by Julia London
“Of course no’,” Arran answered for him. “For there is no bonnier partner than my wife, is that no’ so, lad?”
“It is indeed, laird.”
“Go on, then, Margot,” he said, gesturing to the hall. “You will always be a poor dancer if you donna at least try, aye?” He smiled wickedly at her.
Heaven help her, but she would have kicked him then and there if she hadn’t been so uncomfortable in her gown. Instead, she turned the full force of her smile she’d learned in English salons on that young man. “I would be delighted, sir. Thank you.” She stood up.
The young man’s face lit; he hurried forward to offer his hand. Margot cast her smile to Arran, whose eyes were shining with delight. “Donna hold back, Gavin. What my wife lacks in skill, she makes up tenfold with jolly enthusiasm.”
If looks could kill, Arran would be lying in a pool of blood right now. But Margot laughed gaily. “You might want to consider removing all the knives from the table before I return, my lord.”
She heard Arran’s full laugh as she allowed the young man to lead her off the dais.
Gavin led Margot to the center of the room with great élan. When they reached the line for dancers, he bowed low, his hand nearly scraping the floor.
“You are very polished, sir,” Margot said admiringly. “You bring to mind the French court.”
His eyes shone with pleasure. “Thank you. Indeed I have learned from the French,” he said proudly.
Interesting, that. She wondered what had taken this young man to France. But before Margot could inquire, the music began, and Gavin linked his arm with hers and twirled her around in a circle, then let go of her. “Let your feet do as they might, milady!” he cried. Someone else grabbed her arm, and as quick as that, she was being hurled about from one waiting arm to the next.
It was apparent to her and, sadly, everyone else that Margot was a horrible Scotch dancer. She had not miraculously acquired any sense of rhythm and couldn’t keep up. She kicked the poor gentleman next to her at least twice, and Gavin repeatedly, as she was always one or two beats behind. Her breasts were dangerously close to being freed from the prison of their bodice, and her hair, so artfully put together by Nell, was coming down in big auburn loops.
As the dance continued, she could feel perspiration sliding between her breasts. Her feet, encased in gorgeous and very expensive slippers that were no match for all this hopping about, had begun to cramp. And yet the most extraordinary thing happened. No one looked at her askance. No one seemed appalled by her. They all laughed; they all called out strange words to one another, and some or other person would grab her hand or arm and fling her along with them. It was mad, it was chaotic, it was merry. It was the most diverting dance Margot had ever experienced. She felt alive, exhilarated. She felt as if this was the sort of dancing she should have been doing all her life.
When it at last ended, an exuberant Gavin escorted her back to the dais. “Well done, milady!” he said.
She laughed. “I am a wretched dancer!” she proclaimed. “But you, sir, are an expert at dance. You must have been formally trained.”
“Aye, that I was. My mother married a Frenchman when my father died. Monsieur Devanault saw to it that my siblings and I were instructed in what he called courtly arts.” His smile was infectious—she could imagine him a few short years from now, wooing debutantes with his handsome face and fine dancing skills.
They had reached the dais, and he tried to hand her up, but Margot held on to his arm.
“Wherever did Monsieur Devanault find dance instructors in Scotland?”
“No’ here, mu’um, no. I learned the Scotch reel from my aunt, aye? I took dance instruction in France before the war. Here, then, is your seat.”
Margot allowed him to hand her up onto the dais. “Thank you,” she said. “Again, my sincere apologies for the many times I kicked you.”
He laughed, bowed low once more and disappeared into the crowd.
Arran laughed as she resumed her seat. “Your face is as red as a robin’s breast,” he said, making a circling motion around his own face.
“It was quite diverting!” she said gaily, still panting slightly.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “You were right, then—you are indeed a horrible dancer.”
Margot wanted to grab her husband by the collar, toss him to the ground, leap on him and pummel his face. But as she couldn’t do that, she laughed. “I quite liked it! What a wonderful way of dancing you have here in Scotland. I never would have believed a lot of hopping about with no direction in mind could be so engaging. Now you must come and dance with—”
“Oh, I think no’,” he said, and suddenly stood. “I’ve an early day on the morrow.”
He was going to leave her here with her hair half down, her cheeks stained red with exertion and her feet aching? Alone? Knowing full well that most people in this hall couldn’t abide her? And to make matters worse, she noticed that Worthing and Pepper had taken seats on the dais, staring down their angular noses at the dancing. “You’re not leaving me,” she said, disbelieving. “You said this was to be a celebration.”
“Aye, that I did. And it is. And I’ve celebrated.” He smiled, slipped two fingers under her chin and lifted her face to him. “And now is the perfect opportunity for you to acquaint yourself with your clan, Margot,” he said, and kissed her lightly on the lips. “The plaid is a nice touch, it is. Good night, then.” With that, he proceeded down off the dais.
When that rotten, distrustful boar had disappeared into the crowd, Margot slowly turned her head around to her keepers. They were staring at her as if she’d just risen from the crypt. “My husband is exhausted,” she said cheerfully. “Have you danced, Mr. Pepper? It’s quite exhilarating.”
“No,” he said, sounding as horrified as he looked.
She shrugged and glanced at the crowd. She felt entirely self-conscious, which, of course, was Arran’s intent, that damn rooster. Adding to her humiliation was the knowledge that in England, she would be surrounded by friends now. But here? Everyone who remembered her hated her, and those who didn’t recall her in the least were afraid of her. The only person who looked at her with any sort of kindness at all was young Gavin Mackenzie.
Margot tipped up her forgotten tankard of ale and drank to quench her thirst, then set it down with a thud on the table and stood. He thought she ought to acquaint herself, did he? She spotted Reverend Gale across the room. She picked up her skirts and marched across to him.
Reverend Gale was startled by her sudden appearance at his elbow. “Lady Mackenzie,” he said, his face full of concern.
“I beg your pardon, Reverend Gale, but will you dance with me?”
“What?”
“Dance,” she said again. “I know I am a wretched dancer, and I shall do my best not to kick you. But I should very much like to dance.”
“Oh. Ah...” He glanced around as if looking for an escape. But finding none, he sighed softly and put aside his tankard of ale. “Aye, milady,” he said, and held out his arm to her.
After what seemed like hours, when Margot could no longer feel her feet, she made a point of saying good-night to every Mackenzie in that hall who would allow it. Before, she would have been undone by so many indifferent expressions and uncertain glances, but tonight, she was quite pleased that the number who would address her at all had grown.
She made her way to the master’s chambers feeling defiant. She knew what Arran was doing. He was deliberately putting her through her paces. He wanted to punish her for having left him, any fool could see that. She had taken up his challenge. She had talked to whoever would listen, had danced with every man she could catch unawares.
He thought he could humiliate her into leaving, did he? Well, he would not be so fortunate. She was most certainly not the same young woman wh
o had come here so long ago.
Margot entered her sitting room and called for Nell. Her maid appeared from the dressing room and gasped when she saw her. “What happened?”
“What happened? I shall tell you what happened. I danced,” she said, kicking off the offending shoes from her aching feet. She plopped down onto an ottoman, reached for a foot and began to knead it. “Have you been here all night?” she asked Nell.
“No, mu’um,” Nell said as she picked up Margot’s discarded shoes. “I went down to the kitchens, and I was having a lovely chat with one of the kitchen maids, but that ox interrupted.”
“Jock? What was he doing in the kitchens?” Margot asked curiously.
“I hardly know. He seems to follow me about,” Nell said angrily. “Shall I bring your nightgown?”
“No. I mean to wash my hands and then go and speak to my husband,” Margot said firmly.
After she’d cleaned herself up, she allowed Nell to repair parts of her hair that had come undone. She dabbed perfume behind her ears and then went into the master’s chamber.
The hearth had been lit, but there was no sign of Arran. Now, just where did a man go when the whole of his clan was eating and drinking in his great hall? With whom did he consort? Was this how it was done? One betrayed one’s country while everyone was occupied?
She held up a candelabra and glanced around the room—Mrs. Abernathy still had not come to visit this dreadful mess. In addition to the piles of clothing and the assortment of knives scattered about the floor, there were muddied riding boots standing at the foot of the bed, the spurs still on them.
She bent down and picked up a pair of stained buckskins. If she was going to keep near to him, she would not abide this field of debris.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ON THE WAY to his chambers, Arran was intercepted by Sweeney, who informed him that MacLeary and his men were at the gates.
“Now?” Arran asked. He wasn’t expecting them.
“Aye, milord. Donald Thane has put them in the barbican with a flagon of whisky.”
The old barbican had once been used for defense of the castle, but Arran’s father had refurbished the rooms to host travelers for the night. It wasn’t unusual that persons who had arrived in Scotland by sea would find their way to Balhaire. “Find Jock and send him to me,” Arran said, and reversed course, headed for the barbican.
MacLeary was a large man with a shock of white hair that made him look a wee bit like a snowcapped mountain. He had meaty jowls and hands, and when he greeted Arran, he clapped him so hard on the back that Arran might have gone sprawling had he not been prepared for it. MacLeary had come in the company of two men; the three were passing the flagon of whisky between them.
“Arran Mackenzie, look at ye, lad,” MacLeary boomed. “There is no’ a bonnier man in all of Scotland, is there? Were I no’ married these thirty years, I’d ask for yer hand.”
His men laughed heartily.
“I must remember to send round thanks to your wife and pray for her continued good health,” Arran drawled. “What brings you to Balhaire, then?”
“We’re bound for Coigeach and a meeting there,” he said, referring to another MacLeary holding north of Balhaire. “You’ll want to attend as well, Mackenzie. I’ve news for you.”
The door opened behind Arran; Jock walked into the room. Arran waited for the men to exchange greetings and Jock to settle onto a bench.
“What news, then?” Arran asked MacLeary.
“Tom Dunn has come round,” MacLeary said.
Arran hadn’t heard that name in several years. Tom Dunn was a controversial figure in these parts. Some regarded him as a loyal patriot of Scotland and the Highlands. Others considered him a traitor to Scotland. Dunn had been friend to the Mackenzies for as long as Arran could remember, but in recent years, he’d heard some unsettling things about the man.
It had begun after the official union of Scotland and England. Dunn had settled in London to capitalize on the new connections. Or spy for the English, depending on whom one believed. “Lined his pockets with English gold,” Arran had heard one man say. There was no proof of it, but since the union, rumors about everyone flowed like a burning river through these hills.
“What of him?” Arran asked.
“I’ve no’ spoken to the man, but I’ve heard something interesting from Marley Buchanan.” MacLeary paused to pour whisky into a glass. “Dunn told Buchanan that your Norwood has been...what’s the word, then, lads...mi-onorach,” he said with a swirl of his hand.
There was not an exact translation for the word, but Arran understood MacLeary—he meant Margot’s father was involved in something dishonest.
“In what way?”
“They say he’s making bedfellows of the French in the war against England to keep his pockets full, aye? But when suspicion was cast at him, he blamed it on you. Said he had no knowledge of any dealings with the French but had heard that you are plotting with them.”
Arran was stunned. “I trade with the French openly and honestly. And lawfully by the Acts of Union.”
“It’s no’ your trade he impugns, lad. He insinuates that you mean to bring French troops to Balhaire and, together with your Highland men, support the effort to put James Stuart on the throne.”
Arran stared at MacLeary. James Stuart was the surviving son of King James II, who had been displaced from the throne before Arran was born. James Stuart lived in the French courts and practiced Catholicism. His half sister and reigning queen of England, Queen Anne, had been raised as a Protestant. The queen had no surviving children, and her health was not good. It had been decreed by the Acts of Succession that when she died, her successor would likewise be a Protestant. Therefore, her brother, James Stuart, would have no claim to the throne. It would go to the queen’s nearest living Protestant relative, George Hanover.
There were many in Scotland, and even a few in England, who believed that the rightful heir to the throne was the queen’s half brother and son of King James II. Moreover, there were many who would prefer to see that line of Stuarts restored to the throne sooner rather than later. Those who actively sought that end were known as Jacobites.
It was impossible to believe that Norwood would be involved in such deadly politics. And to be involved to such an extent that he would label Arran a Jacobite sympathizer seemed out of character for him. After all, Norwood was the one who had proposed that Arran marry his only daughter to expand both their holdings. Why would he want to tear apart what he’d worked so hard to put together?
“I’m no’ a Jacobite. There’s no’ a man in the Highlands who believes I am. I donna believe it,” Arran said flatly. “Norwood helped design the union. He staked his reputation on it, and he is loyal to the queen. Why would he seek to harm that?”
“Ach, the queen,” MacLeary said with a beefy wave of his hand. “She’s no’ right in the head, that one. She sleeps with her maid and wars with the Duchess of Marlborough over jewels or some such nonsense. She’s no’ meant to lead nations, and word from London is that she’s no’ long for this world, aye? Donna close your eyes and ears, man. Men are aligning themselves with whomever they believe will prevail. And ye know as well as I do that ye canna trust a Sassenach as long as a day.”
Arran didn’t disagree with that, but still, it seemed too risky for Norwood. “It doesna make sense,” he insisted, holding up a hand. “If I were accused of treason and made to stand trial, that would mean that my lands—his daughter’s lands—would be forfeited to the crown.”
“Or...perhaps yer lands would be forfeited and given as reward to whoever exposed the treason,” MacLeary suggested. “It’s a gamble a man might find worth taking.”
“Norwood would stand to gain,” Jock agreed.
“No’ bloody likely,” Arran scoffed.
“
I canna say it delicately, lad,” said MacLeary. “So I’ll speak to the point. Your wife is English. If your holdings were forfeited, they’d most likely revert to her father and brothers, would they no’? By the same token, if Norwood was guilty of treason, his lands would no’ go to his sons. You’d have a decent claim to them through your wife. No, he’d no’ risk losing what he’s got, no’ to a Scot, no matter how he might have wanted this union ere now. He could very easily make you a scapegoat in his schemes.” He paused to drink more whisky, then fixed his gaze on Arran. “There are some who could be persuaded that perhaps you conspire with Norwood to line your pockets.”
“Norwood! That’s contrary to everything you’ve just said of me, is it no’? Whom do I conspire with, MacLeary? The Jacobites? Or Norwood? What possible reason would I have to conspire with either? What the bloody hell would I gain?”
MacLeary shrugged. “An argument could be made that you’d gain more lands in England if you were to betray anyone here. If, for example, you were to name anyone who might want to see James Stuart sit the throne.” He slowly brought his glass to his lips and watched Arran as he drank.
“By God, MacLeary, you willna come into these walls and accuse the laird,” Jock growled.
“I didna accuse him,” MacLeary said with a shrug. “I merely repeat words that already have been said.”
“If it’s reassurance you seek, I will give it to you,” Arran said evenly. “I no more conspire with England than I do with Jacobites.”
“And I believe you,” MacLeary said, clapping a hand on Arran’s shoulder. “But I think you’d best come to Coigeach on the morrow and say it again. No’ everyone is as sure of it as me, aye?”
Arran had been nothing but loyal to the Highlands and to Scotland. He was guilty of nothing more than seizing an opportunity to keep his lands and to save his people from hunger. “You may count on me to join you in Coigeach,” he said darkly. “If any man believes I have betrayed him, let him say it to my face.”
“It was always a wee bit of a gamble taking an Englishwoman to wife, was it no’?” MacLeary asked slyly, and tipped the glass back against his lips, draining the whisky from it.