Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  “No,” she said, her voice shaking quietly. “I have never thought so.”

  Arran pivoted on his heel and stalked away from her. “Get her out of my sight, Jock. Take her ere I do something I will regret all my days, what few I may have left.”

  Jock moved forward, his massive body shielding her from Arran. But once again, he didn’t do as Arran bid him. “Do you know, then, milady, who has suggested this lie to Norwood?” he asked calmly. “Who came from London to say it?”

  Margot wanted desperately to answer, but it was impossible to drag air into her lungs at the moment. She tried to see around Jock’s body to Arran, but Jock wouldn’t allow it.

  “Speak, then, lass. Tell me how I might help the laird,” he urged her.

  Yes, help him! Margot latched onto that notion. She stared up at Jock’s fleshy face. “I don’t know who has said it. I know only that men have come from London. Lord Whitcomb. Sir Worthing and Captain Laurel. Oh, and Thomas Dunn.”

  Jock’s brows dipped. “Are you certain?”

  Margot nodded.

  Jock turned to Arran. Griselda was suddenly alert, too, staring at Margot, then at Arran.

  “Tom Dunn,” Arran repeated. He pushed past Jock to reach Margot again. “What do you know of Tom Dunn?”

  “Are you acquainted?” she asked, surprised.

  He didn’t answer her question. “What do you know of him?”

  “Very little!” She struggled to think of Thomas Dunn, a tall, wiry gentleman with a soft brogue, a pointed chin and dark, wide-set eyes. He’d never said more to her than a proper greeting. “He arrived at Norwood Park in June,” she said, thinking back. “I don’t recall much about him, quite honestly—he kept the company of my father, and I saw him only occasionally.”

  “Did you no’ take a meal with him?” Jock asked. “Did you no’ see him at any gatherings?”

  She tried to conjure up something that would help. She thought back to the ball they’d held at Norwood Park to mark the start of the long summer months. She didn’t recall seeing him there, but then again, the Norwood Park balls were so well attended, the dance floor so crowded, she saw only those gentlemen who sought her out. She began to shake her head, but then a memory suddenly came to her—she remembered she’d gone looking for Knox one evening and had found him in the gaming room with Mr. Dunn. “Yes, I saw him once,” she said. “At Norwood Park in the gaming room with my brother. They were playing Commerce, I think. I recall only because Knox was quite happy he’d won. He had markers stacked before him, and the other three gentlemen had only one or two.”

  “That’s in keeping with the debts we’ve heard of,” Griselda said.

  “What debts?” Margot asked.

  Arran studied Margot. The fury had left him, and in its place was a look of resigned disgust that cut through her like a scythe. He despised her now. The emotion in the letters she’d read had been drowned and washed away by her deceit.

  She had to look away from the condemnation in his eyes. “Why does it matter if he has debts?” she asked.

  “It matters to everything,” Griselda said impatiently.

  Jock said, “This man, Tom Dunn, has insinuated to some of the chieftains round us that our laird conspires with the English to betray them.”

  “Betray them in what?” Margot asked, confused.

  “Ach, she knows nothing,” Jock said impatiently. “Men and women who live in these hills would see James Stuart on the throne, aye? Now they’ve accused our laird of betraying them. Griselda has come from Portree, where she has heard the accusation said against him. And in England, they say he plots with the French.”

  “Someone has put him in the middle of a deadly game, and Tom Dunn is the common thread,” Griselda said.

  Margot looked among the three of them, confused. “But why would Dunn say that of Arran Mackenzie?”

  “Because of his debts,” Jock said impatiently. “The man changes coats depending on who will pay for his news. He’s a gambler, aye? He’s more debts than he has friends. He eyes our trade, our lands. He is wagering on who will strike first, aye? And if the laird is found guilty of treason against the queen, our lands will be forfeited—likely to your father.”

  Margot felt sick. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “My father wouldn’t take his lands.”

  “Would he no’, then?” Jock sneered. “Aye, he would. And Tom Dunn would get his due for exposing the rebellion. Land, money, what have you. Likewise, if the chieftains suspect our laird of betraying them to the crown, they will seize our holdings by force, and again, something will land in Tom Dunn’s hands for having alerted them.”

  Arran shrugged as if it were a foregone conclusion.

  Margot was appalled. How devious was that plan, how treacherous! A man with no loyalty to anyone but his own sorry hide. “What grievance does Thomas Dunn have against you, my lord? There are many other men in Scotland with lands and trade, are there not?”

  “Diah, because I am married to you, Margot,” Arran said angrily. “An Englishwoman! We were estranged, and now suddenly united. The speculation for our reunion become tales that are easily believed by either side, aye?”

  She could see it. Margot could understand how things would be misconstrued by Scottish and English lords alike, depending on who was spinning the tale. How easy would it be to suspect a man with ties to England, especially if one was looking for a scapegoat? This marriage was to have brought him wealth and prosperity—but it was bringing him nothing but heartache and doom.

  “All right, then, we can guess it is Tom Dunn who has done this to us, aye? What do we do now?” Griselda asked. “How do we stop it, right it, take it away?” she exclaimed, casting her arms wide.

  For the first time since she’d known Griselda, Margot could see fear in her.

  “Tom Dunn must admit it,” Jock said slowly. “He must admit it before he hides away in England.”

  “We canna force him to confess,” Arran scoffed.

  “An authority must hear it,” Griselda said. “Someone with the power to stop him, Arran. There are still those who believe in you and put their lot behind you, aye? But Harley MacInernay said Dunn’s already gone from the Highlands.”

  “We must speak to MacInernay and Lindsey at once, aye?” Jock said. “They’ll want to know what we’ve found. They’ll advise us.”

  “Who are they?” Margot asked.

  “Men who have invested in our trade. Now we must convince them our laird is no’ a liar.”

  “But how?” Griselda asked. “’Tis Arran’s word only. We need proof, Jock.”

  “I’m proof,” Margot said.

  The three Mackenzies eyed her suspiciously.

  “They will surely believe it if I tell them what I’ve done, what I know.”

  Arran turned partially away from her and ran his hand over his head, as if the idea was disagreeable to him.

  “And then we must go to my father and tell him that Thomas Dunn has set you against each other. My father and brother can see that he is brought to justice. My father is an earl! He’s a powerful man.”

  Arran began to shake his head, but Jock spoke quickly to him in Gaelic. Arran responded simply, in one word or two, sounding cold and firm.

  Griselda must have echoed what her brother said, because Arran looked at her with impatience and said, “No!”

  “What is it, what are you saying?” Margot pleaded.

  The Mackenzies stopped talking and looked at her. She could feel their disgust. But she could also feel their need. They needed her.

  Arran sighed. “Aye, Margot. You will speak to MacInernay and Lindsey.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  UNCLE IVOR HAD once told Arran that there was nothing more dangerous to man than a woman. “No beast, no plague, no pestilence,�
� he’d said jovially from his perch on a rock as they’d stalked red deer. “Men live and die for them, lad. You’ll see what I mean when you’ve come of age, aye? The trick is to find a steady one and keep her close.”

  Arran wished he had heeded his uncle’s advice. He was still reeling, his head spinning with rage and the unsatisfying vindication that he’d known all along Margot couldn’t be trusted. But that did not make the pain of it any less.

  And here was his wife now, as bonny as a Scottish glen in springtime, explaining to two men who’d put their faith in him that she’d set these wheels in motion. That Thomas Dunn had been at Norwood Park.

  It was difficult for her to say it all aloud, and it was difficult for Arran to hear it all again. As she spoke, he kept thinking of the letters he’d written her, his own private thoughts scratched out on vellum to help ease the pain he’d suffered when she’d left. She had deliberately broken into a locked cabinet and read them. She had broken the seals of his private torment and given those wounds air. She had violated him in the cruelest way possible, prying his thoughts from his heart.

  Lindsey and MacInernay said nothing as Margot spoke. Her voice was clear, although it trembled from time to time. She kept her head up as she told them of the rumors that had been brought to her father. Of being dispatched to Balhaire to determine Arran’s guilt. She told them how she believed her father knew nothing of Tom Dunn’s scheme, and was as concerned for Arran’s head as he was his own.

  When she had finished, she looked hopefully to Arran. As if that would appease him. As if she’d done something so right as to erase all the wrong.

  Lindsey spoke first, in Gaelic, asking that Margot be sent from the room.

  Arran didn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Margot. You may take your leave, then.”

  “But...if there are questions, if I can help—”

  “Go now,” he said, his tone firmer.

  She bowed her head. She stood up from her perch on the chair, and he realized how small she looked in this room full of men. He had a fleeting image of her in the vast library at Norwood Park, a small figure in another room full of men as they sent her to do their loathsome deeds.

  Margot curtsied, said good-night and went out without looking at him or Jock.

  They had scarcely closed the door behind her when Lindsey said, “Norwood is behind it, I’d wager me life on it,” gesturing to the door Margot had just gone through. “He means to have Balhaire, aye? And Tom Dunn will profit from it, the dirty bastard.”

  “No,” MacInernay said, disbelieving. “What sort of man would use his daughter so ill? Tom Dunn is an artful liar—he must be exposed, aye?”

  “And how the bloody hell will we do that?” Lindsey demanded, tossing back a tot of whisky so violently that Arran was mildly surprised the small glass did not follow the liquid down his gullet. “The bounder is gone from Scotland, back to England, to the lords who trade their daughters only to betray them.”

  “You should go,” Lindsay said, looking at Arran.

  “And deliver my head to the queen?” Arran scoffed.

  “If you stay behind at Balhaire, the Jacobites will hang you, aye? Tom Dunn has made his deal with the devil on both sides of the border. But if there is a chance Lady Mackenzie speaks true, and her father does no’ conspire with him—if he is as harmed by this as you—then he may be the only one who can save you now.”

  “And if she’s wrong?” Jock asked.

  Lindsay’s face darkened. “Then he’ll hang.”

  A silence fell over the men. MacInernay drummed his fingers on the table. “Aye, ye’ve no choice, laird,” he agreed. “It will be worse for you and yours here if you donna clear your name.”

  “But if you choose to go, Jock must stay behind,” Lindsey added.

  “I willna—” Jock began to huff, but Lindsey wouldn’t hear it.

  “Aye, Jock, ye must. There’s no one here to man the helm if the laird doesna come back,” Lindsey argued. “You’re the only one who can. Send an army with him if you must, but ye canna go.”

  Jock’s face began to mottle. He considered it his God-given responsibility to keep his laird safe.

  “He’s right,” Arran said before Jock could argue. “If I go, he’s right, for God’s sake, Jock.” Arran obviously did not relish going to England—visions of being accosted by English troops and sent to London for trial spun sickeningly in his belly. But the prospect of clan warfare churned just as bitterly.

  When Arran finally quit the room, it was well past midnight. He felt exhaustion beyond his years—it seemed impossible to believe that only a week ago, he’d felt confident in his life and the things he’d built here, confident in the long-term prosperity of Balhaire.

  Now he felt wildly vulnerable, his flanks open to attack from all sides. He was anxious and devastated, with so many conflicting ideas building in his chest, pounding away at his ribs and his heart, beating him down.

  God help him, he should never have married her. He should have heeded Jock’s warning from the beginning—what good could come from aligning with the English? It had been a doomed union from the start, but Arran had been too blind to see it. And yet...he still loved Margot. In some misshapen, ill-begotten way, he still loved her. He despised her for what she’d done, of course, and was gravely disappointed that she had. But Margot had not conceived this deceit. She was simply a fool.

  Damn him if he would ever trust her. And without trust, what was left to them?

  It was with trepidation that he walked into the master’s chambers. As he knew she would be, Margot was there. She was wearing a chemise, and a wrap around her shoulders. She’d brushed her hair from its coif, silken waves of auburn shimmering in the light of his hearth. Her eyes were wide and fixed warily on him, like those of a baby owl. Did she mean to seduce him now?

  Arran didn’t know what to say or where to begin. He closed the door and stood there, simply looking at her, the beautiful face that had haunted his thoughts for years. Such a treacherous beauty, splitting him in two with equal parts desire and disgust.

  “How you must hate me,” she said softly, morosely.

  His disappointment was strangling him, but he didn’t hate her.

  “You can’t possibly hate me as I hate myself,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked plaintively. “Why did you open the cabinet—how did you open it?”

  “A hat pin. My brother taught me when we were children. I opened the cabinet because I had to know, Arran.”

  “You thought that I would risk all that I’ve built here to betray the queen and my own countrymen?”

  Her cheeks colored with her guilt. “I never believed it. I swear I didn’t. But I had to remove all doubt. You’ve been gone every day, and then there was the urgent meeting...” she said, sounding helpless.

  He’d gone, all right. To avoid her. To defend her. To learn the truth about her.

  “My father said he would hang if you conspired against the queen. He said he was in terrible jeopardy and I was his only hope. Arran, please believe me—everything I told you was the truth.”

  “How can I believe it?” he asked. “You ask the impossible, Margot. You might have told me straightaway, aye? You might have given me the chance to help you. But what you did has made it far worse.”

  “I wanted to tell you,” she said earnestly. “But I couldn’t imagine you would admit the truth if you were...that is, if you...” She shrugged and looked down, unable to say it aloud yet.

  He paused and looked to the ceiling, trying to calm his thickening anger. “Did you think I would lie to you?” he asked, his voice low with fury. “Have I ever lied to you? Have I dissembled in any way, then?”

  She shook her head. She was fighting tears. Always the bloody tears!

  “If you had asked me, instead of skulking around as you
did, I would have told you the truth, Margot. No matter what the truth is, aye? I would have told you the truth because I vowed,” he said, clapping his hand to his heart, “to honor you above all others. I gave you no reason to distrust that vow.”

  “No. You’re right, of course you’re right,” she said, nodding, swallowing down her unshed tears. “But on my life, I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “So you opened my private letters,” he said sharply.

  She tried to speak again, but with a shake of his head he turned away from her. “Save your breath.” He was bone-weary now, and he didn’t care to hear her excuses. He stalked across the room and sat on the edge of his bed to remove his boots. “We’ll leave in two days,” he said.

  “For England?”

  “Aye, for England. I’ve no choice.” It was his only hope. To remain here and do nothing was to invite a raid. “We’ll sail for Heysham and ride from there. A chaise will take too long. Griselda will teach you to ride astride. Do as she says, aye?”

  Margot wisely did not argue; she pressed her lips together and nodded.

  Arran turned back to the task of removing his boots. He felt her weight on the bed, felt her moving toward him, felt her hands on his shoulder. She began to knead the knots away. He tried to shrug free of her touch, but she would not allow it.

  “I’ll do whatever you ask me to do, Arran. I swear to you.”

  “Then take yourself from my sight. That is what I ask.”

  “Oh God,” she said behind him. “Please don’t—”

  He jerked around, forcing her hands off him. “What did you possibly think would come of your betrayal, Margot?”