Page 33 of Wild Wicked Scot
Nell looked as if she might collapse.
“Now, Nell,” she said, taking her maid’s hand and caressing it. “I know you’ve done quite a lot of work. But I will tell you in confidence that my husband is displeased with me for having ever left Balhaire, and he means to send me back to England straightaway. I can’t allow that to happen.” Not yet, anyway.
“Aye, milady,” Nell said morosely.
As Nell began to work to repack her things, Margot went in search of Fergus to inform him she would be changing rooms. She found the older man in the great room, overseeing the preparations for the evening meal. He tried to avoid her gaze as she walked in, but Margot knew what he was about and stopped him with a cheerful, “Good afternoon, Fergus.”
“Milady.”
“I thank you for airing out my old rooms on such short notice. But I’ve decided that I should like to be closer to my husband. Would you please ready the sitting room and dressing room adjacent to the master’s chambers? Nell is packing my things.”
Fergus blinked. And then his eyes narrowed on her. “Next to the laird,” he said, as if she’d misspoke.
“Yes, that’s right,” she said calmly. “Next to my husband. Good heavens, you do look alarmed, Fergus. Will it help if I give you my word I’ll not murder him in the night?”
Fergus’s eyes narrowed more. “No, it doesna help. I canna do so without speaking to the laird himself, aye?”
“Of course you can!” she said cheerfully. “Because I am mistress here. And besides, I’ve already spoken to him, and he was pleased with my decision.”
Fergus’s eyes narrowed into little slits. “I donna think—”
“Do as the lady asks,” said a deep male voice from behind Margot.
She should have known Jock would be lurking somewhere close by. Wasn’t he always? She glanced over her shoulder. “Thereyou are,” she said. “I had begun to fret you’d gone missing.”
“Go, then,” Jock said to Fergus.
“That was unexpectedly helpful of you,” Margot said as Fergus went on.
“No’ at all. It’s a wee sight easier to keep an eye on you there than in your tower, aye?”
“So you may think, my friend,” Margot said, and walked away from his piercing gaze.
Unfortunately, with no occupation, no task, no role to play, Margot found herself in the bailey once more. She had no idea where she was going, but she lifted her chin and walked through.
No one stopped her. Most hardly noticed her—that, or they were taking great pains to avoid looking at her.
She wasn’t as wretched as that, was she? Was it truly so condemnable to have left an impossible husband? She was determined to prove that she was not the witch they clearly thought she was. Just how to do that would require some thought.
She walked down the road, where shops and houses had sprung up over the years, forming a small village around the walls of Balhaire. She had rarely come out here before—these were not the sorts of shops she was accustomed to frequenting. There were no silks and china here. No gloves of the finest leather like she wore now.
But one shop caught her eye as she walked down the road. It had boxes of peonies beneath the window, and a wooden sign that proclaimed Miss Agnes Gowan, Proprietress.
A tiny bell twinkled as she stepped through the low door into the building. Something smelled quite delicious, and there, on the counter, was a tray full of freshly baked muffins that made her mouth water. There was a variety of goods and staples—jars of jam, china plates and cups. Sachets of bath salts and milled soaps. Margot picked up a sachet and held it up to her nose. It smelled of heather and lavender.
The sound of whispers brought her head around. Two women had appeared behind the counter, one of them short and round, with a lace cap over gray curls. Margot recognized her from before—she’d been one of the ladies from the kirk she’d tried to involve in charity.
The other woman, whispering into the shorter one’s ear, was younger but had the same bulbous nose. She, too, wore a lace cap and an apron. A daughter, no doubt.
“How do you do?” Margot said pleasantly.
Neither of the women spoke.
“The scents of your sachets and soaps are lovely. I believe the last time I was here, people were still using nettles to clean.” She smiled.
Nothing.
Margot cleared her throat. “You remember me, do you not, Mrs. Gowan? We met when I was last at Balhaire. We spoke of collecting alms for the poor.” Except that they had never collected any alms. None of the ladies of the kirk seemed to understand that raising money to assist the poor was a worthy cause.We take care of our orphans here, they’d said. But Margot had insisted. She’d assumed it was necessary. She had always been involved in charitable endeavors on behalf of Norwood Park and assumed it was expected of her here.
