Page 48 of Wild Wicked Scot
Apprehension swooned in Margot’s belly. “Ah...good afternoon,” she said uncertainly.
He said nothing; he stared warily.
Perhaps she should have heeded Mr. Pepper and at least brought a dog along with her. “I am Lady Mackenzie.”
“Aye, I know who you be, mu’um.”
Well, then. At least he knew there would be consequences for murdering her. Or rather, she at least hoped the possibility of dire consequences might cross his mind. Frankly, she wasn’t entirely confident of it. “What...what were you doing there, in the woods?” she asked. When all else failed, assume an air of authority and hope for the best.
The man glanced back over his shoulder. Several wooden crates had been stacked in the shadow of the trees, and she immediately assumed guns. If her husband was planning a rebellion, he would need guns. And didn’t guns generally arrive in crates?
“Nothing, milady,” he said. “We’ve brung back bolts of cloth and fine china. We’ve got to get them off the ship.”
“But...where have you come from?”
“From the Continent, milady.” He was nervously twisting the cap around in his hands.
The Continent. Margot felt a little ill. Guns from France! First guns, then men. Didn’t that seem logical? “Have you brought any men with you? Any soldiers or officers?”
He looked confused and glanced at the ship. “No.”
Another rowboat had been put in the water at the ship, and two men were slowly making their way toward shore with several crates between them. She didn’t have much time.
“Who has commanded the ship?” she demanded, as if that would enlighten her in any way.
“Cap’n Mackenzie, mu’um.”
That was no help—there could be dozens of Captain Mackenzies around here.
“Aye, Cap’n Mackenzie,” he said again.
He began to move toward her, and Margot’s heart climbed to her throat. “The laird shall be along at any moment,” she said, and even glanced over her shoulder with the insane hope that he might somehow miraculously appear.
“The laird?” the man said. “But he’s gone to Coigeach,” he said, moving closer.
Margot’s short breath turned to sheer panic. She imagined this man tossing down his cap just before he tackled her. She’d fall like a rock, as she’d never be able to hold her balance on this ridiculous sidesaddle. Arran was right—he’d once said she should have a pair of buckskins fashioned and learn to ride astride. If she lived to see another morning, she would do precisely that.
As he moved closer, he shoved one hand in his pocket.
“Dear God,” she murmured. She expected him to produce a knife and tried to pull the fool horse around. But the horse wouldn’t budge at first, confused as to what Margot wanted. She jerked hard to the right and the horse came around halfway.
“Milady!” the man said, walking faster.
Margot begged the beast with the pull of the reins and her heel to turn around—
“I’ve something for you, I do,” he said. “A gift.” He had reached the pony’s head and grabbed the bridle, holding the horse in place.
“Let go,” Margot said, her voice shaking with fear.
The man pulled his hand free of his pocket and held it out to her. In his palm was a small, exquisitely carved figurine of a woman, dressed in a court dress. One of her legs was extended, and she held the sides of her skirt up in her outstretched hands, bowing over it. But one of her arms had been broken off at the shoulder.
Not a knife. A figurine. She tried to understand what it was, what it meant.
“One of them boxes, it was dropped, aye? The china, it’s packed tight in straw, so we lost only a few fine things. But a few come up broken, and Cap’n said to throw it all overboard, he did. But I fancied it. Thought it would make a fine gift, aye?” He held up his hand to Margot. “Her arm’s broken, but she’s bonny all the same. A gift for the laird’s lady. If you’ll have it.”
“You mean to give it to me?” Margot asked uncertainly.
“Aye, mu’um. Please,” he said.
