Page 83 of Wild Wicked Scot
Margot took Arran’s hand. “I’m so weary I can scarcely walk. Shall we retire?”
“You go,leannan,” he said, and pulled her into his side and kissed her temple. “I’ll have a word with your father.”
“But I’ve so much to tell you. And it’s so late!” she complained.
“Aye, that it is. Go on, find your bed. I’ll wake you when I come.”
Margot was too weary to argue. She said good-night and trudged up the stairs to the green suite of rooms with the view of the lake and rolling hills of northern England.
She undressed, brushed her hair and crawled into the four-poster bed, sighing as she sank into the down mattress and pillows. Her lids were heavy, but she was determined to wait up for Arran. She would tell him, “There, do you see? No one here wants to harm you.” And he would say, “You were right all along,mo gradh.” She would say, “Dermid has been arrested!” and he would say, “Aye, your father told me, but I didna care to distress you.”
She could almost hear his deep brogue saying those words to her now, could almost feel him crawling into bed beside her to keep her warm.Tomorrow, she thought.Tomorrow,tomorrowthey would decide what to do next.
It was a lovely little dream. But it was nothing more than the dream of a naive young woman.
Because Arran never came to bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MARGOT’SSLEEPWASa dead one, the sort from which it’s hard to wake. As sunlight began to filter into her consciousness, she startled awake and sat up. Sunlight meant it was well past dawn. She hadn’t meant to sleep so long.
She looked around the room, saw no sign of her husband. She thought perhaps he’d been lost in a dark house last night and had found another room.
She rose and hurried through her toilette. There was no maid to help her, so she dug through a trunk of her things she’d left behind until she found a serviceable day gown and donned it. She left her hair undressed and went down to breakfast.
Quint and a footman were clearing dishes from the sideboard. Margot looked at the mantel clock—it was half past ten! “Where is everyone?” she asked.
“The gentlemen have gone to Fonteneau, madam,” he said.
“Fonteneau,” she repeated, her brow wrinkling in her confusion. Fonteneau was an old fortress abbey, a place she had frequented as a child. She remembered it had gardens and steeples built so very high, and birds nested at the tops of the spires. It had been a gloomy destination as a child, but since the ancient viscount of Fonteneau, Lord Granbury, had fallen ill, the place had fallen into deeper disrepair. Granbury had a son, Lord Putnam—but the last Margot had heard of him, he’d lost a fortune in London. “Why Fonteneau?”
“His lordship did not say,” Quint said.
“My husband, too? And his man?”
“Yes, madam.”
Whenhad they gone? This morning? In the night? Why hadn’t Arran awoken her to inform her? “They left with no note for me? No explanation?”
“His lordship did not leave a note that I am aware,” Quint said. “Shall I prepare hot chocolate for you?”
“No, thank you,” she said absently. Was it her imagination, or did Quint hasten out the service door?
With each passing hour, Margot’s heart deflated a little more. She spent the day at the window, looking for any sign of her husband, her father or a messenger who would tell her when her husband and father would return. She tried to recall how long the journey to Fonteneau might take. Five hours? Long enough that they would stay overnight in that dreadful old abbey fortress with its thick stone walls and drafty windows? What business could Arran and her father possibly have there? It simply made no sense.
When no one had returned by nightfall, Margot was ill with worry. She went in search of Quint again. “I want a messenger,” she said when she found him in the dining room, setting the table.
“Straightaway, madam,” he said. “Shall I send him to the drawing room?”
“Yes.” She marched to the drawing room to wait.
Moments later, a young footman appeared in the drawing room. “Stand there,” Margot warned him, afraid that he, too, would disappear. “Don’t move as much as a muscle until I’ve written this note.” She had found pen and paper, and dashed off only a few words: “The laird has been taken to Fonteneau.” She didn’t sign it; it wasn’t necessary. She only hoped that the men who received it could read English. She waved the paper in the air to dry the ink, then carefully folded it.
“Take this to the village,” she said, speaking low. She glanced around her, uncertain if someone was listening. Fear was creeping up her neck, sinking into her veins. Something dreadful had happened today, and she didn’t trust anyone. “There are three men there, from Balhaire.”
The footman looked confused. He was a few years younger than she, his cheeks still pink with his youth. “They are Scots,” she said. “Give this to one of them. It hardly matters which. Just give it to one.”
“Yes, milady.” He tucked the note into his pocket, bowed and turned to go.
