Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  She looked around the room, saw no sign of her husband. She thought perhaps he’d been lost in a dark house last night and had found another room.

  She rose and hurried through her toilette. There was no maid to help her, so she dug through a trunk of her things she’d left behind until she found a serviceable day gown and donned it. She left her hair undressed and went down to breakfast.

  Quint and a footman were clearing dishes from the sideboard. Margot looked at the mantel clock—it was half past ten! “Where is everyone?” she asked.

  “The gentlemen have gone to Fonteneau, madam,” he said.

  “Fonteneau,” she repeated, her brow wrinkling in her confusion. Fonteneau was an old fortress abbey, a place she had frequented as a child. She remembered it had gardens and steeples built so very high, and birds nested at the tops of the spires. It had been a gloomy destination as a child, but since the ancient viscount of Fonteneau, Lord Granbury, had fallen ill, the place had fallen into deeper disrepair. Granbury had a son, Lord Putnam—but the last Margot had heard of him, he’d lost a fortune in London. “Why Fonteneau?”

  “His lordship did not say,” Quint said.

  “My husband, too? And his man?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  When had they gone? This morning? In the night? Why hadn’t Arran awoken her to inform her? “They left with no note for me? No explanation?”

  “His lordship did not leave a note that I am aware,” Quint said. “Shall I prepare hot chocolate for you?”

  “No, thank you,” she said absently. Was it her imagination, or did Quint hasten out the service door?

  With each passing hour, Margot’s heart deflated a little more. She spent the day at the window, looking for any sign of her husband, her father or a messenger who would tell her when her husband and father would return. She tried to recall how long the journey to Fonteneau might take. Five hours? Long enough that they would stay overnight in that dreadful old abbey fortress with its thick stone walls and drafty windows? What business could Arran and her father possibly have there? It simply made no sense.

  When no one had returned by nightfall, Margot was ill with worry. She went in search of Quint again. “I want a messenger,” she said when she found him in the dining room, setting the table.

  “Straightaway, madam,” he said. “Shall I send him to the drawing room?”

  “Yes.” She marched to the drawing room to wait.

  Moments later, a young footman appeared in the drawing room. “Stand there,” Margot warned him, afraid that he, too, would disappear. “Don’t move as much as a muscle until I’ve written this note.” She had found pen and paper, and dashed off only a few words: “The laird has been taken to Fonteneau.” She didn’t sign it; it wasn’t necessary. She only hoped that the men who received it could read English. She waved the paper in the air to dry the ink, then carefully folded it.

  “Take this to the village,” she said, speaking low. She glanced around her, uncertain if someone was listening. Fear was creeping up her neck, sinking into her veins. Something dreadful had happened today, and she didn’t trust anyone. “There are three men there, from Balhaire.”

  The footman looked confused. He was a few years younger than she, his cheeks still pink with his youth. “They are Scots,” she said. “Give this to one of them. It hardly matters which. Just give it to one.”

  “Yes, milady.” He tucked the note into his pocket, bowed and turned to go.

  Margot caught his arm. “What is your name?”

  “Stephen, mu’um. Stephen Jones.”

  “You mustn’t return until you deliver this note, do you understand, Stephen?” she asked, squeezing his arm. “If you are forced to wait all night, then wait all night. Don’t you dare leave until you hand this note to one of those men.”

  “Yes, milady,” he said, his eyes widening slightly at her desperate tone.

  “I’m trusting you, Stephen.” She had the anguished thought that this young man was her only hope, and to her horror, her eyes suddenly welled with tears.

  Stephen Jones looked quite mortified. He leaned away from her as if he feared her tears were contagious.

  “Just...please do as I ask,” she said, and removed her hand from his arm.

  “You may depend on it, milady.”

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Now go, go—there is no time to waste.”

  Stephen gave her a curt nod and hurried from the room.

  Margot resumed her pacing. Her thoughts were in such turmoil that her head ached, and her stomach in such knots it fared no better. She realized how inept she was—she had no notion what to do. She was as she had always been—entirely dependent on men.

  Dark descended with a vengeance, and with it, rain, and still, no one came. She imagined any number of scenarios: highwaymen had captured them. Or Arran had kidnapped her father and brother to draw Thomas Dunn out of hiding. Perhaps her father had kidnapped Arran. But why had they gone to Fonteneau?

  Quint found her after nine o’clock and urged her to eat something.

  “I couldn’t possibly,” she said, waving him off. “Is there any word?”

  “No, madam,” he said, and gave her a piteous smile that made her loathe him in that moment.

  “Where is Knox?” she demanded.

  Quint hesitated. The top of his balding head seemed to shine more than usual. He said, rather carefully, “I cannot say with all certainty, but I believe your brother might have taken rooms in the village.”

  “Rooms?” Margot repeated. “Why? Has he had a falling-out with Bryce?” It wouldn’t be the first time.

  But Quint colored and said, “I would presume, madam, so that he might be closer to the object of his esteem.” One of his thin brows drifted upward.

  “His what?”

  Quint pressed his lips together and refused to say more.

  Margot thought a moment. “Oh. I see. If there is any word, come at once, will you?”

  “Of course.”

  Quint didn’t come to her again.

  Nor did her father or Arran return to Norwood Park. At one o’clock in the morning, exhaustion drove her to her bed, but her sleep was tormented.

  Arran would never leave her like this, without a word, without a proper explanation. But that was precisely what she’d done to him. She despised the girl she’d been then. Shame nudged in beside her worry to make her feel even more ill—she would be devastated if she never had the opportunity to make amends. She pulled the letter he’d written her from her pocket and read it again. “The beginning of my world and the end of it...”

  She asked herself for the thousandth time, why Fonteneau?

  The next morning, Margot tried to eat a bit of toast. She could scarcely make herself chew it; her stomach was roiling with anxiety, but she needed to keep her strength. She would be of no use to Arran if she fainted with hunger.

  Stephen found her in the dining room. He was smiling. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I was indeed able to deliver your letter.”

  Margot gasped. “What did he say?” she asked eagerly.

  Stephen blinked. “Was I to bring a reply?”

  Margot sighed. “No, Stephen. Thank you,” she said, and patted his shoulder as if she were his grandmother.

  By early afternoon, Margot was in such a state of despair she began to fear she was losing her mind. It was as if she was walking through a nightmare from which she could not wake. She’d managed to get a few bites down and had resumed her pacing. Then she saw through the window horsemen approaching Norwood Park.

  Her father.

  Margot raced to the foyer, arriving at the same moment her father entered, bellowing for Quint.

  With a cry of relief, Margot ran to him, hugging him tightly. “You’ve had me sick with worry, Papp
a. Why did you go to Fonteneau?” she asked, and looked around him, to the door. “Where is Mackenzie?”

  “He has remained at Fonteneau,” her father said. “Move aside, Margot. I can’t give Quint my gloves with you standing there,” he said, and shunted her aside.

  “Why did Arran stay at Fonteneau?” she asked, panic filling her. “There was no note, no explanation—”

  “Margot, please. I’m quite exhausted,” her father said dismissively. “I need to sit and think before you begin to bombard me with questions. We’ll speak later.” He brushed past her, striding in the direction of his study with Quint on his heels.

  Margot was so stunned she was rooted to the marble tiles of the foyer, capable only of gaping after her father. So stunned that she scarcely noticed Bryce until he walked past her with a passing glance, following her father.

  This cannot be happening. They had left with her husband and had returned without him, and now treated her as if she were a piece of furniture to be stepped around. A rising tide of anger began to push aside Margot’s astonishment. Fury began to beat down her exhaustion and fear and anxiety.

  She refused to be treated like this.

  She abruptly marched to her father’s study. She did not pause at the closed door, oh no—she shoved it open with all her might and strode through the door.

  “Margot, for heaven’s sake!” her father snapped, startled by her entrance.

  “Where is my husband, Pappa?” she demanded. “Why did he leave Norwood Park, and why hasn’t he come back?”

  Her father’s face darkened. “You will not speak to me in that manner—”

  “Tell me where he is!” she said sharply.

  Her father’s expression turned stormy. “I’ll tell you where he is—in chains, as well he ought to be.”

  For a sliver of a moment, Margot was certain she misheard. But the look of raw detachment on her father’s face slapped her awake to the truth. She grabbed the back of a chair, the news a physical blow to her. “Wh-what have you done, Pappa?” she stammered, her voice shaking. “We came to you for help. We came to tell you that Thomas Dunn—”

  “I know all about Thomas Dunn!” he snapped. “Foolish girl! You thought I would help you? Thomas Dunn is a drowning man. Don’t you know what to do with a drowning man? Kick him away so that he doesn’t drag you beneath the surface with him.”

  Margot gasped. It was impossible to comprehend that the man saying such a vile thing was her father. “So you allow him to drag Arran down with him?” she asked, incredulous. “When the two of you, together, could bring a traitor to justice?”

  Her father snorted and flicked his wrist at her. “Thomas Dunn is a nobleman and has favor with the queen. Do you think anyone in England will believe a backwater Scotsman over him? He may say what he likes of Arran Mackenzie precisely because he’s made sure that no one will stand up for him.”

  “But we can stand for him!” she cried. “You, Pappa!”

  He snorted.

  “He is my husband,” she said, her voice shaking with fury.

  “In name only.”

  “No! He is my husband, Pappa!”

  “What, have you suddenly developed tender feelings for him, Margot?” her father snarled. “You? You have despised him from the moment I told you what your duty must be. You fled him. You wailed like a child when I told you that you must go back to Scotland for the good of your family. And now you would have us believe he is your dear husband?” He snorted disdainfully. “You did what I needed you to do. Now go and host a ball or a soiree. Gamble if you like. Go to London, order gowns for the Season—I don’t care what you do. But leave me be—I’m tired.”

  Her breath was being squeezed from her lungs and the rush of blood in her head was deafening. At any moment, she would either faint or strike her father. “You have used me ill, my lord,” she said, her voice shaking as she clung to the chair with impotent rage.

  “For God’s sake,” he said impatiently.

  “You convinced me to marry him. You gave me no choice! You convinced me to return to him—to save this family, you said! I did as you asked. I tried as best I could to forge a marriage with him. And now that I have, you’ve thrown him away like so much rubbish and with no regard for me, your only daughter.”

  Her father sighed. He looked impatiently at her as if she were a naughty child. “Of course I have regard for you, Margot. But sometimes we must do things we don’t want to do for the good of the family.”

  “Oh? And what have you done? Or Bryce? What has anyone here done for the good of this family? I’m nothing but a pawn to you!”

  Her father’s gaze turned as cold as winter ice, and for once, Margot saw the sort of man he truly was, and it was devastating. Everything she thought she knew, everything she thought she was, now seemed a lie. Because he was a lie.

  “If you say so,” he said deliberately.

  “Margot,” Bryce said. She had forgotten he was here at all, but now his hand was on her back. “Come away,” he said, and put his hand on her arm, forcing her from the room. Margot allowed him—she was so stunned, so shattered that she couldn’t think for herself in those few moments. Neither could she bear to look at her father, a man she had once respected. Had believed.

  But once outside the study, she jerked away from her brother.

  “Don’t make trouble,” he said quietly.

  “What sort of man are you to allow this to happen?” she asked acidly.

  “What do you want?” Bryce asked, his voice calm. “Do you want us all to lose our heads? Our lands? Everything of value? Or would you have us protect a Scot with nothing to recommend him?”

  “Nothing to recommend him? He has more honor in his finger than any man in this house,” she snapped. “If we could expose Thomas Dunn—”

  “We can’t,” he said emphatically. “We risk too much. Dunn has connections in London. He is an intimate of the queen. It’s impossible—”

  Margot whirled around, intending to storm away from him, but Bryce caught her arm and held her tightly. “Heed me, Margot—don’t make trouble. It will not go well for you if you do.”

  She glared at him. “Are you threatening me?”

  Bryce smirked as he let go of her arm. “Do you want to marry again? Of your own choosing? I suggest you do as we tell you.”

  What fragments were left of her heart disintegrated. What had happened to her family? When had they become these men? Had she been so caught up in her own society that she hadn’t seen them for the evil men they were? Or had something happened to turn them to curs?

  Still, as shocked and sickened as Margot was, she instinctively knew that she had to pretend to accept what he was saying. “Fine,” she said curtly, and flounced away from him, running when she turned the corner, fleeing to the privacy of a suite where she could wail and cower and scream into a pillow.

  Margot did precisely that. Every emotion that had built in her in the last twenty-four hours came crashing out of her on a tidal wave of enormous frustration. But when the screams were done, she knew what she had to do. She didn’t know what had happened to her family, couldn’t begin to guess when everything had gone so wrong. But there was one man on this earth whom she needed above all others, and that was Arran Mackenzie.

  And to reach him, she needed Knox. God help her if Knox was against her, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ANOTHER NIGHT TORTURED with dreams and the dull ache of hunger woke Margot well before dawn. She dressed in a drab day gown of brown muslin and sat in a chair facing the window, waiting for the sun to come up.

  She tried not to despair, but it was increasingly difficult. Her thoughts wandered through her memories of Arran. Of the way he had looked on their wedding day, so tall and handsome and pleased. Of the way he’d held her the first night they’d
lain together as man and wife, as if she might break in two. Of the things he would say that made her laugh. Of the letters he’d written her and the night he’d told her he had loved her since the moment he saw her.

  She reread the letter. “The beginning of my world and the end of it...”

  His end.

  She calmly folded the vellum. It was grimy and worn now, the vellum as limp as cotton. She put it in her pocket. She’d been his burden for too long. No more.

  When the sun peeked out over the treetops, Margot went down to the dining room, pausing just outside the door to arrange a smile on her face. When she was hopeful she had it, she entered the room.

  Her father was seated at the table, buttering his toast. “Good morning,” she said brightly. But she did not kiss him. She went directly to the sideboard.

  “Good morning,” he said, his voice full of question. “What has roused you at such an early hour?”

  “Is it early?” she asked lightly. “I hadn’t noticed. I thought I’d go to the village and pay a call to Mrs. Munroe. I left my best gowns in Scotland and will need to replace them. You don’t mind, do you, Pappa? Oh, and I should like to send for Nell, if you please. I’m quite lost without her.”

  Her father didn’t respond right away, so Margot glanced at him over her shoulder, still smiling. His gaze flicked over her, assessing. “As you wish.”

  “Thank you.” She picked up a piece of toast and started for the door.

  “Margot?”

  She closed her eyes, took a breath, then turned back with her false smile. “Yes?”

  “Have a footman accompany you to the village.”

  His concern was maddening, given what he’d done to her. He certainly hadn’t cared about her when he’d discarded her husband. Margot very much would have liked to have said as much, too, but her soaring indignation was child’s play compared to what he’d done to Arran, and she had to keep her calm if she had any hope of helping him. “Of course. Good day, my lord.” She gave him a cheery wave and went out.