Page 4 of Wild Wicked Scot
By the time she reached the ballroom, however, his name was forgotten, because Mr. Fitzgerald was dancing with Miss Remstock. Margot’s champagne was nowhere to be seen, and every other thought she had flew out of her head.
The next afternoon, her father informed her that he’d agreed to give her hand in marriage to that beast Mackenzie and then turned a deaf ear to her cries.
CHAPTER ONE
The ScottishHighlands
1710
UNDERAFULLScottish moon on a balmy summer night, the air was so still that one could hear the distant sea as plainly as if one were standing in the cove below Castle Balhaire. The windows of the old castle keep were open to the cool night, and a breeze wafted through, carrying away with it the lingering smoke from the rush torches that lit the great hall.
The interior of the medieval castle had been transformed into a sumptuous space befitting a king—or at least a Scottish clan chieftain with a healthy sea trade. The clan chieftain, the Baron of Balhaire, Arran Mackenzie, was sprawled on the new furnishings of the great hall along with his men, with a fresh batch of ale and a small herd of lassies to occupy them.
At the top of the Balhaire watchtower, three guards passed the time tossing coins onto a cloak with each roll of the die. Seamus Bivens had already divested his old friend Donald Thane of twosgillinwith his last roll. Twosgillinwas not a fortune to a guard of Balhaire, thanks to Mackenzie’s generosity to those loyal to him, but nevertheless, when Seamus took two moresgillin, Donald felt the loss of his purse and his pride quite keenly. Heated words were exchanged, and the two men clambered to their feet, reaching for their respective muskets propped against the wall. Sweeney Mackenzie, the commander, was content to let the two men battle it out, but a noise reached him, and he leaped to his feet and stepped between them, holding them apart with his hands braced against their chests.“Uist!”he hissed to silence them. “Do ye no’ hear it?”
The two men paused and craned their necks, listening. The sound of an approaching carriage bounced between the ghostly shadows of the hills. “Who the devil?” Seamus muttered, and forgetting his anger with Donald, grabbed up the spyglass and leaned over the wall to have a look.
“Well?” Donald demanded, crowding in behind him. “Who is it, then? A Gordon, aye?”
Seamus shook his head. “No’ a Gordon.”
“A Munro, then,” said Sweeney. “I’ve heard they’ve been eyeing Mackenzie lands.” These were relatively peaceful times at Balhaire, but one should never have been surprised by a change in clan alliances.
“No’ a Munro,” Seamus said.
They could see the coach now, pulled by a team of four, accompanied by two riders in back and two guards alongside the coachman. The postilion held a lantern aloft on a pole to light their way, in addition to the light cast from the carriage lamps.
“Who in bloody hell comes at half past midnight?” Donald demanded.
Seamus suddenly gasped. He pulled the spyglass away from his eye and squinted at the coach, then just as quickly put it back to his eye and leaned forward.“No,”he said, his voice full of disbelief.
His two companions exchanged a look.“Who?”Donald demanded. “No’Buchanan,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, referring to the Mackenzies’ most persistent enemy through the years.
“Worse,” Seamus said gravely, and slowly lowered the spyglass, his eyes gone round with horror.
“By God, say who it is before I bloody well beat it from you,” Sweeney swore, clearly unnerved.
“’Tis...’tis theLady Mackenzie,” Seamus said, his voice barely above a whisper.
His two companions gasped. And then Sweeney whirled about, grabbed up his gun and hurried off to warn Mackenzie that his wife had returned to Balhaire.
Unfortunately, coming down from the tallest part of Balhaire was no easy feat, and by the time Sweeney had made his way into the bailey, the coach had come through the gates. The coach door swung open, and a step was put down. He saw a small but well-shod foot appear on that step, and he broke into a run.
* * *
ARRANMACKENZIEADOREDthe pleasant sensation of a woman’s soft bum on his lap, and the sweet scent of her hair in his nostrils, especially with the golden warmth of good ale lovingly wrapping its liquid arms around him. He’d sampled freely of the batch his cousin and first lieutenant had brewed. Jock Mackenzie fancied himself something of a master brewer.
Arran was slouched in his chair, his fingers slowly tracing a line up the woman’s back, lazily trying to recall her name.What is it, then—Aileen? Irene?
“Milord!Mackenzie!” someone shouted.
Arran bent his head to see around the blond curls of the woman in his lap. Sweeney Mackenzie, one of his best guards, was shouting at him from the rear of the hall. The poor man was clutching his chest as if his heart was failing him, and he looked quite frantic as he cast his gaze around the crowded room. “Wh-wh-where is he?” he demanded of a drunk beside him. “Wh-wh-where is Mackenzie?”
Sweeney was a fierce warrior and a dedicated commander. But when he was agitated, he had a tendency to stutter like he had when they were children. Generally there was little that could agitate the old salt, and that something had made Arran take notice. “Here, Sweeney,” he said, and pushed the girl off his lap. He sat up, gestured his man forward. “What has rattled you, then?”
Sweeney hurried forward. “She’s b-b-b-back,” he breathlessly managed to get out.
Arran frowned, confused. “Pardon?”
