Page 37 of Wild Wicked Scot
That evening, when Nell came to her to help her dress, she was full of news.
“The laird has come back,” she whispered. “He’s come with two men, and quite a lot of fish hanging from a line.”
Margot twisted about on her seat to see Nell. “He wentfishing?” she asked incredulously.
“I don’t know, mu’um. I only know he’s come back with a lot of them.”
All right, she wasn’t going to allow her hackles to rise. At least, she told herself, he’d come back.
When she’d finished dressing, Margot took a moment to admire herself. She looked like a queen; a crown was the only thing missing from the ensemble. Her hair was an artistic construction of loops and curls, fastened to her head with pearl-tipped pins. Her mantua was as rich as anything the queen might wear, and Margot felt quite regal in it. But tonight, the jewel-encrusted stomacher she’d been so proud of was covered by a swath of plaid, fastened at her hip with a brooch that had belonged to her mother.
Unfortunately, effecting that regal look had taken a bit longer than either Nell or Margot had anticipated, and she arrived at the great hall a little late for dinner. She paused outside the big oak doors to compose herself. There was no footman here to see her in, no servant to whisper to Arran that she’d arrived so that he might escort her in.
She felt jittery. As if she were standing on the edge of the cliff above the cove about to jump to the sea below. She was afraid. Of what, precisely, she wasn’t certain, but enough that she had to force herself to take a deep breath. She lifted her chin, and allowing herself not a sliver of hesitation, she pushed through the door, pausing just over the threshold to ensure she was seen.
Oh, but she was seen, all right. Her entrance had the desired effect—everyone paused and all heads in the hall turned toward her. Conversations were dropped and forks were put down. And there, on the dais, sat her husband, his gaze fixed on her. His hair was combed back and bound in a queue, and he was clean-shaven. He looked like the laird of this castle. He looked strong and powerful, and Margot’s heart began to skip along with anticipation. She felt warm, felt that strange sensation that he could see past her gown and right inside her.
And yet his expression was inscrutable—if he was impressed with her appearance, she couldn’t say.
Honestly, she couldn’t say that anyone was particularly impressed with her as much as curious. She’d felt so sure of herself until this moment. Now she was uncomfortably aware of how overdressed she was. No other woman wore a mantua gown. And if she had, Margot could well imagine the stays wouldn’t have been as tight as hers. Nell had said it was imperative that her waist appear as tiny as possible. “The gents, they like the tiny waists,” she’d said with authority. But as a result of that tiny waist, Margot’s breasts were spilling out of her stomacher. Moreover, the long, thick curl that artfully draped her shoulder practically pointed to her exploding bosom.
Well. It was too late to fret about it. Certainly she couldn’t stand here all night as if she desired to be admired, so she began to walk through that crowd. The silk and taffeta in her skirts rustling together sounded almost deafening to her. Margot was acutely modest now. She could feel her cheeks warming with her mortification and hoped the blush didn’t extend to her breasts and make them appear like a pair of pomegranates. She glanced around, smiling, desperately searching for a friendly face. Her grand entrance, which surely would have been applauded in England, had all the markings of a huge mistake in Scotland.
Arran did not come to her aid. He couldn’t be bothered even to come to his feet to greet her.
Margot might have hated him in that moment. He seemed wickedly smug, as if he enjoyed her humiliation. His smugness made her wish to deflect it that much stronger. She began to speak to those around her, as if she had never been gone, as if this were the normal way of things at Balhaire.
“Good evening, Mr. Mackenzie,” she said to one elderly gentleman. He did not seem to hear her. “Reverend Gale! How do you do?” she asked, taking the reverend’s hand between hers and squeezing it.
“Very well, milady, very well indeed.”
“And your daughters? How are they?”
“Sons,” he kindly corrected her.
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly. Her cheeks were on fire.
“Oh, they’re married, my lads,” he said proudly. “The eldest will make me a grandda before the year is done.”
“Congratulations!” she said gaily, and moved on. “Mrs. McRae, how good to see you well!”
“McRaney, milady,” the woman said as she sank into a curtsy. She did not look Margot in the eye. Scots! So stubbornly loyal to one infuriating man!
Margot had made it halfway through the hall before Arran finally deigned to come out of his blasted seat. He stepped out from behind the table. He had dressed for the occasion, too, wearing a plaid that hung to his knees above his stockings and brogues. He wore the plaid with a waistcoat and coat, and an inky black neck cloth at the collar. One curl of hair fell disobediently across his brow. He did indeed cut a fine figure, yet as much as Margot admired him, a sickly little thought flitted through her brain. Was that not the dress of the Jacobites?
Arran casually strolled down from the dais as if he had nowhere to be. When he reached her, he folded one arm behind his back and bowed over the other one. “Lady Mackenzie,” he said. “Welcome.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She slipped her hand into his and sank into a curtsy.
“How bonny you are tonight,” he said, his gaze on the swath of plaid she wore as he lifted her up. “It appears as if you’ve made amends with Mr. Creedy.”
“He was very kind. Do you like it?”
“That I do,” he said, taking her in. “Verra much. Will you join me on the dais?” He was awfully formal with her this evening.
Margot allowed him to escort her up to the dais and hand her into a chair next to his.
“Shall I have the lad fetch you an ale?” he asked as he resumed his seat, gesturing to one of the young men who served the main table.
