Wild Wicked Scot

by Julia London

  Outside, the night was so dark that she could scarcely see in front of her.

  “Knox, wait, wait,” she said, using both hands to slow his step.

  “There is no time, Margot,” he said, and put his arm around her waist as he hurried her down the road.

  “But did you—Have you found him?”

  Knox grunted and pushed her around the corner.

  Her answer was standing there in the shadows. Margot would have known his figure anywhere. She didn’t think; she broke away from Knox and ran, her feet scarcely touching the ground. She vaulted her body at him, flinging her arms around him, desperate to feel him safe in her arms, and just as desperate not to lose him. “Arran, Arran... I thought you were lost to me,” she said. “I thought you were lost.”

  “Come now, Margot.” He peeled her arms from him. “Come now, aye? We must make haste. Go and help your brother bring horses,” he said, and set her back, pushing her lightly into a paddock, where their mounts were grazing, still saddled.

  Everything happened so quickly—Margot couldn’t say how, exactly, but she was in the saddle, and they were riding. Four horses, riding into the inky black of a moonless night. No one spoke. They just rode as quickly as they could with only the light from an anemic night sky to guide them, the only sound the horses laboring and their staccato cantering.

  It seemed like hours to Margot before Knox drew up, bringing the party to a halt. They had come out of the forest and were riding alongside the sea now. The clouds had cleared, and the moon provided enough light to see the road.

  “How did it come to this?” Knox asked Arran.

  “You might ask your da that, aye? He drugged me so that I couldna resist him, then threw me into a hole.”

  Even in the moonlight, Margot could see a fury on her brother’s face she’d never seen in him before.

  “Stay to this road,” Knox said. “You might reach Scotland sometime tomorrow.”

  “But you’re coming with us,” Margot said. “You must come with us! Pappa will take his anger out on you—”

  “I can’t,” Knox said flatly. He caught her horse’s bridle and pulled her aside, off the road.

  “Don’t go back, Knox,” she begged him. “Come with us! Balhaire is not so very awful. You’ll see. I know I’ve said that it is, but I’ve been unfair—”

  “Hush now,” Knox said quietly. “Listen to me, darling. Someone must stay behind. If Mackenzie is innocent, someone must discover what Thomas Dunn is about. Someone must be here who will speak for him and for you, and you know there is no one here who will speak on your behalf save me. Something is amiss—there is no reason that Thomas Dunn would randomly choose Mackenzie to torment. Something is rotten and I intend to determine what it is.”

  The stress of the last few days began to feel like a crushing weight on Margot’s chest. Was there no right way to turn? Was every decision steeped in loss? “You’ll be lost to me,” she said weakly.

  “What I must know—Margot, look at me. What I must know, and know now, is if this is what you truly want,” Knox said, gesturing toward Arran and his men. “Because if you choose him now, if you do not turn back with me now, likely you will be in Scotland for the rest of your life. You’ll not come back to England, not with the cloud of suspicion surrounding him. Do you understand me? You can’t come back, not for a very long time, or you’ll risk too much.”

  The night air felt thick; she was having trouble catching her breath again.

  “Are you all right?” Knox asked, reaching for her hand.

  How could she be all right? She was on a road in the middle of the night, faced with an untenable choice. Margot shook her head.

  “Ah, love, I understand. But I must press you for your answer. These men need to be as close to Scotland as possible when day breaks. What do you want, Margot?”

  What did she want? She wanted things to go back to the way they were three years ago. She wanted to do it all again, to say the right things, to stand up for herself and her desires. She wanted a completely different history than the one she’d been thrust into. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice shaking.

  She heard a horse move toward them, heard Arran’s low voice as thoughts roared in her head. She heard Knox wheel his horse about and move up to the road.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf, lass,” Arran said. His hand closed around hers, his fingers squeezing hers. “You need only say it, aye? Whatever you want, leannan. Say you want to end it, and it is done.”

  “That’s not—I wasn’t thinking that at all,” she said desperately.

  “Aye, of course you are. How could you no’? It’s a bloody bad decision for you, that it is.” He suddenly leaned over her, his hand going to her nape, drawing her forehead to his. “You saved my life, Margot. I willna keep you tied to me if you wish to remain in England. But I canna remain here, and with every moment that passes, I put my men and myself closer to danger. As cruel as it is, you must decide now. But know this—if you come with me now, I will give you all that I have. I will honor you and cherish you for as long as I live, with or without you. The decision is yours.”

  He seemed almost preternaturally illuminated in the moonlight. Margot pushed aside her cloak and reached into the pocket of her gown. Her fingers closed around the letter he’d written her and never sent. “I’m coming.”

  “Donna say it if you’re no’ certain—”

  “I’m not certain. I can’t possibly be certain! But I must make a decision here and now, and, Arran, I choose you.”

  His gaze moved over her face. He suddenly pulled her forward and kissed her hard on the lips. “I will spend every day of my life making sure you donna regret it.” He let her go. “We move now.”

  Margot twisted about. “Knox!”

  Her brother was there in a moment. “I will do what I can to clear the Mackenzie name,” he assured her. “You have my word. Now let me have your word that you will write often.”

  She couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing Knox again. She loved him so much, and to leave him behind, perhaps forever, was the cruelest pain.

  Knox sensed it. He grabbed her, hugged her as tightly as he could across the horses. His heart was beating wildly, too; she could feel it through his coat. “Nothing is forever, Margot. Have faith.” He kissed her cheek and let her go, then turned his horse about and rode away.

  “Come, mo gradh,” Arran said. He reached for her bridle and urged her horse forward. On they rode, into darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT TOOK DAYS before they were deep enough into Scotland that Arran felt safe. It was hard traveling—with no money, they were forced to make mean camps and hunt for food.

  Margot had explained to him that she’d given his entire purse to the man who had held him captive. Arran had privately winced—it was quite a lot of money. But he would never say so to her, because Margot had saved his fool life.

  She tried to force the emerald he’d given her on the occasion of their wedding into his hand. “Sell it!” she urged him. “Feed these men, these horses.”

  “Aye, if it comes to that,” he said, pressing it back into her hand. “But we lads know a wee bit about surviving.”

  It was Margot he fretted about. She’d thought to don the trews beneath her gown so that she could ride with some ease. But she was quite evidently exhausted, completely spent by what they’d endured. Even more alarming, she seemed devoid of any emotion. Each day that passed, her spirit became flatter, her words fewer. Arran was not a man who understood women well...but what he knew told him that when a woman didn’t speak, something was very wrong.

  The return to Scotland was made interminably long by the fact they were riding as opposed to sailing, across heather and hills rarely traveled by man. The only bright spot was that Dermid began to improve. Wit
h a bit of rabbit meat in his belly, he slowly began to find some strength.

  By the seventh day, Margot rode with Arran so that Dermid might have his own mount. It made the travel a little quicker, for as hearty as his wife had proven to be, she was slower than the three men.

  On the twelfth day, they reached the farm of Ben Mackenzie’s uncle...but they were not welcome. Mr. Mackenzie spoke in Gaelic. “You must go,” he said. “They’re looking for you.”

  “Who?” Arran asked.

  “The Gordons,” he said, looking nervously about, as if he expected them to leap from the trees and attack. “Word has gone round that you escaped to England and now they wait for you to return. You can’t stay here, laird. I don’t want trouble.”

  Arran frowned. This news meant he couldn’t go to Balhaire without risking confrontation. “Give us bread, some meat and cheese,” he said. “Ale if you can spare it.”

  “Why aren’t we dismounting?” Margot moaned, leaning back against him as they waited for Ben’s uncle to bring them food.

  “We willna stay,” Arran said. He looked across at Ben and, again, spoke in Gaelic so that he’d not unduly alarm Margot. “Take Dermid to Balhaire. We’ll carry on to Kishorn. Ride as hard as you can, lad. Tell Jock that no one must come to us. No one, not until it’s safe. There will be eyes everywhere, aye?”

  “Aye,” Ben said.

  Mr. Mackenzie appeared again with a large bundle of food for them. Arran nodded at Ben; he took the bundle and divided the food inside. He gave half to Arran and said, “Godspeed,” and he and Dermid turned toward home.

  Arran headed north.

  “Where are we going?” Margot cried, and tried to sit up.

  “Uist,” he said, pulling her back into his chest. “It willna be much longer now.”

  “But...”

  That was all she said—the woman was too beaten to argue.

  * * *

  THEY REACHED KISHORN just before nightfall. Thank God for it—Arran knew that neither his horse nor Margot could endure another step. Margot slid off the horse before him, and her legs collapsed under her. He was instantly beside her, helping her up.

  “I didn’t realize...” She shook her head. “Where are we?”

  Arran looked up at the old hunting lodge that had been in his family for centuries. He slipped one arm under Margot’s knees, the other behind her back, and picked her up.

  “I can walk,” she protested weakly.

  “You’re exhausted.” He walked to the entrance, put her down and opened the door, pushing it wide. Just inside the entrance he found candles and a tinderbox. He lit a candle and held it aloft, fit it into a candelabra, then lit two more.

  Margot had stepped inside behind him and was looking around at the beamed ceiling, the stone walls. “What is this place?”

  “A hunting lodge,” he said. “One that has belonged to a Mackenzie for two centuries. It was abandoned, but Griselda has decided it will be used again. She’s done a bit of work.”

  At one end of the room was a long table with a pair of benches for sitting beside a small stone hearth. At the other end was a larger hearth and chairs gathered before it. Directly across from the entrance was a corridor that led to sleeping rooms, and beyond that, kitchens, a small terrace and a barn. Griselda was to be commended—the floors were swept and scrubbed, the walls scraped clean of smoke and tar. Mackenzie plaids now hung on the walls to warm the room.

  Margot walked unsteadily to a wooden settee and sank onto it, then down, until she was lying on her side. Arran squatted beside her and caressed her dirtied face. “I’ll tend to the horse and make a fire, aye? You rest.”

  “Mmm,” she said. Her eyes were already closed.

  Arran stabled the horse before it was completely dark, brushed him and fed him oats, which, thank God and Griselda, there seemed to be quite a lot of in two large urns. When he was satisfied his horse could rest for the night, he grabbed the food Mackenzie had given them and returned to the lodge.

  Margot was still asleep on the settee when he returned. He built a fire in the great room, then went into the kitchen and built another. With that fire burning, Arran went in search of a bucket. He found one and took it out the back door to the well. After a few strong-armed pumps to force the rusted lever, he filled the bucket, returned it to the kitchen and put it over the fire to heat. It was the best he could do for bathing.

  When he had water warm enough for his wife to wash, Arran returned to Margot’s side. She was curled on the settee, one arm bent to pillow her head. He nudged her with his hand.

  “No,” she murmured.

  “I’ve hot water if you’d like to bathe.”

  She slowly opened her eyes and turned her head. “Truly?”

  Arran caressed her arm. “I’d no’ tease you about something so important, would I?”

  She slowly pushed herself up. “For your sake, I hope not.”

  He chuckled low and helped her to her feet. Then, with an arm around her waist, he led her to the kitchen. Margot peeled off a layer of filthy clothes, down to a filthier chemise, and plunged her hands into the water. She sighed with contentment, then bent over it and began to scrub her face.

  Arran found a cloth for her and watched in mute fascination as she scrubbed herself clean with the hot water. When she had finished and had wrung her auburn hair as dry as she might, she said, “I haven’t anything to wear.”

  “I’ll have a look about, aye?” He handed her a plaid that she wrapped tightly around herself.

  He found some buckskins, a moth-eaten woolen coat, a yellowed lawn shirt and a plain brown skirt, the sort a crofter might wear. He returned with his finds to the kitchen. Margot was in a chair near the fire, her knees up under her chin, her hair long and tangled.

  She looked at the clothes with blank eyes. “Why are we here? And for how long?” she asked. “And why did your men go another way?”

  He laid the clothes on the table. “Someone is looking for me yet. It wasna safe to return to Balhaire.”

  Her brows sank into a dark frown. “Scotsmen? Or English?”

  “Scotsmen. Probably English, too, then.”

  “What are we to do?” she asked softly.

  “I donna know,” he responded truthfully. He was too weary to think clearly. “For now, we hide.”

  “Without food or clothing?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll manage, we will.” He didn’t say that he feared it would be a very long time before they could leave here. That they would have to manage or starve.

  She turned her gaze back to the fire. “Are we safe here?”

  “Aye, for the time being.”

  “But not forever.” She glanced back at him. “We can’t run forever, can we?”

  It was not a question, really, but a remark. Arran couldn’t offer her the reassurances she wanted, and he didn’t want to try.

  He turned away from her and used the water to bathe himself as best he could. He had close to a full beard now. His hair had come out of its queue at some point. He wet his hair and pushed it behind his ears. When he was done, he pulled on one of the lawn shirts and the buckskins and joined a contemplative Margot at the fire.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “That you haven’t said you were right,” she said, and rested her chin on her knees.

  “About what?”

  “About my father. You haven’t reminded me that you didn’t trust him all along. Or that I so foolishly did.”

  “I didna think you needed reminding, leannan. You discovered it on your own, aye?”

  “Do you know what I’ve discovered? That I am nothing more than a pawn in this world. To be bartered and traded and cast aside when I am no longer useful.”

  She sounded bitter, but Arran couldn’t disagr
ee with her. That’s what daughters were to many families—bargaining power. Very few had managed to forge their own paths and do as they pleased. Griselda had, only because Uncle Ivor adored her so. He’d allowed her to refuse suitors and live freely, without a husband.

  “I will never be a pawn in someone’s scheme again,” Margot murmured. “I should sooner live in poverty, all alone, than live with others in opulence for no better reason than my name and the connections I can bring to them.”

  “You are no’ only a name to me,” he said.

  Margot didn’t seem to have heard him—she was suddenly looking around her. “I don’t know how to live like this,” she said plaintively. “I am so useless to you that I can’t as much as bake a loaf of bread.”

  “It doesna matter—”

  “It does matter, Arran! I’ve lived like a privileged blind woman. I despise myself for it—but I will never make that mistake again,” she said. She sighed. “I’m tired. Can we go to bed?”

  They found one room with a bed large enough for the two of them. They both fell into it, exhausted beyond measure. Margot rolled into his side, nesting there. “I don’t know how to exist like this,” she said again.

  Then there were two of them, because neither did Arran. He could hunt and fish and keep them alive, but he didn’t know how to exist like this. Without a clan. Without his family. Alone, with a wife who, in spite of the events the last several days, he still didn’t know if he could fully trust.

  He fell into a deep sleep, the first real sleep he’d had in weeks. So deep, in fact, that he never heard Margot leave him early the next morning. But when he awoke, she was gone. Arran panicked; he pulled on his buckskins and went in search of her, looking in every room until he’d made his way to the kitchen, fearing she’d taken the horse and tried to leave like a madwoman.