Page 10 of Wild Wicked Scot
It was clearly the wrong thing to say; the woman said something quickly and quite vehemently to Mackenzie, then twirled about and went inside.
Margot blinked at her departing back. “I don’t... Did she understand me? Does she speak English?”
“Aye,” Mackenzie said, his countenance stormy. “She speaks English quite well.”
That was the moment Margot was certain her situation could not possibly get any worse.
But then Mackenzie led her inside that looming castle.
It was dark and close, the corridors lit by candles stuck in old wall sconces. It smelled musty, as if it had never been aired. Moreover, Margot heard a moaning sound that made her blood run cold. It sounded as if someone was dying—until she realized it was the wind whistling down the ancient flues, creating drafts at every doorway.
She wearily followed Arran about those winding, dark corridors for what seemed several minutes before they emerged into what he proudly announced was the old great hall. There were several people milling about, making merry, all of them dressed in what looked like various layers of wool clothing, not a hint of silk or satin among them. None of them had donned wigs or dressed their hair. Worse, there were dogs. Not the small parlor dogs that Margot was accustomed to seeing in a house, the sort that might nestle in a lady’s lap—but big dogs. Big hunting dogs that wandered around the great hall as if they were quite at home here. Two of them even ventured forward to sniff at her clothing as Arran led her toward a raised platform on which sat a long wooden table.
He made his way to a pair of upholstered seats in the very middle of the table, facing the hall. He sat.
Margot stood uncertainly, wondering if a butler or footman would seat her. Arran glanced up at her, then looked meaningfully at the seat beside him.
She sat.
“Are you hungry?” he asked when she had seated herself on the very edge of the chair covered in a dingy fabric.
“A little.”
He lifted his hand, signaled to someone—there were so many people milling about, it was impossible to know—and a boy soon appeared and set two tankards of ale before them, his eyes as big as moons when he looked at Margot. She pitied him—he’d probably never seen a woman with hair properly powdered. And she, in turn, was staring wide-eyed at the tankard he’d set before her. “Will we not have wine?” she asked of no one in particular.
“Ale,” Arran said, and lifted his tankard and drank thirstily, as if he was sitting in a tavern with a group of men instead of at a table with his wife. She stared at him, appalled by his manners and the fact that she would be expected to drink like a sailor, but was interrupted by a woman who approached the table. She had graying hair and a swath of plaid that she wore draped over one shoulder. She held the end of it bunched in her hands.
“You’re the new Lady Mackenzie, aye?” she asked, and held up the bunched end of the plaid.“Fàilte!”She opened the plaid. Nestled in it was a small chick.
Margot didn’t understand if the woman meant to give her the chick or if she was simply mad—but she shrank back against her chair in horrified surprise. Arran said something to the woman, flicking his wrist at her, and the woman frowned, covered the chick and moved away.
“Whoarethese people?” Margot asked testily as a couple approached the dais and Arran waved them away, as well.
“My clan,” Arran said. The boy appeared again. He was carrying a bowl in each hand, and tucked under his arm were two spoons. The boy, who was not wearing gloves, placed the bowls before them, and then the spoons.
“They are your clan now, aye?” Arran said. He picked up his spoon and began to eat.
“Pardon?”
He paused to look at her. “These people are your clan now, Lady Mackenzie.”
She hadn’t really thought of it like that before now. She looked out at the people milling about, laughing and talking with each other, casting curious looks at her. She looked at the thick soup before her, the spoon the boy had carried tucked up against his side under his arm.
“Do you no’ care for the soup?” Arran asked.
The soup? She didn’t care for this place, these people! “I’m not hungry after all.” She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “I should like a bath now.”
“A bath,” he repeated slowly.
Good God, surely theybathedhere! “Yes. A bath.” She looked at him pointedly.
Arran fit another spoonful of soup into his mouth and shrugged. He lifted his hand once more, and this time, an older man with a pate of thinning ginger hair appeared at his side. Arran consulted with the man about her bath...at length. It seemed a long stretch of minutes passed before the man walked away and Arran turned back to his meal. He took three quick bites in succession, wiped his mouth with the napkin and stood, his chair scraping loudly behind him. With a sigh, he held out his hand to her, palm up. “Aye, then. A bath for milady. I’ll bring you round to our chambers.”
“What do you mean, our chambers?”
“The master’s chambers,” he clarified.
She was beginning to feel ill. “I don’t understand. You haven’t private rooms for me?” she asked disbelievingly.
