Page 84 of Wild Wicked Scot
Margot caught his arm. “What is your name?”
“Stephen, mu’um. Stephen Jones.”
“You mustn’t return until you deliver this note, do you understand, Stephen?” she asked, squeezing his arm. “If you are forced to wait all night, then wait all night. Don’t you dare leave until you hand this note to one of those men.”
“Yes, milady,” he said, his eyes widening slightly at her desperate tone.
“I’m trusting you, Stephen.” She had the anguished thought that this young man was her only hope, and to her horror, her eyes suddenly welled with tears.
Stephen Jones looked quite mortified. He leaned away from her as if he feared her tears were contagious.
“Just...please do as I ask,” she said, and removed her hand from his arm.
“You may depend on it, milady.”
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Now go, go—there is no time to waste.”
Stephen gave her a curt nod and hurried from the room.
Margot resumed her pacing. Her thoughts were in such turmoil that her head ached, and her stomach in such knots it fared no better. She realized how inept she was—she had no notion what to do. She was as she had always been—entirely dependent on men.
Dark descended with a vengeance, and with it, rain, and still, no one came. She imagined any number of scenarios: highwaymen had captured them. Or Arran had kidnapped her father and brother to draw Thomas Dunn out of hiding. Perhaps her father had kidnapped Arran. But why had they gone toFonteneau?
Quint found her after nine o’clock and urged her to eat something.
“I couldn’t possibly,” she said, waving him off. “Is there any word?”
“No, madam,” he said, and gave her a piteous smile that made her loathe him in that moment.
“Where is Knox?” she demanded.
Quint hesitated. The top of his balding head seemed to shine more than usual. He said, rather carefully, “I cannot say with all certainty, but I believe your brother might have taken rooms in the village.”
“Rooms?” Margot repeated. “Why? Has he had a falling-out with Bryce?” It wouldn’t be the first time.
But Quint colored and said, “I would presume, madam, so that he might be closer to the object of his esteem.” One of his thin brows drifted upward.
“His what?”
Quint pressed his lips together and refused to say more.
Margot thought a moment. “Oh.I see. If there is any word, come at once, will you?”
“Of course.”
Quint didn’t come to her again.
Nor did her father or Arran return to Norwood Park. At one o’clock in the morning, exhaustion drove her to her bed, but her sleep was tormented.
Arran would never leave her like this, without a word, without a proper explanation. But that was precisely what she’d done to him. She despised the girl she’d been then. Shame nudged in beside her worry to make her feel even more ill—she would be devastated if she never had the opportunity to make amends. She pulled the letter he’d written her from her pocket and read it again.“The beginning of my world and the end of it...”
She asked herself for the thousandth time, why Fonteneau?
The next morning, Margot tried to eat a bit of toast. She could scarcely make herself chew it; her stomach was roiling with anxiety, but she needed to keep her strength. She would be of no use to Arran if she fainted with hunger.
Stephen found her in the dining room. He was smiling. “I beg your pardon, madam, but I was indeed able to deliver your letter.”
Margot gasped. “What did he say?” she asked eagerly.
