Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  She was on her knees in the middle of his bed, the wrap slipping from her shoulders. “I’m so very sorry, Arran. For everything. For leaving you. For—”

  “Why did you read them?” he suddenly roared, his frustration with her exploding around them.

  Margot anxiously rubbed the palms of her hands against her knees. “Why didn’t you send them? Why didn’t you say those things to me?”

  He snorted. “Would it have made a bloody bit of difference?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I honestly don’t know. But it makes a difference now. I realize what a horrible, wretched mistake I made then.”

  “Aye, that you did,” he said flatly.

  “I want to make it up to you,” she said, reaching for him. Arran suddenly stood, moving away from her touch, and her hand fell to the bed. “I will do whatever it takes—I will beg your forgiveness.”

  Arran laughed ruefully. “Forgive you? I can scarcely stand the sight of you, leannan.”

  Margot scrambled off the bed and walked to where he stood. He tried to avoid her, but she matched his step, put her hands on his chest. “Maybe you will never forgive me. I understand. But I will die trying to set it to rights, Arran.”

  He tried to turn away, but she caught his head in her hands. “Don’t give up on me!” she begged him. “You’ve kept your hope all this time. Please don’t let go of it now.” She rose up on her toes and kissed him.

  Her touch, her kiss, was his undoing. It was always his undoing. He was burning inside with all the anger and disappointment he felt. He wanted for this all to be a bad dream, but the burn in him wouldn’t let him believe it. There were flames licking at his head and his heart, angry lustful flames.

  He yanked the plaid from her shoulders and filled one hand with her breast. That didn’t satisfy him—he grabbed fistfuls of chemise, dragging it up until he held the flesh of her hip in his hand, squeezing it, kneading it. He pushed her back, kept pushing until she was against the bed, and then pushed her down. She landed on her back, her gaze devouring him. She was aroused by his frustration with her.

  So was he.

  The fire in him began to rage out of control; monstrous desire had erupted and there was no turning back. Arran yanked at his clothes, removing them, then pulling her free of the cotton chemise so that his hands could feel her warm, scented flesh, his mouth could taste her, his eyes could consume the curves and lines of the powerful potion that was the woman’s body.

  His hands and mouth moved on her, sucking here, nipping there, his thoughts drinking from the well of lust. Margot groaned with pleasure, fanning the flames burning through him. He felt her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat, the heat of arousal, the wet slide of her body as he moved between her legs. She was panting, her legs open to him now, her hands moving so deftly over him, swirling around his thickness, cupping him, urging him to enter her.

  He was lost, he was beyond hope, and he surged into her. She closed her legs around him and wildly sought his mouth as he moved in her, their tongues matching the rhythm of their bodies. Her hands flitted across his temples, his shoulders, his neck.

  Arran never wanted to stop, never wanted this moment to end. He was almost delirious with the fever in him now, moving hard and long, striving to free himself from his tattered confidence, his waning faith, his fear of what was coming.

  When at last his fury exploded into a rain of sparks, and Margot cried out with the ecstasy of it, Arran felt himself fading back to his windless self, the storm in him settling into smoother waters. He slowly removed his body from hers and rolled onto his back. “God help me,” he said breathlessly.

  Margot draped her arm over his middle, kissed his back. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  Arran had to think about that. He covered her arm with his own, felt the comfort of having her there beside him nudging in beside the unease. “Forgive you? I donna know. But I will never trust you.”

  He heard her small sigh. She rolled away onto her side, her back to him.

  The warmth of her body quickly dissipated in the coolness of the night, and Arran rolled onto his side, too, and shrouded himself in his mistrust of her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  GRISELDA SENT WORD to Margot at noon the next day that she was prepared to begin her riding lessons. The word arrived with a bundle of clothing that consisted of a pair of brown trews, a woolen coat and a lawn shirt that she was instructed to don.

  “I can’t wear this!” Margot said, horrified at the pieces as Nell held them up.

  “Must you go at all, milady?” Nell asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes, I must,” Margot said, annoyed with Griselda for the clothing. She meant to humiliate her, surely. It would take more than this—Margot had been brought too low in the last twenty-four hours. “I shan’t be gone long,” she said, studying the trews.

  “Must you go to England, that is, milady.”

  “Pardon?” Margot shifted her gaze to Nell. She was wringing the kid gloves Knox had given Margot for riding. Margot reached for them, gently removing them from Nell’s grip.

  “That man says you’re to go to England with the laird, that you’ll be gone and I’d best keep out of his way, and keep your things as they ought to be. And I says to him, ‘I know what I’m to do, I don’t need you to tell me, but her ladyship’s not said a word of it, and I don’t believe you.’ And he says, ‘Well, she is, and you can pout that she didn’t tell you before I did, or you can help her, but whatever you choose, stay well out of my sight.’”

  “It’s true, Nell,” Margot said wearily.

  “No, milady, please don’t say you mean to leave me here!”

  “I’m not leaving you. But I can’t take you with me, not this time. You must stay here and do as Jock tells you.”

  Nell gaped at her. “Here! With no one—”

  “Yes, Nell.” Margot stood up and grabbed her maid’s hands. “You must. And you mustn’t complain, God please, don’t you complain. Stay out of Jock’s path and do as they say. Please, Nell, it’s quite important. Please.”

  Nell looked terrified. She glanced around the dressing room, at the door that led to the smaller chamber where she slept at night.

  “Think of it—you’ll be quite all right. You’ll be safe, you’ll be fed, and you need only keep my things and these rooms while I’m away. You might take your leisure every day.” Margot glanced at the clock on the mantel. She was going to be late. “I have to go, Nell. Help me don these...things. You mustn’t fret! You have my word that all will be well.” She mustered a smile that she hoped looked as if she meant what she said, and handed the clothing to Nell. “Help me out of this gown,” she begged.

  A quarter of an hour later, Margot hurried down the curving staircase.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Griselda was pacing the floor, and surprisingly, at least to Margot, she was dressed in the same strange clothing. Except that Griselda had braided her hair and had wound it into a knot at her nape.

  Margot took her in from head to toe as Griselda tapped a crop against her leg. She looked almost natural in these clothes, but on Margot, the trews fit tightly across her bottom and did not reach her boots, and the coat overwhelmed her. “Why are we dressed like this?”

  “Because you canna ride to England in a fancy ball gown, aye?”

  Margot snorted. “I don’t ride in fancy ball gowns, Zelda. But this is indecent!”

  “Aye, you’ll thank me after a day or two,” Griselda said. She walked to a chair, picked up a tricorn hat and thrust it at Margot. “Learn to wear it. Come on, then. I’ve only a day to teach you to ride astride and shoot.”

  “Shoot!”

  “Ach, you natter on, do you no’? Come on, then. I’d no’ be the least surprised if the pony had gone back to the stables for his supper by now.”

&
nbsp; Margot would have no such luck—the pony was standing in the middle of the bailey when they walked outside. She was acutely aware of the eyes on her—or rather, her legs, the shape of them so indiscriminately displayed in the tight trews. As Margot looked on with surprise, Griselda hoisted herself onto a bay’s back.

  Margot required help. The young man vaulted her up, and she landed so hard on the saddle she feared the trews had split their seams.

  “Do you know how to rein?” Griselda asked.

  “Of course I know how to rein,” Margot said irritably. “It’s not as if I’ve never sat a horse.”

  “Hmm,” Griselda said darkly. She expertly pulled her horse around and, with a kick to her bay’s flank, set the horse to a trot.

  Margot tried to do the same, but as usual, the pony was not very attentive. The man who had helped her up reached for the bridle. “Ye must tug like this, aye?” he said and, using the slack of her rein, yanked the pony’s head so hard Margot thought the equine might take exception. But in the next moment, she was bouncing uncomfortably on the back of the pony as it trotted out behind the bay.

  They rode along for what seemed an interminable amount of time, with Griselda two lengths ahead. Margot could imagine that Griselda was intent on getting as far from the castle as she possibly might. She could imagine her pushing her off a cliff and dusting her hands of the bother that was her cousin’s wife. But they at long last reached a small meadow, and Griselda reined to a stop.

  She squinted back as Margot and the pony plodded forward, the both of them already exhausted.

  “Have we reached England?” Margot drawled. “Surely we are not far from it now.”

  “On my word, if I could deliver you to England, I would,” Griselda shot back.

  Margot rolled her eyes. “As you can see, I can ride. Are we done here?”

  “You donna ride, Lady Mackenzie. You cling to the horse. Your arse must feel like fire, aye?”

  Margot made a sound of indignation—even though it was true.

  “Bring your horse to a canter, aye? It’s a smoother gait for riding. Watch me.”

  She spurred her horse to canter across the meadow, looking quite comfortable on the bay’s back as she moved up and down in rhythm with the horse’s gait. She circled back around and trotted back to where Margot sat woodenly on the back of the pony.

  “Now you.”

  Margot spurred the pony, but he wouldn’t budge. All of Scotland was against her, including this beast.

  “Use your crop!” Griselda said impatiently.

  “I haven’t got a crop!” Margot said just as impatiently.

  “For God’s sake.” Griselda moved closer, reached across the space between them and handed Margot her crop. “Spur and crop, all at once, then lower yourself over his neck so he knows you donna mean to amble along.”

  There were a million things Margot wanted to shout at Griselda in that moment, but, in the interest of ending this wretched lesson, she did as Griselda instructed. The pony lurched forward a step or two.

  “Do it again! Donna tap him, crop him!”

  This time, Margot did what Griselda suggested with vigor, and the pony took off in a gallop so unexpectedly that Margot was almost unseated by it. With a shriek, she clung to the horse and lowered herself over its neck, gripping with her legs as hard as she possibly could...until the pony realized she didn’t mean to run at all and slowed its gait to a trot, turning back without her prompt.

  When she arrived back to a very smug Griselda, Margot was breathless. “As I said, you’ve no notion how to ride,” Griselda said with great eminence.

  “All right, all right, you win, Zelda! I am a poor rider, a worse dancer, a wretched wife! Let’s go again.”

  The two women spent the afternoon practicing the art of riding astride. Griselda taught Margot how to slow a horse, how to accelerate its speed. She learned how to signal the pony to walk, to trot, to canter, to gallop and then do it all again. Margot was exhausted, her legs and abdomen ached with the exertion of it, and at long last, Griselda took pity on her. They came down off their mounts—Griselda with ease, naturally, and Margot practically falling—to eat some bread and cheese Griselda had brought.

  They sat with their backs against a rock, their legs stretched in front of them, eating in silence. Until Griselda giggled.

  Margot glared at her. “What is so amusing?”

  “You,” Griselda said. “You look as if you’ve been tossed and turned upside down.” She lifted a tress of Margot’s hair that Margot hadn’t realized had come undone. “You must learn to pin it up without the help of a ladies’ maid,” she said with a prim English accent.

  “I know how to pin my hair,” Margot said, frowning at her.

  Griselda snorted.

  “For the love of—All right, Zelda, you can stop. I know you don’t care for me and wish I’d never come to Balhaire. You needn’t press the point home at every opportunity. But I’m here! I was bartered off to Arran like a hold of fish. I was meant for London ballrooms, not old castles in Scotland.”

  Griselda clucked her tongue at Margot. “I liked you well enough until you wounded Arran.”

  “Well, that is hardly true. Need I remind you of the time you put pepper in my bowl of soup? It’s a wonder I’ve stopped sneezing yet.”

  Griselda’s face broke into a wreath of a smile. “No need to remind me—I recall it with fondness.” She laughed.

  Margot couldn’t help it—the memory of her fleeing the great hall, sneezing over and over again, made her laugh, too. The two of them looked at each other and giggled like girls over it.

  “All right,” Margot said, wheezing between laughs, “We are two grown women. We’ll likely never be close friends, but surely we can agree to coexist at Balhaire when Arran and I return?”

  Griselda’s smile faded. “When you return?” She suddenly tossed the rest of her bread into a bag. “You’re a fool yet, Margot Mackenzie. You’ll no’ come back.”

  “I will,” Margot said. It was the first time she’d said it; the first time she’d allowed herself to think that far ahead. It surprised her how easily the words came. Was it her true desire? In the maelstrom of the last few days, she hadn’t thought of the future.

  “You honestly think that either of you will come back to Balhaire?” Griselda thundered. She suddenly scrambled to her feet and strode away.

  Margot groaned. “What have I said now?” she shouted after Griselda.

  Griselda stopped and whirled about. “Are you really so daft?” she asked, jabbing at her own head.

  “I beg your pardon!”

  Griselda began marching back to where Margot sat. Margot hopped up, uncertain if she’d have to fight this woman. “You’ll no’ come back, and neither will Arran. How can you no’ understand that is so?”

  “Why would we not?” Margot demanded.

  Griselda gaped at her. “They will arrest Arran! The English will say he is a traitor and they will take him!”

  “No, they won’t,” Margot said hotly. “That’s precisely why we are to England, Zelda. My father is an influential man. He would never allow it to happen.”

  “He’s already allowed it to happen, aye?” Griselda said just as hotly. “He has cast all aspersions at Arran. He has said to you, and to anyone else who asks, that Arran is a traitor—”

  “He would never!” Margot cried.

  “—and he will make doubly sure Arran is arrested so no blame falls on his fair head, aye? And if, by some miracle, Arran might escape England, he could very well be murdered as he sleeps at Balhaire for all that they say of him now. The Highlanders call him traitor, too.”

  Margot stared at Griselda, her thoughts churning, her heart sinking. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re hysterical—”

&nb
sp; “And you are bloody naive, Margot. Arran is suddenly the most wanted man in England and Scotland, and you! You fret over what you will wear and if we can be friends! You donna know anything.”

  Margot felt sick. She couldn’t move. She could only stare at Griselda as the truth began to seep into her brain.

  Griselda’s shoulders sagged. “Come on, then,” she said, her voice gone dull. She brushed past Margot to collect the food. “I must teach you to mount a horse by yourself. We’ll save the shooting for the morrow.”

  The sun was sliding toward the west when Griselda and Margot returned to Balhaire. Margot could scarcely walk, but she somehow managed to march through the bailey and into the foyer. “Where is the laird?” she asked Fergus.

  “His study, milady,” Fergus said, his gaze and tone cool.

  Margot determinedly made her way to Arran’s study.

  She knocked once, twice on the door, heard his muffled voice and entered the room.

  Arran immediately stood up. His gaze raked over her, a frown forming in his brow as he took in her trews, her boots and coat.

  “Is it true?” Margot demanded.

  “What?”

  “Do you honestly believe you will be arrested? That my father would turn on you, and by doing so, turn on me? Is it true you could be murdered in your sleep here at Balhaire?”

  Arran sighed and rubbed his eye. “Zelda’s nattering, is she?” He settled one hip against his desk, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Is it true?” Margot asked again, her voice now weakened with her despair.

  “I donna know. Possibly.” He shrugged. “Probably. I am the name on everyone’s lips, aye? I need to put Tom Dunn’s name there, and I hope to God your father will help me. But it may verra well be too late.”

  The weight of his admission collapsed Margot. She staggered a step forward and fell into a chair. She could not imagine that her father would be involved in something as horrible as this. “You’re wrong, Arran. You’re all wrong. My father will protect you, of course he will. You are my husband! How could he possibly do less?”