Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  Arran turned away. “It’s no’ your father who concerns me at the moment.”

  Margot didn’t know what he meant by that. And she didn’t ask.

  * * *

  THE LAST BIT of road to Norwood Park was much more tedious now that Margot was wearing a gown, because she had to sit with her legs draped to one side over Roger’s back, and it was difficult to maintain her balance. But at last they began to pass through woods that were familiar to her. Past crofter cottages with the smoke of the morning fire rising from their chimneys. Past cattle grazing in the fields, and then sheep. There was the church spire in the distance, and down in the valley, through the trees, she could just make out the dozen chimneys of Norwood Park.

  As they approached the gates, Arran slowed. He spoke low to his men in their native tongue. Whatever he said was met with some resistance. One of them in particular—Ben Mackenzie—seemed to argue with him. And then three of them turned their mounts about, and one of them led the way through the gates.

  “Where are they going?” Margot asked as the three men rode away.

  “They will remain behind for the time being. If necessary, they will carry a message to Balhaire.”

  Margot clucked her tongue. “You are too cautious. You’ll see—we’ll be inviting them to dine.” She spurred her horse to canter so that Arran would not see just how her heart pounded with the anxiety from the tiny tendrils of doubt that were wrapping around her. What if I am wrong?

  They trotted beneath the branches of the towering sycamores that lined the long drive and along the trimmed hedgerow and gardens bursting with summer flowers. They rounded the large fountain in the middle of the drive, and as they came around to the front of it, the door opened and two liveried footmen hurried out to help them dismount. One of them produced a block so that Margot could step down. “Welcome home, milady,” he said.

  “Thank you, John.” Margot felt suddenly exhilarated. She looked around for Arran. He’d swung off his horse, had handed his crop to the footman and now held his arm out to her so that he could formally escort her into Norwood Park.

  “Lady Mackenzie, you are most welcome,” said Quint, the family butler, coming out to greet them. “We were not expecting you.”

  Margot was so happy to see the old man she almost hugged him. “Thank you, Quint.”

  “Welcome, my lord,” Quint said to Arran.

  Arran nodded.

  “Shall I have your luggage taken up?”

  “Please,” Margot said. “To the green suite, if you please. I’ve always admired the view from there.”

  “Yes, madam.” Quint stood back so that they could enter the foyer. Margot was first inside, and she paused in the middle of the grand entrance, looking around at the marble tile floors and the high painted ceiling. At the staircase bannister polished to a gleam. And above her, a massive crystal chandelier. It was an entirely different world from Balhaire, one of finery and sophistication. “Is my father at home?” she asked Quint as she removed her grimy riding gloves and handed them to the butler.

  Quint glanced at her gloves a second longer than necessary, no doubt wondering why she’d not had them properly cleaned. “His lordship and Master Bryce have called on Mrs. Sumpter, who has taken quite ill. I’ll send a messenger with the news of your arrival.”

  “Thank you,” Margot said. “And Knox? Is he at home today?”

  “I beg your pardon, madam. I cannot say. I have not myself seen him since yesterday morning. Shall I ring for tea?”

  “Please.”

  Quint bowed his head and moved toward a corridor, presumably to order tea.

  “Pardon,” Arran said.

  Quint halted and turned back. “My lord?”

  “Can you tell me where I might find my man Dermid Mackenzie? He was a frequent guest here for a time, aye?”

  Quint looked at Arran strangely, as if he thought Arran should know where Dermid was. “I couldn’t say where, my lord, no.”

  “But you can give him a message, can’t you?” Margot asked. “When he comes in—”

  “He has gone from Norwood Park, madam,” Quint said.

  Chasing after her, Margot assumed.

  But Arran seemed concerned. “Did he say where he might have gone?”

  “Not to me, my lord. I had supposed he returned to Scotland. He’s been gone quite some time.”

  “We’ll inquire of Pappa when he comes. Thank you, Quint.”

  He nodded and set off again.

  Arran watched the butler go, his jaw working as he clenched it.

  “Don’t fret, Arran,” she said. “Dermid Mackenzie has gone in search of me, that’s all. There is nothing troublesome about it. Come,” she said, and took his hand. “There is something I want to show you.”

  She led him through the grand house to the back terrace and the vast sweeping lawn behind it, down a flight of flagstone steps and into the garden. Margot turned right at the large fountain and led him down a path between rosebushes that were taller than she. When she reached an ivy-covered stone wall, she dropped his hand.

  “What is it?” Arran asked.

  Margot found the small latch she was looking for. It was rusted, and she had to jiggle it into life, but she managed to lift it up and shoved the hidden gate open. It creaked loudly as she pulled vines away with her hands so she could push it a little wider.

  Arran peered curiously into the gap.

  “Come,” Margot said, and slipped through the gate, into a secret garden her father had built for her many years ago. It was wildly overgrown now; roses climbed the wall untrimmed and untended. A birdbath had been overturned. Vines as thick as her finger spread along the raised beds. But the swing still hung from a tree, and the child’s table and chairs were still in the middle of the garden. Just beneath the table was the little carriage that she would hitch to her spaniel and laugh with delight as he pulled it down the path.

  Arran fit himself through the opening. “What is this, then?”

  “My secret garden.” She smiled at the memories she had of this garden. Of playing here with Knox for endless afternoons while their governess nodded off in the corner. “Pappa built it for me when I was a small girl. Isn’t it delightful?”

  “Aye,” he said. He squatted down and picked something up off the ground. He examined it, then held it out to Margot. It was a toy soldier, no bigger than a large acorn. “That belonged to Knox!” she said, and took it from his hand.

  “Aye, it’s lovely, Margot. Now that you’ve seen it, we ought to return—”

  “I wanted to show you this so you’d understand,” she interjected.

  “Understand what?”

  “That a father who cared so much for his daughter he would create this special place for her would not one day betray her. It’s impossible.”

  Arran looked around them before his gaze settled on her. He reached for her hand. “We must go back now, aye?”

  He didn’t believe her yet.

  In the house once more, they settled in as if they had come back from a grand tour and meant to stay for a time. They had just sat down to afternoon tea—or rather, Margot to tea, and Arran at the window—when her father came bustling into the room with his arms open. “Margot, my love!” he exclaimed warmly, and wrapped her in a tight embrace, kissing her cheeks, then holding her back to look at her before hugging her again. “I cannot believe my good fortune! I assumed it would be quite a long time before I saw my darling girl again.”

  Margot laughed. Bryce had come in, too. He looked decidedly less pleased by her appearance. “It’s so good to see you, Pappa! And you, Bryce.” She lifted her cheek to be kissed.

  “Ah, our favorite Scot,” her father said, and embraced Arran as if he were his own son.

  Margot was terribly relieved. The small part of h
er that had doubted her father disappeared. She was right—he was not conspiring against Arran.

  “This is such a pleasant surprise,” her father said. “There is so much we must catch up on, isn’t there? But first, let us prepare for dinner, shall we? When I heard you’d returned, Margot, I sent a messenger straightaway to Lynetta and invited her family to join us this evening.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t prepared for guests. They had only just arrived—it seemed too soon. “And Knox?”

  “Knox? Regrettably, he is away just now,” her father said with a wince. “Now, go, have a rest and dress for dinner. I’ll have a word with your husband.”

  Margot looked at Arran. “But should I not stay—”

  “Not unless you want to hear a lot of tiresome talk about land and such. I’ll send him up to you directly,” her father said, and gave her a squeeze of her shoulders before opening the door for her.

  Still, Margot hesitated.

  “There’s my girl,” her father said with a pointed gaze.

  She had been dismissed. She glanced at Arran, and he gave her an almost imperceptible nod, so she went out.

  No sooner had she stepped out than the door was shut at her back.

  The minutes dragged by as Margot waited for Arran to join her in their guest suite. She felt as if she’d been pacing for an hour when at last he did come, and she was surprised by the enormous wave of relief that swept through her when he walked into the room. She threw her arms around him, almost to reassure herself that he was actually there.

  “Easy, Margot, aye? It’s all right,” he said, his hands steadying her at the waist.

  “What happened? What did he want?”

  Arran shrugged as he set her back. “He asked after Balhaire. The strength of trade, how many Mackenzies take their livelihood from the estate. He talked about Norwood Park and the plans he has for the acreage I own.”

  “Did you tell him about Thomas Dunn?”

  Arran shook his head. “I should like to speak to him alone about it, aye? Your brother...he doesna care for me, it’s plain. I think it best I have the discussion with his lordship alone.”

  “Bryce doesn’t care for anyone but himself, I think,” Margot said absently.

  Arran shrugged out of his coat. “People are beginning to arrive. You’d best go down and greet them.”

  “Not without you,” she said.

  She waited for Arran to prepare himself for the evening, and they went down together. But the moment she saw Lynetta Beauly, she quite forgot her husband and grabbed her friend in a tight embrace.

  It was a happy reunion, and Margot sat between Lynetta and Arran at supper. The wine flowed quite freely around the table as everyone talked over each other. There was laughter, and many toasts were made. Even Arran seemed to relax, if only a bit, when Mr. Beauly engaged him in conversation.

  Lynetta nattered on about her upcoming nuptials, and when she had exhausted that, she began to give Margot all the gossip from around Norwood Park. Mr. Franklin Carvey now held Miss Viola Darfield in great esteem, but Mr. James Carvey could not pay his debts, and his father was seeking a military commission for him.

  “It’s a wonder it’s taken this long to note his debts,” Margot muttered, leaning to her right as Quint poured more wine.

  Lynetta laughed at the memory. “Do you remember winning ten pounds from him? I was quite pleased you were the victor that night. He seemed rather pompous to me, so very sure of his abilities. Oh, Margot, how diverting it was! And you, always teasing the poor man. How I miss you.”

  Margot smiled thinly. It all seemed so frivolous to her now—all that flirting and gambling. She’d been more concerned with her insular society than anything else. What a shallow existence she’d had.

  She stole a look at Arran, who was listening politely to Mr. Beauly. She thought of how he presided over Balhaire and his clan. Of the many needs and responsibilities of overseeing all those Mackenzies and their prosperity. How did he abide her? How had she preferred this—this trifling existence? She felt oddly ashamed.

  “You can’t tear your eyes from him!” Lynetta said, nudging Margot. “I scarcely blame you. He’s quite...robust.” She giggled. “Why is it that the gentlemen in the north of England are lacking in such health and vigor? I’ve never seen a gentleman as virile as your husband. Not even can I say it of my own fiancé, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “As I recall, you seemed to think Mr. Dermid Mackenzie was...virile,” Margot teased her.

  “Why on earth would you bring him to mind?” Lynetta said, sounding quite appalled. “He’s a thief!”

  Something twitched deep in Margot. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have you not heard?” Lynetta whispered. “Shortly after you left, they arrested him. They said he stole from Lord Norwood.”

  Now Margot’s gut twisted uncomfortably. “That can’t possibly be true,” she said. “I’m certain I would have heard of it.” She had never paid Dermid Mackenzie much heed, particularly since he’d been sent to keep watch over her—but he’d never been anything but polite and respectful. Margot didn’t believe he’d stolen a thing—Arran’s men did not steal. “Who accused him?”

  Lynetta shrugged. “I don’t know. They say he took something of great value and he was taken away in shackles.”

  Margot began to feel queasy, the wine mixing with a sickening, anxious feeling.

  “What is it?” Lynetta asked. “You look ill.”

  “Nothing. The partridge, I think,” Margot said, and pressed a hand to her belly. “Where did they take him?”

  “Oh, I’ve not the slightest idea,” Lynetta said breezily.

  “But—”

  “Ladies,” her father said, interrupting them. “Shall we all repair to the salon? Margot, darling, I’m afraid I’ve boasted quite relentlessly of your talent on the pianoforte. Would you grace us with a song? Perhaps Miss Beauly will accompany you with her angelic voice.”

  Margot looked at Arran. He smiled. He did not know about Dermid.

  In the salon, Margot did as her father asked. But her play was wooden, and Lynetta kept shooting her looks. Margot could hardly help it—she was nauseated with anxiety. Dermid Mackenzie being accused of thievery was wrong. And why hadn’t Quint said so when they asked? Had he kept quiet to spare Arran’s feelings? Did he think perhaps they should hear it from her father? And when, exactly, did her father intend to tell Arran what had happened to his man?

  Her father seemed perfectly jovial and at ease this evening. He laughed and teased, applauded and poured wine for everyone. He did not seem like a man who had any unpleasant news to share. He looked happy to have his daughter home.

  Maybe Lynetta was wrong.

  And yet Margot couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was very wrong.

  When the song came to an end, Mrs. Beauly and Mr. Beauly stood up to perform, and Margot was thankfully relieved of her duty. She resumed her seat next to Lynetta, Arran standing behind her. His presence was comforting to her. But his expression was unreadable. She suspected he found the evening quite tedious, and honestly, Margot kept nodding off as the Beaulys sang. She’d more wine than was her custom, and her thoughts kept drifting to nights at Balhaire, to those occasions of lively music and chaotic dancing. Just in the last fortnight, she’d been far more entertained at Balhaire than by the very prim performances in this drawing room. She suddenly wished that they could all come out of their seats and dance. She imagined Bryce hopping about in a Scottish reel and couldn’t suppress a smile. Oh, how he would loathe it.

  She often felt as if he despised her.

  But why would he? She was being overly suspicious now. The journey to England, her nerves, her doubts and the anticipation of what was to come—all of it began to weigh on Margot. She could scarcely keep her eyes open.

 
It was half past one in the morning when the Beaulys took their leave, and in the foyer of her home, she held Lynetta tightly to her. “You are always welcome, no matter where I am, Lynetta.”

  Her friend giggled at her. “I know, Margot. How silly you are! You look completely exhausted, darling—you really must go to bed.”

  The two young women said their goodbyes, and Margot stood on the steps of Norwood Park as she had a thousand times before, waving to their guests. Arran stood beside Margot, his hand on the small of her back. Her father and her brother stood below them, speaking low to each other.

  Margot took Arran’s hand. “I’m so weary I can scarcely walk. Shall we retire?”

  “You go, leannan,” he said, and pulled her into his side and kissed her temple. “I’ll have a word with your father.”

  “But I’ve so much to tell you. And it’s so late!” she complained.

  “Aye, that it is. Go on, find your bed. I’ll wake you when I come.”

  Margot was too weary to argue. She said good-night and trudged up the stairs to the green suite of rooms with the view of the lake and rolling hills of northern England.

  She undressed, brushed her hair and crawled into the four-poster bed, sighing as she sank into the down mattress and pillows. Her lids were heavy, but she was determined to wait up for Arran. She would tell him, “There, do you see? No one here wants to harm you.” And he would say, “You were right all along, mo gradh.” She would say, “Dermid has been arrested!” and he would say, “Aye, your father told me, but I didna care to distress you.”

  She could almost hear his deep brogue saying those words to her now, could almost feel him crawling into bed beside her to keep her warm. Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, tomorrow they would decide what to do next.

  It was a lovely little dream. But it was nothing more than the dream of a naive young woman.

  Because Arran never came to bed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MARGOT’S SLEEP WAS a dead one, the sort from which it’s hard to wake. As sunlight began to filter into her consciousness, she startled awake and sat up. Sunlight meant it was well past dawn. She hadn’t meant to sleep so long.