Page 64 of Wild Wicked Scot
“You made me anxious,” she said. She was smiling up at him, relaxed. Happy. “I could have done it without you!”
“I donna believe it,” he said, pressing his palm to the side of her face. “And you couldna have ridden your pony here without me,” he said, and took her head in his hands and kissed her.
He forgot Duncan and Hamish. He forgot the dogs. He forgot how much mistrust he harbored, and everything else in that tall grass. The only thing Arran was aware of was the feel of his wife against him, the soft press of her lips. He rolled them again, putting Margot on her back, and kissed her as a well of tender emotion rose up in him, pushing aside his doubts about her. He wanted this. He wanted his wife, this life. Was it insanity to think he might have it? Was it fantasy that filled his heart?
He lifted his head, removed a bit of weed from her cheek, kissed her forehead and bound to his feet, reaching down to help her up. She brushed off her skirts and fussed with her hair a moment, removing blades of grass, then slipped her hand into his. “Have I earned my supper?”
“Aye,” he said, squeezing her hand.
He helped Margot onto her horse, and they trailed behind his men and dogs. Their path took them down to a cliff that overlooked the sea.
“Where are your ships?” Margot asked, looking toward the cove.
“Moored.”
“When will you go to France again?” she asked.
Her tone was light. Too light. He glanced back over his shoulder. “Who has said I will sail to France?”
In her green eyes, he could all but see the rapid click of her thoughts. She was suddenly at a loss for words. She looked anxiously out to the sea again and said, “I’m certain you’ve said it.”
“I’m certain I’ve no’.”
“Then I must have supposed it. Mrs. Gowan said you’d given her china to sell—oh look, there’s Jock,” she said suddenly, pointing ahead.
Arran moved his attention from the sudden flush in Margot’s neck to where she pointed. Jock was galloping toward him.
“Jock?” Arran asked when his cousin reached him.
“You are wanted, laird.”
Arran studied Jock closely, but his cousin refused to say more. “Have the English gone?”
“Aye.”
Arran nodded. “I’ll be along shortly.”
Jock wheeled about and sent his horse in a gallop in the direction of the cove.
“I’ll see you to the bailey,” he said to Margot.
She said very little as they rode back, but her brow furrowed as if she were confused about something.
When they reached the bailey, he helped her down from the pony and gestured for one of the men to take it.
But before he could put himself on his horse again, she put her hand on his arm. “Where are you going?” Her gaze was filled with an anxiety that seemed misplaced.
“You heard Jock,” Arran said.
“But...where will you meet him?”
He tried to understand what concerned her, what she thought he might be about to do. “Why do you ask?”
Margot’s eyes seemed to seek something in him. He didn’t understand what it was she sought, what it was she needed from him. “When will you return?” she asked, her voice small, sounding, strangely, almost guilty.
He frowned down at her, trying to work out this sudden change in her at the same time he worried what Jock had to tell him or show him. “I donna know, Margot. An hour. Perhaps longer. But I must go.”
She drew a breath as if to ask more, but Arran didn’t want to hear more questions that would make his suspicions about her blossom any more than they’d already begun to do. So he suddenly reached for her, kissed her temple and said, “When I come back, you may ask what you want, aye? But now, I must go.”
