But her father had taken her hands in his and said, “My darling girl, a man can be convinced of anything if his wife is as pleasing as she ought to be. Do you take my meaning?”
She took his meaning, all right. Lord Norwood thought he could order her to return to her husband and her husband would overlook his wounded pride and welcome her with open arms. He thought that Margot would politely inquire if it were true that Arran colluded with the French and the Jacobites and intended to give them entry into Scotland through Balhaire. And that Arran would happily tell her if it were true that he and his highly regarded Highland soldiers would join the French troops and invade England to remove Queen Anne from the throne and put James Stuart on it.
Her father apparently believed this so completely and thought it so important that he clearly felt himself justified in threatening Margot to do what she did not want to do once again. She had tried to convey to her father how irretrievably broken-down was her marriage to Mackenzie, how he must despise her now, how she had despised him. Not that she believed for a moment that he was involved in treason, for God’s sake, but she was in no position to ascertain the truth.
Her father would hear none of it.
This was ridiculous. If, by some small chance, Arran was involved in something so deplorable and indefensible, he would hide any evidence of it. He’d not amassed power and wealth with loose lips and carelessness. He certainly would not talk freely of it to her, especially not when he reviled her so. He would hold her at arm’s length no matter what he thought of her. Women existed to be bedded and impregnated. They were not included in important discussions. They were told what to do; they were not allowed to choose.
“It is time to finish your meal,” Arran said. “You dawdle now, aye? You and I have much to discuss.” He stood up.
Margot looked up as she fit the spoon in her mouth. More than six feet of man towered over her. She chewed slowly as she regarded him. He’d always had a physique honed by his training of soldiers, as big and as strong as an ox. Three years hadn’t softened him in the least. Quite the contrary—he looked even leaner and harder now, his hair in need of a cut, his ice-blue eyes as shrewd as ever.
“Be quick about it,” he added, and stepped off the dais, to where her father’s men sat. He spoke to them, gesturing to two of his men who had instantly come forward. Moments later, Pepper and Worthing stood up, glanced uneasily at Margot, then followed the Scots out of the great hall. Arran went in another direction.
Margot panicked slightly, but then again, Worthing had warned her they’d not be allowed to stay. He was her father’s confidant—in fact, it was Worthing and two other gentlemen who had brought from London the rumors and accusations against Arran to her father.
“He’ll not want any Englishmen in his hall,” Worthing had warned Margot. “You must be prepared to see us depart.”
“No,” Margot had said. “I’ll ask him—”
“He will instantly suspect you if you speak for us, madam. You must play the part of a disobedient wife who means to make amends.”
Disobedient wife. Is that what they thought of her? As if she were a child who had disobeyed all the men in her life? As if she’d been expected to stay in an untenable position merely because men had put her there? Frankly, it would have helped tremendously if she knew just how a disobedient wife behaved when she wanted to make amends. Margot did not.
She watched Arran walk through the hall, pausing to speak to one or two people, glancing meaningfully back at her once or twice. His long, dark hair was a tangled queue, and his buckskins, lawn shirt and waistcoat were soiled, his boots scuffed. Who knew what the man had done all day? Margot bowed her head and recalled the sensation of his body in hers, carrying her away to that sensual place.
She missed that, anyway. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss it, how empty her life would become. She missed knowing that someone could be gentle with her, careful of her.
Margot felt the sickly warmth of fear as she thought of it. She had wounded him in the worst way one could wound a man, and she had no hope that he would care much for her now—she had seen the harshness in his gaze. She was afraid of him, disgusted by him, attracted to him.
Anxiety swelled in her, and she abruptly stood, suddenly desperate to escape to the privacy of her old rooms.
The moment she came to her feet, however, Jock appeared. “Madam.”
“Jock!” she said with a cheerfulness that belied the fright he’d given her. It seemed impossible that anyone could be larger than her husband, but Jock was. His dark ginger hair was streaked with gray and had always given her the impression that he carried the gloomy mists of the Highlands around with him.
“How good to see you. You are well?” she asked as pleasantly as she could force herself.
His brows dipped. He was not fooled by her. “Whatever you require, I am at your service, aye?”
Her wish was too complicated for poor Jock. But in that space of hesitation, Jock rubbed a finger against his cheek, and a movement to her left caught her eye. A rat, in the form of a man, went scurrying in the direction Arran had gone to report her attempt to flee.
She sighed and frowned at Jock. “That wasn’t necessary, was it?”
His eyes narrowed with his silent disagreement.
He’d always been a worthy adversary. He’d never trusted the marriage brokered between her and Arran. Margot put her hands to the small of her back. “I mean only to stretch my legs. I’ve come quite a long way.”
Jock merely stood there. Typical.
“And I am in need of a ladies’ retiring room.” She arched a brow, expecting him to retreat as all men did when confronted by women and their bodily functions. But Jock stood like a mountain before her, his expression unchanged.
“Perhaps my old rooms are available?”
“There are no rooms for you, madam. We didna expect you.”
Obviously. “You mustn’t trouble yourself, Jock. I’m certain my maid has made them ready by now,” she said, and slipped past him.
“Milady—”
“I know my way very well, thank you!” She walked quickly down the side of the hall before he could stop her, smiling blindly at all the unsmiling, distant faces. All she had to do was reach the main entrance to the hall. She knew exactly where she was going. In the four months she’d lived here as Mackenzie’s bride, when her husband was out hunting or training soldiers or away on one of his ships, Margot had nothing to occupy her. She’d spent many lonely hours wandering about this sprawling castle. She knew every turn, every stairwell, every room.
But just as she reached the main doors, one of them swung open and Arran entered the hall, the rat directly behind him. She instantly turned and started in the opposite direction. Arran caught up to her in a step, clasped her elbow and jerked her backward. Margot’s heart climbed to her throat. She put a hand to her heart and said laughingly, “You frightened me!”
He stood with his legs braced apart, and his brows formed a dark vee above his eyes. “You’d no’ be running from your husband so soon, would you, mo gradh?” he asked hotly. “Having just this night returned to...what was it you said, then...to try our marriage again? Because you have missed me so?” His lips curved into a cool smile.
Aware that several pairs of eyes were on them, Margot forced a light laugh, as if this was friendly banter between husband and wife. “I meant only to freshen a bit. Wash the dust of road from my skin, as it were.”
His smile turned wolfish. “If