a journey we’ve had, my lord husband.”

  Aye, what a journey they’d had. He lived with a constant sense of unease, what with the lack of trust between them and the uncertainty of what would happen at Norwood Park. If by some miracle he was able to survive this, he wondered whether she would return to Balhaire with him. Or would she remain in England with her balls and gaming tables and gentleman admirers?

  What if she returned to Balhaire? Would he ever learn to trust her again? He wanted children and laughter and to grow old with his spouse, to watch her hair turn to silver. He did not want to live his life wondering if she would leave him again, if she was conspiring against him again.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “That when your father first came to me with his proposition, I was a young man with many dreams,” he said. “I was finding ways that Balhaire might prosper and I might sustain it for my clan. Marriage, an heir—I couldna accomplish all that I desired without them, aye? It seemed a perfect union—it gave me lands in England, a woman to give me sons.”

  “That is what marriage is generally about,” she said absently as she combed her fingers through his wet hair.

  “Aye...but then I saw you, Margot,” he said, brushing his
hand roughly against her face. “I saw you on the balcony at Norwood Park, and from that moment on, my life could never be the same.”

  “Oh, Arran.” She sighed.

  And then he was kissing her, and then he was standing, lifting them both out of the bath, and carrying her to an old, squeaky bed. He did not want to think now. He did not want to know what would happen tomorrow when they stepped into Norwood Park, into all that glistening opulence.

  But he was also aware, as he covered her damp body with his mouth and his hands, his tongue tracing a long, tantalizing line down her belly and between her legs, that no matter what happened between them, there would never be another for him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MARGOT AWOKE BEFORE Arran the next morning, when it was still quite dark. She sat on the edge of the bed, drew her legs to her chest. She hadn’t slept well at all, her thoughts tossing wildly about in and out of her dreams. In one dream, her father raged at her for bringing Arran to Norwood. In another, she and Arran, her father and brothers, all ran from some unseen and menacingly dark force.

  The dreams were unsettling and had left her feeling a bit queasy. But as the fog cleared from her mind, Margot had no doubt her father would help them. He had given her life and brought her into this world, had provided a life of privilege, and he would not forsake her.

  Margot began to rummage through her portmanteau, into which she’d put a proper gown.

  “What are you about?” Arran asked sleepily, awakened by her movements.

  She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Today we reach Norwood Park, and I must dress properly for it.”

  When she was dressed and had pinned up her hair as best she could without help, she turned to him. “Well, then, do I look convincing as a laird’s wife?”

  Arran—dressed now, too, in pantaloons and an inky black coat—allowed his gaze to travel slowly over her. As if he was memorizing her. “Aye, quite convincing.”

  She pressed her hand to his chest and rose up to kiss him. She could see etches of concern around his eyes. “You mustn’t fear, Arran. I know my father.”