Page 62 of Wild Wicked Scot
“Aye, I did.”
“And you were surrounded by people every day. Your society was here, where you are. You didn’t have to seek it.”
“It was here for you, as well.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But what I saw was an audience to a marriage I did not want and at which I was awful. Even now, it’s as if all the Mackenzies are witnessing the reconciliation of the laird and his wife.”
“Reconciliationis a very strong word,” he said. “I’ve no’ agreed that is what we are about.”
She blinked those wide green eyes at him. “Haven’t you?”
“No.”
She pondered that a moment as she studied him. “When will you agree that it is?”
“When I am confident you are being completely honest with me.”
Her smile faded. “Well...” She glanced away, and it seemed to him she was considering how best to respond. But if she meant to speak, he wouldn’t know—at that moment, Duncan called to Arran. The grouse had been found.
The party came to a halt on the hills above a tiny loch that drained into the sea. Arran dismounted and helped Margot down, and they walked to where Duncan and Hamish were squatting, looking down a long hill.
“There, in the tall grass, laird,” Hamish said, pointing. “We’ll go round the far end—”
“The far end!” Duncan snapped. “Ye’ll as good as flush them out if you go round the far end.”
“Aye, so what would ye have us do, shoot from here, where we can scarcely sight the loch, much less the fowl? What bloody nonsense.”
“All right, that’s enough of it,” Arran said, vexed now. But the two brothers didn’t hear him—their bickering had reached a crisis, and they came to their feet, squaring off with each other and exciting the dogs, one of whom began to bark. Behind the two men, the grouse took wing, flying across the loch and deep into a ravine.
“For the love of Christ,” Arran said irritably.
“I’ve ’ad enough of ye and yer fool mouth, I ’ave,” said Duncan. “I ought to take yer bloody noggin off with me bare hands.”
“Do you think ye’re man enough for it, lad?” Hamish shot back, and shoved his brother in the chest.
“Stop this,” Arran said angrily. “You’re grown men!”
But the wound between Duncan and Hamish flared up like specter between them, and the two men were suddenly grabbing at each other, cursing in their native tongue—each trying to land a fist as the dogs barked wildly.
Arran reached for his gun.
“What are you doing?” Margot cried.
“I mean to shoot the both of them,” Arran growled. He meant to shoot above their heads, but he was sorely tempted to shoot them for being so bloody obstinate and losing an entire pack of grouse.
He brought the gun to his shoulder but was startled as Margot suddenly threw herself into the melee between the two men.
“Margot!” Arran shouted.
Hamish and Duncan suddenly stopped fighting. Because Margot stood between them, holding them each at arm’s length. They could not swing a fist without striking her.
“What is the matter with you?” she demanded breathlessly. “You ought to be ashamed of such childish behavior!”
“It’s him, mu’um,” Duncan said just as breathlessly, and tried to reach around and over Margot for his brother. “He’s been a thorn in me side for all me life.”
“Your whole life!” Margot said incredulously as she pushed Duncan back a step. “I think that is not true or you wouldn’t continue to hunt with him,” she said, dropping her hands. “Now, what is this all about?”
“He knows what he did, aye?” Hamish said, glaring at Duncan. “He knows.”
