Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  Fergus was agitated. “The hearth has no’ been lit, milady.”

  “Then perhaps you might light it,” Margot said as sweetly as possible.

  Fergus lit the hearth...but then he sent the dogs in. Quite literally sent them in. That was another thing she and Arran had argued about in the past—he allowed old and retired working dogs into Balhaire to live when they were no longer useful to their masters. At one time there were ten of them wandering about, sniffing corners and following behind people with the hope of earning a table scrap or a head scratch!

  Tonight, three dogs ambled in from the master dressing room, pausing to stretch and yawn. Margot had already put herself in bed, feeling miserably alone and a little uneasy. Though she’d never cared for dogs freely roaming the house, tonight she was not altogether cross when their heads popped up over the edge of the bed, their tails swishing on the floor, their gazes hopeful.

  “Very well, then.” Margot sighed, feigning impatience, and tapped the bed. The three of them leaped as one over her, circled about and finally settled themselves in with their backs pressed up against her.

  She remembered the wintry afternoon Arran had brought her down to the kennels to see a litter of puppies, hoping it would cheer her. It had. She remembered how he would cradle them one by one in his hand against his chest, stroking their heads. “This one shall be a fine herder, aye? But this one... I suspect he will spend his time digging beneath fences.” It had been a lovely afternoon.

  There’d been a few occasions like that with Arran, moments where they had been content with each other. Margot had thought of those moments at Norwood Park from time to time. Sometimes, when ennui consumed her, she’d thought of those moments rather wistfully.

  By morning, not only had Margot been nudged to the edge of the bed by her bedmates, but also two more had found their way inside and were laid out on the carpet at the foot of the bed.

  The only thing missing from this rather domestic scene was her husband. Was he still in the village of Lochalsh? Surely there was no treason to be done there, so what business could he possibly have? Perhaps he hadn’t gone there at all.

  No matter where he’d gone or what he’d done, Margot could not let anyone see her apprehension. It was imperative that she appear the repentant wife.

  She shooed the dogs out with a command to go and find their breakfast. She called Nell to her and dressed. She went down to the great hall as she ought, greeted as many Mackenzies as would look at her, forced herself to eat something, then quit the great hall as servants began to clear the hall, preparing the room for the celebration to take place that evening.

  As to that, Margot had a plan. She donned a cloak and left the castle, walking down the main road, past Mrs. Gowan’s shop, then turning a corner onto a well-worn footpath. She hopped over puddles and sidestepped a pair of chickens searching the road, and arrived at her destination: a small square of a house, with two small windows facing the path. She rapped on the door and waited. As she knew he would, a wizened old man opened it and squinted at her.

  “Good morning, Mr. Creedy.”

  He stared at her.

  “I’m Lady Mackenzie. We met a few years ago.”

  “Aye.”

  Margot cleared her throat and adjusted her cloak. “Ahem. I’ve come to inquire about a bit of tartan plaid.”

  He looked surprised. Then suspicious.

  “There is to be a gathering of sorts tonight...that is, the laird has kindly offered to host a gathering to welcome me home...and I should very much like to don a bit of plaid.”

  “Ye want to don a plaid,” he repeated incredulously.

  Was that so shocking? “I would like to, yes.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Ye’ve had a change of heart, is that it?”

  Margot could scarcely blame his skepticism—he had come offering her various plaids before. He’d had a cart of them, proud of his work, and she...well, she had refused them. She could recall how appalled she’d been that anyone would think she would suddenly don the rough wool, and she had politely...or perhaps not so politely...refused them. “I suppose I have. I apologize, Mr. Creedy. I should never have been so hasty—”

  “Ach, never ye mind, milady. It doesna matter what was said before, as long as we come back round to right.”

  Margot blinked. She felt strangely deceptive, as she wasn’t entirely certain she’d come back to the fold. Or had she? Her purpose at Balhaire seemed so suddenly confusing.

  Mr. Creedy read guilt into her hesitation. “Donna trouble yourself with regrets,” he said. “What sort would you like, then?”

  “What sort?”

  “An arisaid, then? A waistcoat? I’ve no’ enough time for that.”

  “A what? No, not a waistcoat.”

  “Aye, come, come,” he said, waving her in with a hand bent with age.

  She ducked her head and stepped inside his house. It was a single room and it smelled of fish. In one half was a bed. In the other half sat a large loom, as well as various fabrics and yarns hanging from the walls. There was a shelf where several plaids were neatly folded and stacked. He took one from the stack and unfurled it, holding it up to her. It was an enormous cloth, a blanket big enough to cover the master bed.

  “I’ll show you how it’s worn, then, if it suits ye. I’ll cut a strip and make a sash of it, aye?”

  “Aye,” she said without thinking.

  He draped it over her shoulder, reached around her and pulled one end to her hip, and then met that end with the other. “Fasten it here with a luckenbooth, aye?”

  “A brooch? Ah. I see,” she said. “Yes, it’s perfect, Mr. Creedy. Thank you. Is it possible you might have it ready for this evening?”

  “I’ll have it done in the hour. I’ll send it up with me lad then, shall I?”

  “Thank you.” Margot smiled and gratefully squeezed the old man’s hand.

  * * *

  THE DAY WENT quickly enough—it seemed there was quite a lot to do, settling into new rooms and reacquainting herself with Balhaire. And still, there was no sign of Arran.

  That evening, when Nell came to her to help her dress, she was full of news.

  “The laird has come back,” she whispered. “He’s come with two men, and quite a lot of fish hanging from a line.”

  Margot twisted about on her seat to see Nell. “He went fishing?” she asked incredulously.

  “I don’t know, mu’um. I only know he’s come back with a lot of them.”

  All right, she wasn’t going to allow her hackles to rise. At least, she told herself, he’d come back.

  When she’d finished dressing, Margot took a moment to admire herself. She looked like a queen; a crown was the only thing missing from the ensemble. Her hair was an artistic construction of loops and curls, fastened to her head with pearl-tipped pins. Her mantua was as rich as anything the queen might wear, and Margot felt quite regal in it. But tonight, the jewel-encrusted stomacher she’d been so proud of was covered by a swath of plaid, fastened at her hip with a brooch that had belonged to her mother.

  Unfortunately, effecting that regal look had taken a bit longer than either Nell or Margot had anticipated, and she arrived at the great hall a little late for dinner. She paused outside the big oak doors to compose herself. There was no footman here to see her in, no servant to whisper to Arran that she’d arrived so that he might escort her in.

  She felt jittery. As if she were standing on the edge of the cliff above the cove about to jump to the sea below. She was afraid. Of what, precisely, she wasn’t certain, but enough that she had to force herself to take a deep breath. She lifted her chin, and allowing herself not a sliver of hesitation, she pushed through the door, pausing just over the threshold to ensure she was seen.

  Oh, but she was seen, all right. Her entrance had the
desired effect—everyone paused and all heads in the hall turned toward her. Conversations were dropped and forks were put down. And there, on the dais, sat her husband, his gaze fixed on her. His hair was combed back and bound in a queue, and he was clean-shaven. He looked like the laird of this castle. He looked strong and powerful, and Margot’s heart began to skip along with anticipation. She felt warm, felt that strange sensation that he could see past her gown and right inside her.

  And yet his expression was inscrutable—if he was impressed with her appearance, she couldn’t say.

  Honestly, she couldn’t say that anyone was particularly impressed with her as much as curious. She’d felt so sure of herself until this moment. Now she was uncomfortably aware of how overdressed she was. No other woman wore a mantua gown. And if she had, Margot could well imagine the stays wouldn’t have been as tight as hers. Nell had said it was imperative that her waist appear as tiny as possible. “The gents, they like the tiny waists,” she’d said with authority. But as a result of that tiny waist, Margot’s breasts were spilling out of her stomacher. Moreover, the long, thick curl that artfully draped her shoulder practically pointed to her exploding bosom.

  Well. It was too late to fret about it. Certainly she couldn’t stand here all night as if she desired to be admired, so she began to walk through that crowd. The silk and taffeta in her skirts rustling together sounded almost deafening to her. Margot was acutely modest now. She could feel her cheeks warming with her mortification and hoped the blush didn’t extend to her breasts and make them appear like a pair of pomegranates. She glanced around, smiling, desperately searching for a friendly face. Her grand entrance, which surely would have been applauded in England, had all the markings of a huge mistake in Scotland.

  Arran did not come to her aid. He couldn’t be bothered even to come to his feet to greet her.

  Margot might have hated him in that moment. He seemed wickedly smug, as if he enjoyed her humiliation. His smugness made her wish to deflect it that much stronger. She began to speak to those around her, as if she had never been gone, as if this were the normal way of things at Balhaire.

  “Good evening, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said to one elderly gentleman. He did not seem to hear her. “Reverend Gale! How do you do?” she asked, taking the reverend’s hand between hers and squeezing it.

  “Very well, milady, very well indeed.”

  “And your daughters? How are they?”

  “Sons,” he kindly corrected her.

  “Yes, of course,” she said quickly. Her cheeks were on fire.

  “Oh, they’re married, my lads,” he said proudly. “The eldest will make me a grandda before the year is done.”

  “Congratulations!” she said gaily, and moved on. “Mrs. McRae, how good to see you well!”

  “McRaney, milady,” the woman said as she sank into a curtsy. She did not look Margot in the eye. Scots! So stubbornly loyal to one infuriating man!

  Margot had made it halfway through the hall before Arran finally deigned to come out of his blasted seat. He stepped out from behind the table. He had dressed for the occasion, too, wearing a plaid that hung to his knees above his stockings and brogues. He wore the plaid with a waistcoat and coat, and an inky black neck cloth at the collar. One curl of hair fell disobediently across his brow. He did indeed cut a fine figure, yet as much as Margot admired him, a sickly little thought flitted through her brain. Was that not the dress of the Jacobites?

  Arran casually strolled down from the dais as if he had nowhere to be. When he reached her, he folded one arm behind his back and bowed over the other one. “Lady Mackenzie,” he said. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She slipped her hand into his and sank into a curtsy.

  “How bonny you are tonight,” he said, his gaze on the swath of plaid she wore as he lifted her up. “It appears as if you’ve made amends with Mr. Creedy.”

  “He was very kind. Do you like it?”

  “That I do,” he said, taking her in. “Verra much. Will you join me on the dais?” He was awfully formal with her this evening.

  Margot allowed him to escort her up to the dais and hand her into a chair next to his.

  “Shall I have the lad fetch you an ale?” he asked as he resumed his seat, gesturing to one of the young men who served the main table.

  “Wine, if you please.”

  Arran arched a dubious brow.

  “You do have wine, do you not?”

  “Aye, we’ve wine. Of course we’ve wine,” he said impatiently. “But the Mackenzies prefer ale. Perhaps you might like to sample the batch Jock has brewed. He’s quite proud.”

  So she had to prove herself to him even in what she drank, it would seem. Margot kept her countenance pleasant as she drew a calming breath. “I’d like nothing better than to sample Jock’s ale! I’ve no doubt it’s astonishingly good and, I hope, free of poison.”

  Arran smiled. “Alas, I canna promise you that. Jock! Lady Mackenzie has expressed a rather keen desire for your ale.”

  Jock gave Margot a disbelieving look.

  “Please,” she said, and put her hand on Arran’s. “My husband’s praise is hard earned, and he has sung it long and loud for your ale, sir. I simply must try it myself.” She said it as brightly and as convincingly as possible. Which wasn’t very brightly or convincingly at all.

  Jock bowed curtly, straightened curtly and walked away curtly. Margot shifted her gaze to her husband. “Happy?”

  “No,” he said easily. “But a wee bit mollified,” he added, his gaze full of amusement. “Jock is even more distrusting than I.”

  “That, my lord, was not distrust. That was utter disdain. And it’s your fault.”

  “My fault?” He looked astonished.

  “Yours! You told Jock I was difficult and made it quite clear you didn’t care for me.”

  “What the devil? I’ve no’ said any such thing.”

  “I believe your exact words were that you’d married a fishwife clad in silk and lace.”

  Arran laughed. But then his brows sank into a dark frown. “I didna.”

  “You did. Right there,” she said, pointing to the massive hearth. “Don’t you recall it?” It had been a stormy, snowy night. Margot obviously hadn’t been meant to hear, but with the wind howling, Arran and Jock hadn’t heard her come into the great hall.

  “No, I...” Arran paused. Clearly he recalled it now, his complaining to Jock about his impossible English wife. “Hmm,” he said, his gaze moving over her face. “I had forgotten it.”

  She smiled. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  “Ach,” he said with a flick of his wrist. “A woman’s memory is as long as a loch.”

  “And a man’s attention is as short as an inchworm.”

  “That’s no’ necessarily so, leannan. There is quite a lot I remember, as well.” His gaze moved lower, to her mouth, lingering there. “I remember that your list of complaints was quite long.”

  She could feel the skin of her chest heating beneath his study of her. She had to look away or be devoured by that penetrating gaze. “Were they complaints? I always rather thought them pleas to help me reconcile to my new surroundings.”

  “Ah, is that what they were, then?” he mused. His hand found her leg. “My apologies. I thought you meant to list all the ways Balhaire didna suit you.”

  She slid her hand over his and squeezed it before peeling it free of her thigh. “I meant to list all the ways I needed you,” she said truthfully, and looked at him then. His gaze had gone dark and cool. “Perhaps I was inarticulate.”

  “And a wee bit shrill,” he reminded her.

  A curl of nausea swam through her. He would never forgive her. The peculiar thing was that for the first time, she wanted his forgiveness. “Perhaps I was,” she admitted. “I hope one day y
ou can forgive me for not understanding the best way to capture your attention. At the time, shouting seemed to be the only way that you’d notice me at all.”

  “Diah,” he muttered as Jock approached with the ale. “Was there anything I did to please you, Margot? Or was it all to your disliking?”

  “On the contrary—there was much you did that pleased me very much. Was there anything I did to please you?”

  Arran did not answer her as Jock put the ale before them. Just behind him, a boy carried two plates for Arran and Margot. Their discussion—if one could call it that—was put aside for the sake of dining. They ate in silence. Arran was brooding.

  Margot was ravenous. She realized how very little she’d eaten since she’d arrived at Balhaire. The haddock was delicious, cooked to perfection in a creamy broth, and surprisingly, the dark ale complemented it nicely. But the ale had the unfortunate effect of filling her belly to the point of bursting. Her stays began to dig into her ribs.

  When they’d finished the meal, Arran signaled the musicians to play.

  Margot leaned back, one hand lying across her ailing abdomen, stifling a small and undignified belch, when a young man came forward wearing a pair of plaid trews. He had curly hair like Arran’s and reminded Margot of a medieval troubadour. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d produced a lyre and begun to play.

  He bowed low in a courtly fashion. “Laird Mackenzie, may I have your leave to ask Lady Mackenzie to stand up with me?” he asked in his lilting brogue.

  “Oh.” Margot sat up, wincing a little at the discomfort of her gown. “No, thank you, sir—”

  “You are quick to deny him, aye?” Arran said. “Does a Scotch dance displease you, wife?”

  “Not at all. But I—”

  “Oh, aye, I remember—you’re a poor dancer. Is that no’ what you said?”

  Margot stared at him.

  He shrugged. “Aye, I do remember a few things.”

  Oh, this wretched man! “I only wish that I was more familiar with the Scotch style of dancing,” she said apologetically to the young man. “Would you not prefer a more adept partner?”