Page 38 of Wild Wicked Scot
“Wine, if you please.”
Arran arched a dubious brow.
“You do have wine, do you not?”
“Aye, we’ve wine. Of course we’ve wine,” he said impatiently. “But the Mackenzies prefer ale. Perhaps you might like to sample the batch Jock has brewed. He’s quite proud.”
So she had to prove herself to him even in what she drank, it would seem. Margot kept her countenance pleasant as she drew a calming breath. “I’d like nothing better than to sample Jock’s ale! I’ve no doubt it’s astonishingly good and, I hope, free of poison.”
Arran smiled. “Alas, I canna promise you that. Jock! Lady Mackenzie has expressed a rather keen desire for your ale.”
Jock gave Margot a disbelieving look.
“Please,”she said, and put her hand on Arran’s. “My husband’s praise is hard earned, and he has sung it long and loud for your ale, sir. I simply must try it myself.” She said it as brightly and as convincingly as possible. Which wasn’t very brightly or convincingly at all.
Jock bowed curtly, straightened curtly and walked away curtly. Margot shifted her gaze to her husband. “Happy?”
“No,” he said easily. “But a wee bit mollified,” he added, his gaze full of amusement. “Jock is even more distrusting than I.”
“That, my lord, was not distrust.Thatwas utter disdain. And it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” He looked astonished.
“Yours! You told Jock I was difficult and made it quite clear you didn’t care for me.”
“What the devil? I’ve no’ said any such thing.”
“I believe yourexactwords were that you’d married a fishwife clad in silk and lace.”
Arran laughed. But then his brows sank into a dark frown. “I didna.”
“Youdid. Right there,” she said, pointing to the massive hearth. “Don’t you recall it?” It had been a stormy, snowy night. Margot obviously hadn’t been meant to hear, but with the wind howling, Arran and Jock hadn’t heard her come into the great hall.
“No, I...” Arran paused. Clearly he recalled it now, his complaining to Jock about his impossible English wife. “Hmm,” he said, his gaze moving over her face. “I had forgotten it.”
She smiled. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“Ach,”he said with a flick of his wrist. “A woman’s memory is as long as a loch.”
“And a man’s attention is as short as an inchworm.”
“That’s no’ necessarily so,leannan. There is quite a lot I remember, as well.” His gaze moved lower, to her mouth, lingering there. “I remember that your list of complaints was quite long.”
She could feel the skin of her chest heating beneath his study of her. She had to look away or be devoured by that penetrating gaze. “Were they complaints? I always rather thought them pleas to help me reconcile to my new surroundings.”
“Ah, is that what they were, then?” he mused. His hand found her leg. “My apologies. I thought you meant to list all the ways Balhaire didna suit you.”
She slid her hand over his and squeezed it before peeling it free of her thigh. “I meant to list all the ways I needed you,” she said truthfully, and looked at him then. His gaze had gone dark and cool. “Perhaps I was inarticulate.”
“And a wee bit shrill,” he reminded her.
A curl of nausea swam through her. He would never forgive her. The peculiar thing was that for the first time, she wanted his forgiveness. “Perhaps I was,” she admitted. “I hope one day you can forgive me for not understanding the best way to capture your attention. At the time, shouting seemed to be the only way that you’d notice me at all.”
“Diah,”he muttered as Jock approached with the ale. “Was there anything I did to please you, Margot? Or was it all to your disliking?”
“On the contrary—there was much you did that pleased me very much. Was there anything I did to please you?”
Arran did not answer her as Jock put the ale before them. Just behind him, a boy carried two plates for Arran and Margot. Their discussion—if one could call it that—was put aside for the sake of dining. They ate in silence. Arran was brooding.
