Page 50 of Wild Wicked Scot
It was a signet ring.
Margot put it back and shut the drawer.
She opened the next drawer and found more articles of clothing. A third drawer contained two hunting knives and a pocket watch. She closed that one and then came down to her knees to open a pair of doors at the bottom of the chest. She pulled on one door—it didn’t open. Thinking it was stuck, she gave it a stronger tug. The door came open, and inside, she found nothing but more clothing.
She stood up and looked toward his dressing room. His study. Of course! She’d forgotten that small circular room on the other side of his dressing room.
She glanced behind her and stepped into the dimly lit dressing room. She was aware of Arran’s things hanging around her, heavy with his scent. Scuffed boots on the floor. Plaids and coats, buckskins and lawn shirts hung from hooks and in a wardrobe standing open.
Margot’s fingers trailed against his things as she moved through to his small, private study that adjoined the dressing room, and slowly, carefully turned the door latch. She held her breath, opened the door a fraction and peeked in. She was almost expecting to see him sitting there, his head bent over a ledger, his quill moving quickly across the columns. But the room was empty and the hearth so cold that the acrid smell of old smoke lingered. The only light came through a pair of windows that looked out to the hills.
Margot stepped in and left the door open so that she might hear if someone entered the master bedchamber. Frankly, it would have been a miracle if she heard anything at all—the sound of her wildly beating heart filled her ears.
Voices in the hallway caused her heart to stop beating altogether for a moment, and she jerked her gaze over her shoulder, holding perfectly still, straining to listen. The voices passed by—servants, by the sound of it. She glanced up at the mantel clock—it was a quarter past five o’clock. Nell would come in soon to help her dress for dinner. And God knew what Balhaire servant would pop in to ready things for the return of Arran.
If she was going to look, she had very little time. Margot hurried to his desk and quickly opened two drawers. Nothing. There were only a few items on his desk—the estate ledger and some correspondence that had come from one of the clansmen. She was feeling anxious now and started to leave the room, but noticed a small cabinet set apart from the desk and up against the wall. She leaned over and pulled on the door. It was locked. Margot squatted down beside the door and pulled again, just to be sure. Yes, the door was locked, and her heart began to beat mercilessly against her chest.
She stood up and looked wildly about for something to pry open the door, but seeing nothing immediately, she remembered the knives in the bedchamber. She swore under her breath, raced across the room to his chest of drawers, retrieved one of the knives and ran back again. She slid the tip of the knife in at the lock and tried to jiggle it open, using both hands to hold the knife and steadying the cabinet with her knee.
She thought she could feel the doors begin to give when she suddenly heard a ruckus in the corridor.
“Water to bathe, Fergus! I’ve the dust of the road in my throat and in my ears.”
Margot gasped almost soundlessly at the sound of Arran’s voice. She hadn’t expected him back until much later.
“Aye, now,” she heard him reaffirm to a distant voice.
She stared with horror at the knife in her hand. She sprang to her feet and looked around the small study.
But there was no place to hide.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ARRANOPENEDTHEdoor to his chamber and barely had time to register Margot’s presence before he was knocked a step backward by the force of her leaping into his arms. “What the devil?” he asked, catching her.
“I’m so happy you’ve come back!”
“Did you think I’d deserted you?” He gave her a wry smile as he eased back from her strong hold on his neck.
Margot answered by taking his face between her hands and kissing him fiercely.
His blood began to stir, but then the events of the day nudged back into his consciousness. He pulled her arms free of his neck and set her down a few inches from him. “To what do I owe such an enthusiastic welcome?” he asked wryly. And what was she doing, skulking about his chamber at this time of day? She ought to have been in her sitting room or her dressing room. He was suspicious of her—even more so now, having heard what he had in Coigeach—and moved deeper into the room, looking around.
“I missed you,” she said earnestly. “How was your journey?”
“Tedious.” That was the most civil thing he could say for what he’d endured today. At a meeting of four Highland chieftains—all of them known Jacobites—Arran had been accused of colluding with the English.
It was as absurd as it was insulting. He’d been married to Margot for more than three years. As he pointed out to those men, if there was any colluding to be done, any betraying of his fellow Highlanders, would he not have done it when he was actually on speaking terms with her? Instead, he’d spent several years without his wife, working to make Balhaire prosperous so that it might sustain the many Mackenzies who lived there. “I’ve had quite a lot more to occupy me than one man’s claim to the throne, aye?”
“Aye,” Buchanan said. He was a mountain of a man whose unruly beard was a more fiery-looking ginger than that on his head. “But suppose a man who openly trades with France could earn even more money by keeping the English in his sporran? Would he no’ do so?”
“And betray his clan and his country?” Arran asked tightly. “I’m no’ a greedy man. I earn what I have—I donna need to betray my land and my people to line my coffers.”
“And yet ye canna deny that the sudden appearance of Lady Mackenzie is puzzling?” MacLeary had asked slyly. “Just as we’ve begun to hear rumors of it from England?”
“What is between me and my wife is none of your affair,” Arran said stiffly. “She’s come to Balhaire with nothing more than a desire to repair the marriage she abandoned.”
The men had snorted at that. Several remarks were made about a woman’s place. Arran’s blood had boiled, but he’d kept his temper. He was a traditional man in some respects and held certain expectations for any wife of his. But he’d never been one to view a woman as his personal property, and that Margot hadn’t met his expectations could not be helped by him. He could no more put thoughts in her head or force her to a course of action than he could these men.
