by Julia London
Her confusion about what to do was only growing. She’d never dreamed that her feelings and desire for him could be rekindled.
She didn’t want to know if he conspired with the French. She wanted to prove to her father that it was a lie.
Margot got up, wrapped the coverlet around her and walked into his study. She stared at the cabinet. She could still see the handle of the knife that she’d shoved beneath it when she heard him approach.
She wasn’t going to open it. She didn’t want to know what he’d locked away...unless it was something that would prove his innocence. And what sort of proof would that be?
Tell me, how can I trust you?
There came a soft knock at the bedchamber door, and Margot hurried in through the dressing room, arriving as the door partially opened. Nell stuck her head in. “Awake, madam?”
“Yes. Come in.”
Margot dressed, and as Nell was putting up her hair, she picked up the figurine the man at the cove had given her and turned it over in her hand. It reminded her of how distant she’d once been with the clan here. She put the figurine in her pocket.
When Nell had finished her hair, she went downstairs. But before she had breakfast, there was something she very much wanted to do.
She went out into the bailey, through the gates and down the road until she reached the whitewashed cottage with the peonies in the window boxes.
The little bell sounded as it had the first time Margot had come into Mrs. Gowan’s establishment, and as before, Mrs. Gowan appeared from the back room with a cheery “Madainn mhath!”
The cheeriness left her the moment she saw Margot.
“Good morning,” Margot said. “I’ve come to thank you for sending the soaps.”
“Aye,” said the woman, folding her arms. Her daughter appeared behind her, but Mrs. Gowan seemed not to notice.
Margot stepped forward. “I brought you something I thought you might put to use.”
Mrs. Gowan said nothing.
Margot held out a small bottle shaped like a swan. It was her perfume. “My father gave this to me. It comes from an exclusive perfumery in London. It’s a floral scent, and one that the laird particularly likes.”
Mrs. Gowan stared at the bottle, then glanced warily at her daughter.
“I thought you might use it in the making of soaps and whatnot.”
“For you?” Mrs. Gowan asked.
“Not for me, but for any Mackenzie who might like it.” She held out the bottle.
Mrs. Gowan didn’t immediately move to take it. But her daughter did, hesitantly coming forward and putting the bottle to her nose. “It’s bonny,” she said.
“It’s my favorite,” Margot agreed. She looked at Mrs. Gowan again. “I regret that I did not discover your shop when I was here before, Mrs. Gowan.”
The woman’s frown seemed to ease a tiny bit.
“I regret so many things, really. That I didn’t listen, that I didn’t try to understand the ways of the Mackenzies instead of imposing my own ideas. I can’t change that, I know, but I should like to start fresh if we might.”
Mrs. Gowan didn’t speak. Margot didn’t care, really—she had said what she needed to say, and she smiled. No matter what happened with her and Arran, no matter what truths she discovered, she meant this sincerely. “Well, there you are. Good morning.”
“Morning, mu’um,” the daughter said, gazing at Margot with eyes wide with surprise.
Margot left the shop, the little bell tinkling behind her.
When she returned to the bailey, shooing chickens from her path, she happened to see Sir Worthing lurking about the main door. Margot had no idea what to make of her situation at the moment, but no matter what else, she knew she couldn’t navigate her way through her marriage with Sir Worthing and Mr. Pepper watching her every move.
She smiled as she approached him. “Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Lady Mackenzie,” he said, bowing low over his leg. “I trust you slept well?”
“Thank you, but I cannot properly express how well I slept, sir,” she said gaily. “Sir Worthing, might I have a word?”
“Of course. Shall we go inside?”
“Here will do,” she said. She preferred the bailey, where no one would overhear what she would say to him.
“By all means. Is something amiss?”
“Not at all.” She clasped her hands tightly before her. She wanted to phrase this perfectly, knowing that every word she said would be repeated to her father. “I think it is time that you and Mr. Pepper take your leave of Balhaire.”
“Oh?” His voice was as politely mannered as ever, but his eyes were instantly hard and cold. “May I ask the reason so that I might convey your feelings to your father?”
“I have no message for my father as of yet. It would seem that your presence here at Balhaire is hindering me somewhat in that regard—my husband is quite suspicious.”
“Of?”
“Of me,” she said. “Of you.”
Sir Worthing glanced over her shoulder. So did Margot. There were Mackenzies milling about. He put his handkerchief to his nose and sniffed, then slowly turned his attention back to Margot. His gaze was hard, two pieces of polished obsidian staring down at her. “I shouldn’t think you would like to be left alone here, Lady Mackenzie, with no one to protect you. This is rough company.”
Rough! Because they did not don lace and wigs and bow so far over the leg that it was a wonder they didn’t topple over? The only thing rough about the company here was the way Arran Mackenzie had made love to her last night, his body moving so persistently in hers and lifting her up to new heights. She was loath to leave that sort of roughness behind.
“I will be perfectly fine.”
“If I may...is it your desire that we take our leave? Or his? Frankly, I think it best if Mr. Pepper and I—”
“You really must go,” Margot interrupted. She paused a moment to catch her breath, still fuming from his slight of the Mackenzies.
Sir Worthing looked her over, as a father might when considering a small child’s request. And then he patronizingly agreed. “Very well, madam. If that is truly your desire.”
Margot’s heart began to race with indignation. She was a grown woman, the lady of Balhaire—did he think he could condescend to her in that way? “Whether it is truly my desire or a moment’s desire has no bearing, sir. I am the lady of Balhaire, and I have asked you to leave.”
He bowed his head in acquiescence.
“Thank you.” She shifted, intending to step around him and walk away, but Sir Worthing suddenly clamped his hand down on her arm to stop her and held it in a tight grip.
“I beg your—”
“We will go, Lady Mackenzie. For now,” he said coldly. “But I must impress on you how important it is that you send some word to your father, posthaste.”
“I know,” she said, and tried to remove her arm from his grip.
“Do you?” he asked icily, squeezing harder. “Do you desire to see your father swinging from a gibbet?”
Margot gasped. “No! How dare you—”
“If you think this is some sort of parlor game, allow me to be quite clear—if you fail to do what you’ve been sent here to do, the blood of your father will be on your hands, and believe me, there will be no harbor safe enough for you. Not here. Not in England. You’ll have no place to go, madam, so you’d best do as he has bid you.”
He was not only clear, he was also terrifying her. What had her father done that would warrant his hanging? She tried again to jerk her arm free of his grip, but he held tightly. “Do you understand me?”
“Quite,” she said sharply. “And do you in turn understand that my father will hear of this?”
A cold smile turned up the corners
of his mouth, and he chuckled darkly. “You are a child,” he sneered. “I knew the moment you fled your marriage that your mettle was as weak as a dandelion.”
Stunned, Margot could only gape at him.
“Take your hand from my wife, lad, or I’ll take your hand from you.”
A flood of relief swept through Margot at the sound of Arran’s deep voice. Sir Worthing let go of her arm, and she stumbled back into Arran’s chest. His hand settled possessively on her waist.
“Sir Worthing was just informing me that he and Mr. Pepper will take their leave of Balhaire,” she said breathlessly.
Arran glared at Sir Worthing, who now looked ridiculous to Margot in his foppish wig and lace cuffs next to her husband. “Today,” she added. “Straightaway. It’s quite a long journey to England.”
Sir Worthing’s jaw clenched, but he inclined his head politely, as if they’d been chatting about the weather. “We’ll gather our things after breakfast—”
“Lady Mackenzie said straightaway,” Arran said, moving to stand in front of Margot. “You’d best heed her.”
Sir Worthing tilted his head back to look at Arran, his expression full of contempt. “Very well, my lord. If that is what the lady desires, then certainly we shall leave at once. God knows I’ve done all that I might do,” he said, and glanced meaningfully at Margot before turning on his heel and walking away.
Jock appeared seemingly from nowhere, trailing after him.
Margot’s heart was pounding so hard now that she could scarcely breathe. She didn’t realize how tightly she had folded her arms around her until Arran looked down at her, his expression one of concern. “Are you all right? You look ill.”
“I’m fine.” She pressed her palm to her belly to calm the roiling there.
“What was that about?”
“He did not care to be asked to leave,” she said tightly.
Arran nodded. But he was looking at her closely. “What did he mean, that he’s done all that he might do?”
Margot blinked. “I’ve really not the slightest idea.” Her husband’s gaze was boring through her, and Margot had to look away for fear that she would give herself away. “I suppose he meant that he has seen me safely here and there is nothing more for him to do.”
“He didna mean that, Margot,” Arran said flatly. “What else might he have meant?”
Margot wanted to tell him. She desperately wanted to tell him then and there what was said of him in England and hear him deny it.
But what if he didn’t deny it? Worse, what if her answer fractured the fragile truce between them? What if it forced him to do something for fear of the news getting back to her father? What if the truth was the thing that proved to him he could not trust her? What if, what if... So many doubts. Margot felt strangely dizzy, as if the earth was falling out from beneath her feet.
Arran caught her elbow. His brows dipped. “What is it, leannan?” he asked softly. “Whatever it is, you can tell me, aye?”
She was treading on dangerous ground, torn between two men in a loathsome duel of wills. She knew if she said too much, she risked her father and risked herself. On the tiny chance that what was said of Arran was true, she risked her father’s life. Was that what Worthing had said? But if she said nothing, she risked destroying this marriage once and for all, and she didn’t want that to happen.
She somehow mustered a smile at her husband. “I feel peckish, that’s all. Will you join me for breakfast?”
His frown deepened, and something shuttered in his blue eyes, making them look as icy as a winter morning. He knew she was dissembling, any fool could see that she was. But Arran pondered her a moment, as if debating if he was going to press her. At last, he glanced down at his hand and said, “No’ today. We need grouse for the hall tonight.” He glanced across the bailey, to where Sir Worthing was leaning over Mr. Pepper’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. “And I think you’d best come with me.”
“Come with you...to hunt?” she asked uncertainly. She was a poor rider, a worse shot.
“I will have you at my side today, Margot. There is no more to be said about it. Go, then. Dress properly for hunting. Meet me in the bailey in a half hour.” He turned away from her to have a word with Sweeney.
* * *
NELL WAS IN quite a state as she helped Margot search through her clothes. “Hunting!” she said, pausing to put her hands on her broad hips. “I beg your pardon, milady, but I’ve never known you to hunt.”
“I have no choice,” Margot muttered. She was still feeling on edge from her encounter with Worthing and all the lies and doubts that were swirling around her.
Nell sighed. She fingered the sleeve of one of Margot’s gowns when she should have been helping her assemble attire for the hunt.
“What is the matter with you? I need something to wear.”
“I shouldn’t like to bother you,” Nell said, and resumed her task.
Privately, Margot was relieved. She had enough on her mind without Nell’s complaints.
“Oh, all right,” Nell said, as if Margot had pressed her. “It’s that man.”
“Jock?” Margot asked, distracted as she held up a wool riding skirt.
“Yes, milady, for there is no one else who comes tromping about the master’s chambers without so much as a knock.”
“What did he want?” Margot asked as she searched through a selection of riding coats.
“I wouldn’t know.” Nell sniffed. “He looked around, quite closely.”
Margot’s stomach dropped. She slowly turned her head and looked at Nell. “What do you mean, he looked around closely?”
“I mean that he looked round here and there. And I says, ‘What’s the matter? You think something’s gone missing?’ And he says, ‘I wouldna be surprised if it had. Never knew an Englishman who was true.’ And I says, ‘How dare you speak of milady in that way? And I’d rather be English than a barbarian Scot.’ Then he says, ‘Well, thank the saints that you’ll never be a Scot, lass, because you don’t have the fortitude.’ Me! No fortitude! I says to him he’s no idea of my fortitude, and perhaps I’m not a beast like him, but I’m quite strong.”
Margot’s eyes widened with alarm. She thought of the knife under the cabinet in Arran’s study. “What did he say?”
“Nothing,” Nell said with a shrug. “He said not a word more but tramped out of here like a schoolgirl in a snit.”
“Did he say what he was looking for?” Margot asked curiously, glancing about. “Has something gone missing?”
“He was not of a mind to tell me,” Nell said pertly. “But he ran his hand over every inch of the chest of drawers, then got down on his knees and looked under the bed, and pulled back the bed linens.”
Margot’s heart felt as if it would burst.
“Then he went into the laird’s dressing room and was gone for a time, and then he came back.”
Oh God. Margot tried to think. Dear God.
“Never knew a man like him, so ill-mannered,” Nell said emphatically as she dug in a trunk and produced Margot’s boots. And she continued to complain about Jock and his supercilious ways as Margot dressed.
Margot let her natter about it, far more concerned about what Jock might have been looking for. Or rather, if he’d been looking to find what she’d been looking for. She hardly had time to think of it now. She was late—but she had at last assembled as close to hunting attire as she might. She hurried down to the bailey, tying the ribbons of her hat beneath her chin as she went.
When she emerged into the sun-dappled bailey, she saw Arran waiting, resplendent in his buckskins and long coat, his hair tied in a queue beneath his hat. He was standing with his arms folded as he watched Sir Worthing and Mr. Pepper and their things loaded into the coach. “You’re late,” he said to Margot. He gave her a ghost
of a smile. “Come on, then.” He put his hand on the small of her back and hurried her along, away from the Englishmen and to the horses that had been brought round for the hunting party.
She was pleased to see the Fell pony had been saddled for her. Two men would accompany them, Duncan and Hamish Mackenzie, whom she remembered as the gamekeepers at Balhaire. A pair of Arran’s hunting dogs were sniffing about, waiting for a command.
But the one person she’d expected to see was not present. She looked around. “Where is Jock?”
“He had other matters to attend,” Arran said simply.
Margot felt queasy. “You needn’t say more. I know that he does not care for me.”
“Oh, I think that’s no’ true. He esteems you well enough.” Arran turned his head and looked her in the eye and said, “But he doesna trust you. Come, allow Sweeney to put you on your horse.”
She did as he bade her.
“He has no reason to distrust me,” Margot said as she settled onto the old sidesaddle and Arran swung easily up onto his horse. “Whatever is between us has nothing to do with him.”
“Aye, perhaps that is true,” Arran agreed. “But he takes great exception to anyone who might want to harm me.”
“He thinks I mean to harm you?” she asked incredulously. Was he searching for some clue that proved she meant to physically harm her husband?
“A wee bit, aye. Enough of this now. We’ve work to do.”
Did Jock really think she’d been sent here for such nefarious reasons? Did he really think she was the condescending, heartbreaking murderess now?
But it struck Margot that while she was not a murderess, Jock was right in at least one respect—she had been sent here to find something with which to accuse her husband. Was that any less egregious?
Arran signaled and the hunting party moved out.
Everyone but Margot, that was. It took a word from Sweeney and a jerk of the pony’s bridle to get Margot’s horse to follow the others. The pony broke into a run after the other horses, bouncing Margot around so completely that she almost lost her seat before she’d cleared the castle walls.