Page 82 of Wild Wicked Scot
It was a happy reunion, and Margot sat between Lynetta and Arran at supper. The wine flowed quite freely around the table as everyone talked over each other. There was laughter, and many toasts were made. Even Arran seemed to relax, if only a bit, when Mr. Beauly engaged him in conversation.
Lynetta nattered on about her upcoming nuptials, and when she had exhausted that, she began to give Margot all the gossip from around Norwood Park. Mr. Franklin Carvey now held Miss Viola Darfield in great esteem, but Mr.JamesCarvey could not pay his debts, and his father was seeking a military commission for him.
“It’s a wonder it’s taken this long to note his debts,” Margot muttered, leaning to her right as Quint poured more wine.
Lynetta laughed at the memory. “Do you remember winning ten pounds from him? I was quite pleased you were the victor that night. He seemed rather pompous to me, so very sure of his abilities. Oh, Margot, how diverting it was! And you, always teasing the poor man. How I miss you.”
Margot smiled thinly. It all seemed so frivolous to her now—all that flirting and gambling. She’d been more concerned with her insular society than anything else. What a shallow existence she’d had.
She stole a look at Arran, who was listening politely to Mr. Beauly. She thought of how he presided over Balhaire and his clan. Of the many needs and responsibilities of overseeing all those Mackenzies and their prosperity. How did he abide her? How had she preferred this—this trifling existence? She felt oddly ashamed.
“You can’t tear your eyes from him!” Lynetta said, nudging Margot. “I scarcely blame you. He’s quite...robust.” She giggled. “Why is it that the gentlemen in the north of England are lacking in such health and vigor? I’ve never seen a gentleman as virile asyourhusband. Not even can I say it of my own fiancé, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“As I recall, you seemed to think Mr. Dermid Mackenzie was...virile,” Margot teased her.
“Why on earth would you bringhimto mind?” Lynetta said, sounding quite appalled. “He’s a thief!”
Something twitched deep in Margot. “I beg your pardon?”
“Have you not heard?” Lynetta whispered. “Shortly after you left, they arrested him. They said he stole from Lord Norwood.”
Now Margot’s gut twisted uncomfortably. “That can’t possibly be true,” she said. “I’m certain I would have heard of it.” She had never paid Dermid Mackenzie much heed, particularly since he’d been sent to keep watch over her—but he’d never been anything but polite and respectful. Margot didn’t believe he’d stolen a thing—Arran’s men did notsteal. “Who accused him?”
Lynetta shrugged. “I don’t know. They say he took something of great value and he was taken away in shackles.”
Margot began to feel queasy, the wine mixing with a sickening, anxious feeling.
“What is it?” Lynetta asked. “You look ill.”
“Nothing. The partridge, I think,” Margot said, and pressed a hand to her belly. “Where did they take him?”
“Oh, I’ve not the slightest idea,” Lynetta said breezily.
“But—”
“Ladies,” her father said, interrupting them. “Shall we all repair to the salon? Margot, darling, I’m afraid I’ve boasted quite relentlessly of your talent on the pianoforte. Would you grace us with a song? Perhaps Miss Beauly will accompany you with her angelic voice.”
Margot looked at Arran. He smiled. He did not know about Dermid.
In the salon, Margot did as her father asked. But her play was wooden, and Lynetta kept shooting her looks. Margot could hardly help it—she was nauseated with anxiety. Dermid Mackenzie being accused of thievery was wrong. And why hadn’t Quint said so when they asked? Had he kept quiet to spare Arran’s feelings? Did he think perhaps they should hear it from her father? And when, exactly, did her father intend to tell Arran what had happened to his man?
Her father seemed perfectly jovial and at ease this evening. He laughed and teased, applauded and poured wine for everyone. He did not seem like a man who had any unpleasant news to share. He looked happy to have his daughter home.
Maybe Lynetta was wrong.
And yet Margot couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was very wrong.
When the song came to an end, Mrs. Beauly and Mr. Beauly stood up to perform, and Margot was thankfully relieved of her duty. She resumed her seat next to Lynetta, Arran standing behind her. His presence was comforting to her. But his expression was unreadable. She suspected he found the evening quite tedious, and honestly, Margot kept nodding off as the Beaulys sang. She’d more wine than was her custom, and her thoughts kept drifting to nights at Balhaire, to those occasions of lively music and chaotic dancing. Just in the last fortnight, she’d been far more entertained at Balhaire than by the very prim performances in this drawing room. She suddenly wished that they could all come out of their seats and dance. She imagined Bryce hopping about in a Scottish reel and couldn’t suppress a smile. Oh, how he wouldloatheit.
She often felt as if he despised her.
But why would he? She was being overly suspicious now. The journey to England, her nerves, her doubts and the anticipation of what was to come—all of it began to weigh on Margot. She could scarcely keep her eyes open.
It was half past one in the morning when the Beaulys took their leave, and in the foyer of her home, she held Lynetta tightly to her. “You are always welcome, no matter where I am, Lynetta.”
Her friend giggled at her. “Iknow, Margot. How silly you are! You look completely exhausted, darling—you really must go to bed.”
The two young women said their goodbyes, and Margot stood on the steps of Norwood Park as she had a thousand times before, waving to their guests. Arran stood beside Margot, his hand on the small of her back. Her father and her brother stood below them, speaking low to each other.
