Page 25 of Wild Wicked Scot
And yet, last night, she’d felt suchlonging. Sweet Jesus, such undiluted yearning filling her veins and heart. For what, exactly, Margot didn’t know. But she’d realized, after they’d come together a second time, that something was missing in her, something vital, and the hunger felt fresh.
Margot didn’t hate Arran, had neverhatedArran—but she had hated her situation with such intensity that it had eaten away at her and perhaps had clouded her judgment at times. The transition to Scotland had been difficult, to be sure. Her rage had simmered, then turned wild over the circumstances of her marriage, forced by a father who’d demanded her loyalty at the tender age of seventeen, who had allowed her to be carted off without any real knowledge of the world at all, much less the ruggedness of the Highlands—or marriage, for that matter—and there had left her to fend for herself while her husband carried on with his clan.
It had been all too much for her. That last argument with Arran had been explosive and jarring, both of them shouting. She’d tried to express her unhappiness to Arran, how she felt as if she were a single boat on a vast ocean, floating along with no oars and no hope of rescue.
“God help us,” he’d said. “For you’re no’ the only ship adrift in this marriage, Margot.”
She never asked him what he meant by that.
Oh, but there were so many hurtful things said between them. And she’d had no one to go to, no friends in Scotland. It seemed like the harder she tried, the less anyone wanted to befriend her.
Perhaps it hardly mattered, because in the end, she lost patience with the situation entirely.
She left Scotland shortly after that final argument. It hadn’t been an escape, really, because as the coach was pulling through the massive gates of Balhaire, Arran and his men had come riding up from the sea. He had reined to a halt to the side of the road to let the coach pass. She would never forget the stony look he gave her as the coach slowly rolled by. He remained on his horse, his fists clenched as tightly as his jaw, watching her go.
He hadn’t tried to stop her. She’d imagined him happy to be relieved of her.
When the coach had passed, he spurred his horse through the gates and behind the castle walls, and his men had followed him, and that was the last she saw of him. She had collapsed onto the leather squabs of the coach, heartbroken. She’d been such a foolish girl then, wanting both worlds. She’d wanted desperately to go home, away from that crude castle and society. But she had also wanted him to fight for her.
Ah, what silly, romantic notions lived in the minds of girls who were not yet women.
In England, with time, Margot had managed to detach what feelings she had for Arran Mackenzie and go on about her life. Her father had been unhappy with her, but he’d assured her he understood.“Of course it is well-known that the Highlands are full of barbarians,”he’d said without hesitation. She’d thought it odd that he did not seem to see the irony in how he had been quite at ease marrying his daughter off to one.“You’ve done your duty, my girl.”Now that he had his agreements and lands in Scotland, made inviolable by her marriage to Mackenzie, he’d seemed satisfied.
He’d left Margot well enough alone, and she had turned her attention to...what? Nothing. There was no life to speak of as an estranged wife of some distant Scottish chieftain. She was a novelty—that was all. A married woman with no husband in sight who enjoyed vast liberties that other women did not. Margot had a robust social life, free to come and go as she pleased. She hosted soirees and flirted with gentlemen. She attended balls and suppers and flirted with more gentlemen. She was wanted by those men, pursued and courted by those men. However, that attention never seemed enough.
Their desire for her—and hers for them, no matter how shallow—only added to the unease in her. Margot could see years stretching out before her with a lot of flirting and not much else, because she was married. She had opportunity to be touched, of course—men pursued her for that very reason. But Margot had taken a vow before God to remain faithful. She couldn’t dishonor her word so completely and irrevocably. She was clinging to the last shreds of her dignity and her moral compass as it was. She began to feel quite numbed by her predicament, as if she was merely going through each day, waiting for something.
Margot sighed and used both hands to push her hair from her face. Her heart was pounding with the memories of last night. Was it possible that she and her husband, both of them older and wiser now, could actually resume their broken marriage? Was it possible that the rumors about him were true? Could this man, this fiercely independent, hardworking man, honestly plot against the queen—herqueen? No, Margot couldn’t believe it, no matter what her father said.
But then again, what did she know of Arran Mackenzie, really? Especially not now, especially after so much time. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know much of anything anymore.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t bear to think what might happen to him if he were truly committing treason. Part of her wanted to warn him. Another part of her wanted to catch him in the act. Part of her wanted to rewind the clock, to go back to that night of Lynetta’s birthday ball, so that she could refuse to meet him at all. Unfortunately, it was far too late for that. She was quite mired in this marriage.
Everything about this so-called reunion had happened so quickly, Margot still wasn’t certain how it had come to pass. It had begun when her oldest brother, Bryce, had accosted her one evening when she’d arrived home after dining with friends at the home of Sir Ian Andrews. It had been a lively evening—Lynetta was newly engaged to Mr. Fitzgerald, and Margot had passed the time by shamelessly teasing poor Mr. Partridge, who was smitten with her.
She’d come home feeling jocular and a bit tipsy. Bryce was waiting. He was dressed in riding clothes and was not wearing a wig. He looked as if he’d only just arrived home. His jaw was set implacably, his demeanor grim. “Where have you been?”
“Dining at the home of Sir Andrews. Why?”
“Father needs to speak with you,” he said, and clasped her elbow and escorted her into the library.
Her father was seated at the hearth with a book in his hand, a blanket draped over his lap. At his elbow, a glass of port. He smiled kindly when Bryce escorted her into the room. Margot’s beloved half brother, Knox, was standing at the window. He was dressed impeccably in a gold coat and dark brown pantaloons. He tried to smile at Margot, too, but he couldn’t seem to muster it and looked away.
In that moment, Margot knew something unpleasant was about to occur.
“Ah, Margot, my love,” her father said. “Come.” He beckoned her to his side. Margot pulled free of Bryce’s grip and went to her father, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “You should be abed, Pappa.”
“As should you, darling. It is unbecoming of a married woman to be so late in the company of gentlemen who are not her husband.”
He rarely mentioned Arran, and Margot thought it odd that he should mention him now.
“Which is why it now seems a good time for you to return to your husband.”
Margot’s heart fluttered with sudden anxiety. She glanced at her brothers. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are to Scotland,” her father said.
Margot gaped at him. “Why? Because I have dined at the home of Sir Andrews? I can’t go back to Scotland, Pappa!”
