Page 79 of Wild Wicked Scot
Aye, what a journey they’d had. He lived with a constant sense of unease, what with the lack of trust between them and the uncertainty of what would happen at Norwood Park. If by some miracle he was able to survive this, he wondered whether she would return to Balhaire with him. Or would she remain in England with her balls and gaming tables and gentleman admirers?
What if she returned to Balhaire? Would he ever learn to trust her again? He wanted children and laughter and to grow old with his spouse, to watch her hair turn to silver. He did not want to live his life wondering if she would leave him again, if she was conspiring against him again.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That when your father first came to me with his proposition, I was a young man with many dreams,” he said. “I was finding ways that Balhaire might prosper and I might sustain it for my clan. Marriage, an heir—I couldna accomplish all that I desired without them, aye? It seemed a perfect union—it gave me lands in England, a woman to give me sons.”
“That is what marriage is generally about,” she said absently as she combed her fingers through his wet hair.
“Aye...but then I saw you, Margot,” he said, brushing his hand roughly against her face. “I saw you on the balcony at Norwood Park, and from that moment on, my life could never be the same.”
“Oh, Arran.” She sighed.
And then he was kissing her, and then he was standing, lifting them both out of the bath, and carrying her to an old, squeaky bed. He did not want to think now. He did not want to know what would happen tomorrow when they stepped into Norwood Park, into all that glistening opulence.
But he was also aware, as he covered her damp body with his mouth and his hands, his tongue tracing a long, tantalizing line down her belly and between her legs, that no matter what happened between them, there would never be another for him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MARGOTAWOKEBEFOREArran the next morning, when it was still quite dark. She sat on the edge of the bed, drew her legs to her chest. She hadn’t slept well at all, her thoughts tossing wildly about in and out of her dreams. In one dream, her father raged at her for bringing Arran to Norwood. In another, she and Arran, her father and brothers, all ran from some unseen and menacingly dark force.
The dreams were unsettling and had left her feeling a bit queasy. But as the fog cleared from her mind, Margot had no doubt her father would help them. He had given her life and brought her into this world, had provided a life of privilege, and he would not forsake her.
Margot began to rummage through her portmanteau, into which she’d put a proper gown.
“What are you about?” Arran asked sleepily, awakened by her movements.
She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Today we reach Norwood Park, and I must dress properly for it.”
When she was dressed and had pinned up her hair as best she could without help, she turned to him. “Well, then, do I look convincing as a laird’s wife?”
Arran—dressed now, too, in pantaloons and an inky black coat—allowed his gaze to travel slowly over her. As if he was memorizing her. “Aye, quite convincing.”
She pressed her hand to his chest and rose up to kiss him. She could see etches of concern around his eyes. “You mustn’t fear, Arran. I know my father.”
Arran turned away. “It’s no’ your father who concerns me at the moment.”
Margot didn’t know what he meant by that. And she didn’t ask.
* * *
THELASTBITof road to Norwood Park was much more tedious now that Margot was wearing a gown, because she had to sit with her legs draped to one side over Roger’s back, and it was difficult to maintain her balance. But at last they began to pass through woods that were familiar to her. Past crofter cottages with the smoke of the morning fire rising from their chimneys. Past cattle grazing in the fields, and then sheep. There was the church spire in the distance, and down in the valley, through the trees, she could just make out the dozen chimneys of Norwood Park.
As they approached the gates, Arran slowed. He spoke low to his men in their native tongue. Whatever he said was met with some resistance. One of them in particular—Ben Mackenzie—seemed to argue with him. And then three of them turned their mounts about, and one of them led the way through the gates.
“Where are they going?” Margot asked as the three men rode away.
“They will remain behind for the time being. If necessary, they will carry a message to Balhaire.”
Margot clucked her tongue. “You are too cautious. You’ll see—we’ll be inviting them to dine.” She spurred her horse to canter so that Arran would not see just how her heart pounded with the anxiety from the tiny tendrils of doubt that were wrapping around her.What if I am wrong?
They trotted beneath the branches of the towering sycamores that lined the long drive and along the trimmed hedgerow and gardens bursting with summer flowers. They rounded the large fountain in the middle of the drive, and as they came around to the front of it, the door opened and two liveried footmen hurried out to help them dismount. One of them produced a block so that Margot could step down. “Welcome home, milady,” he said.
“Thank you, John.” Margot felt suddenly exhilarated. She looked around for Arran. He’d swung off his horse, had handed his crop to the footman and now held his arm out to her so that he could formally escort her into Norwood Park.
“Lady Mackenzie, you are most welcome,” said Quint, the family butler, coming out to greet them. “We were not expecting you.”
Margot was so happy to see the old man she almost hugged him. “Thank you, Quint.”
