Page 42 of Wild Wicked Scot
“Norwood would stand to gain,” Jock agreed.
“No’ bloody likely,” Arran scoffed.
“I canna say it delicately, lad,” said MacLeary. “So I’ll speak to the point. Your wife is English. If your holdings were forfeited, they’d most likely revert to her father and brothers, would they no’? By the same token, if Norwood was guilty of treason, his lands would no’ go to his sons. You’d have a decent claim to them through your wife. No, he’d no’ risk losing what he’s got, no’ to a Scot, no matter how he might have wanted this union ere now. He could very easily make you a scapegoat in his schemes.” He paused to drink more whisky, then fixed his gaze on Arran. “There are some who could be persuaded that perhaps you conspire with Norwood to lineyourpockets.”
“Norwood! That’s contrary to everything you’ve just said of me, is it no’? Whom do I conspire with, MacLeary? The Jacobites? Or Norwood? What possible reason would I have to conspire with either? What the bloody hell would I gain?”
MacLeary shrugged. “An argument could be made that you’d gain more lands in England if you were to betray anyone here. If, for example, you were to name anyone who might want to see James Stuart sit the throne.” He slowly brought his glass to his lips and watched Arran as he drank.
“By God, MacLeary, you willna come into these walls and accuse the laird,” Jock growled.
“I didna accuse him,” MacLeary said with a shrug. “I merely repeat words that already have been said.”
“If it’s reassurance you seek, I will give it to you,” Arran said evenly. “I no more conspire with England than I do with Jacobites.”
“AndIbelieve you,” MacLeary said, clapping a hand on Arran’s shoulder. “But I think you’d best come to Coigeach on the morrow and say it again. No’ everyone is as sure of it as me, aye?”
Arran had been nothing but loyal to the Highlands and to Scotland. He was guilty of nothing more than seizing an opportunity to keep his lands and to save his people from hunger. “You may count on me to join you in Coigeach,” he said darkly. “If any man believes I have betrayed him, let him say it to my face.”
“It was always a wee bit of a gamble taking an Englishwoman to wife, was it no’?” MacLeary asked slyly, and tipped the glass back against his lips, draining the whisky from it.
Arran wanted to put his fist in MacLeary’s face for saying a single word against his wife. But he wasn’t sure what the landscape was between them now, especially with this swirl of rumors. “Aye, that it was,” he agreed. He moved for the door, his head spinning with questions. “We’ve a warm bed for you and your men,” he forced himself to say. “I’ll see you at Coigeach on the morrow.” He walked out of the room, leaving Jock to deal with the MacLearys.
He could well imagine what Jock was thinking just now—that he should never have married Margot Armstrong. That his warnings of the trouble it would cause were coming home to roost. Jock could very well be right, and yet there was something about it that didn’t ring true to Arran. No matter what had happened between him and his wife, he couldn’t believe Margot was involved in any attempt to make him a scapegoat. She might dislike him, and she might have been sent by Norwood for some purpose. But he didn’t believe she wanted to see him hanged.
If she did, she was the finest liar he’d ever met.
And yet, Arran had a gut-wrenching feeling as he walked back through Balhaire and up the staircase to his suite. Oh, the irony of having built a small empire here in part by marrying a woman who would, in the end, see him hanged.
When he reached his chambers, he opened the door and stepped inside. It was dark—he’d not sent the lad up to light the room. He stood a moment at the threshold, allowing his vision to adjust with the moonlight streaming in through the open window so that he might find a candle. He slowly became aware that something was different.
There was nothing on the floor.
The clothes and boots and hats and coats he’d left scattered about the room were gone. And there was a dark shadow draped across the back of a chair. He recognized the shimmering threads that seemed to move in the moonlight. Aye, that was the gown Margot had worn this evening. She’d taken his breath away, arriving in all her glory as she had, that swath of plaid across her breast. There was not a fairer woman in all the Highlands, and he’d been acutely and painfully aware that she was his.
He might have treated her more fairly. But her appearance had reminded him of a night long ago, when two Mackenzie chieftains had come to Balhaire to meet with him. Arran had ordered supper to be served in true Scotch hospitality. He’d informed his unhappy bride of her obligation to play the dutiful wife of a new Scottish baron.
Margot had attended in all her finery. She’d been a bonny vision, a jewel in this rugged, heather-strewn landscape. And then she’d proceeded to express her ennui.“Is that all you talk about, you Scots—seafaring and sheep?”she’d asked disdainfully.
“Aye, madam, when one or the other will provide for our people,”Brian Mackenzie had said.
Margot had rolled her eyes, propped her head on her hand and carried on as if she were a sulking child instead of a grown woman and a chieftain’s wife, as responsible for the welfare of their clan as he.
She had embarrassed him, and they’d quarreled about it afterward. Arran had accused her of sabotaging his friendships and affiliations. She’d claimed not to have understood the importance of the men who had come to dine, and blamed him for failing to inform her.
That night had ended as many of their nights had—with each of them retreating from the other.
In truth, Arran had expected the same of her tonight. He’d pushed her, had challenged her and had fully expected—even hoped—she would cry off and go scampering back to England and free him of his doubts. But Margot had kept her countenance serene, had done her best to be one of them. She’d danced, for God’s sake, something she’d steadfastly refused in the four months they’d lived as husband and wife.
He touched her gown now, felt the smooth texture of the silk, the raised bits of thread so artfully woven into the skirt. If her gown was here, where was she?
He squinted into the darkened room and spotted the mound of a person beneath the coverlet, three dogs beside her. That was a surprise.
Arran leaned down and quietly removed all but his plaid and his shirt. He padded over to the bed, pulled his shirt free of his plaid, and then, with hands on his hips, he stared down at his wife. The dogs lifted their heads and began to beat their tails against the coverlet. He signaled them down and ushered them out of the room, then returned to the bed.
She lay on her side. A thick braid of her hair spilled behind her like a rope. Her face was buried in a pillow and her limbs, covered by the bed linens, seemed to be folded at strange angles. It was strange finding her here like this—she’d never slept a full night in his bed without being commanded to do it.
He stripped out of his shirt and plaid, leaving them where they fell, and lifted the bedsheet to slide in beside her. He moved to her back, draping his arm across her abdomen. She was wearing a silk chemise that felt like water to his hand, and her hair was fragrant, as if a vine of clematis had curled around his bed. Her small, supple body was invitingly warm, and he was suddenly and unwelcomingly filled with longing. A desire to protect. To keep, to hold.
