Page 66 of Wild Wicked Scot
There were nine letters in all to her, written in dates spread over the course of her absence. He’d written more frequently at the beginning, expelling his frustration and hurt with her in heavy strokes on the page. But in the last year or so, months had passed between letters. Two or three of them were quite sentimental, telling her of this birth or that death, of people she wasn’t sure she’d ever met, much less remembered. One or two of them were written more formally, the words cold, his anger simmering between the lines.
But every single one of them expressed how he missed her.
And then there was the last one, written seven months ago. It was shorter than the others. He began,
This is the last letter I shall ever write to you. I have resigned myself to the fact that I made a mistake in marrying you. But it is done and it cannot be undone. From the moment I swore to God and the queen that you were my wife, you became the beginning of my world and the end of it, and this is as it shall always be. It is my failing that I never imagined the end could be like this, my burden to bear for the rest of my life. But I release you, Margot.
Tears were clouding Margot’s eyes as she carefully folded and stacked the letters. She’d never known he felt like this. She’d wondered many times why he didn’t come for her, at least send a letter, and had assumed he was glad to be rid of her.
She held the letters in her arms and bent over them, her eyes squeezed shut, her heart pounding painfully. If she’d known...if she’d understood that he esteemed her somehow, would it have made a difference to her? Would she have ever left? Would she have spent the last three years dining with friends and laughing around the gaming tables and sending for gowns from London and feeling so empty, so bereft, so despairing of her future?
She tucked the last letter in between her stays and her stomacher, tied the bundle together again, then returned the rest of the letters to their dark hiding place and shut the cabinet door. She used her hat pin to lock it, picked up the knife and slowly gained her feet.
She didn’t know if it was possible to repair the damage she’d wrought in his life, and frankly, she didn’t know how she would face the damage he might have wrought in hers if he were committing treason. But no matter what else, she couldn’t pretend another moment—she had to tell him the truth as to why she’d come back. She had to tell him the truth about her feelings. She owed him these truths.
Margot fully expected to be removed from Balhaire straightaway, and she deserved no less. But it was well nigh time for her to be the woman he’d clearly hoped he’d married.
She returned to her rooms, her presence noticed by no one. She pulled the bell and waited at the window, her arms crossed over her abdomen, staring morosely out at the landscape and a graying day, thinking of a man closeted in his study, writing letter after letter to his runaway wife and locking them away. The image was heartbreaking. He’d had no more idea how to go about their fracture than had she.
She was still standing at the window when Nell hurried into her rooms. “A ship has come,” she said excitedly. “And Miss Griselda Mackenzie was on it.”
So that was the urgent meeting—Griselda returning from somewhere, probably with news. “Has anyone asked for me?” Margot asked curiously.
“No, milady.”
Margot stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the hills. How did one dress to tell her husband she had betrayed him? “I’ll have the scarlet brocade, Nell.”
“Yes, milady.” Nell went into the adjoining dressing room to fetch the gown.
* * *
NOONECAMEfor Margot, but she could hear a lot of running about beyond her door. Servants, she assumed, lighting candles and hearths. She finally left her room and went in search of Arran.
He was not in the great hall. Nor was he in the dining room. It wasn’t until she saw Sweeney stationed outside the library, as if he was standing guard, that she guessed where he was.
“Ah, Sweeney,” she said, smiling with relief that it was him. “Is the laird within?”
Sweeney’s eyes widened. “N-no, m-m-milady,” he said, his eyes darting nervously to a point over her shoulder. His lips moved, as if he tried to say something else, but no words came. A thin sheen of perspiration suddenly appeared on his brow.
“What is it, Sweeney?” she asked.
Sweeney’s lips curved, but his teeth clamped firmly shut as he tried to say the words he was seeking.
“Never mind,” Margot said soothingly, and put her hand on his arm. She stepped around him.
“N-n-no, m-m-milady,” he said, but Margot had already knocked on the door.
“It’s all right,” she said, and knocked again before she lost her nerve. She heard muffled voices inside, and before she could exhale, the door swung open, and Margot’s heart seized.Griselda.
She stood in the doorway, tall and fit. Her smirk made Margot’s blood run cold. There had never been any warmth between them, but Griselda was looking at her as if she had caught Margot in a criminal act and relished it. She was wearing a long plaid skirt and a velvet jacket fitted tightly to her.
“Aye, so it is true, is it? You’ve come crawling back to Balhaire,” she said coolly to Margot.
“Actually, I came by chaise. Good evening, Zelda.”
“Mmm,” Griselda said. She gestured for Margot to enter.
The room was lit only by a fire at the hearth, but in the shadows, behind Griselda, Margot could see Arran and Jock. Arran was at the window, one arm braced against the frame, the other on his waist, staring out. Jock was standing beside him, his arms folded over his chest. His expression was inscrutable, but he looked as if he were prepared to tackle Margot should she reach her husband.
