Page 47 of Wild Wicked Scot
Margot paused and looked at him. “Why?”
“Why indeed,” he said impatiently. “I am here to ensure your safety. I would not like to see you ride out alone without even a proper dog to accompany you.” He looked meaningfully to his left.
Margot followed his gaze. An old hound with a white muzzle was stretched out on his side near the hearth.
“The laird is quite fond of dogs,” she said coolly. And she thought if Mr. Pepper didn’t care for them, he ought to find lodging elsewhere. She was suddenly reminded of a young dog here at Balhaire who’d been badly injured by a trap that had been set illegally. When the gamekeeper determined the poor dog could not be saved and, furthermore, would suffer in his last hours, she had watched Arran scoop the dog up in his arms and carry him from this very hall with tears on his face.
He’d taken the dog into the woods and mercifully put it out of its misery.
She shivered at the painful recollection of how he’d grieved for the dog.
“I heard the laird departed in the company of several other men. Highland clansmen.”
She glanced curiously at him. Mr. Pepper had a handful of berries and was casually eating them. “He did?”
“You don’t know?” Mr. Pepper asked irritably. “Here now, you must have at least a groom to accompany you. You cannot be too cautious now—”
“I am at home here, Mr. Pepper. I won’t need a dog or groom to accompany me. I mean to call on a friend who might have something to tell me.” She arched a brow. “But she won’t tell me a thing if I come in the company of anyone.”
Mr. Pepper popped another berry in his mouth, shrewdly assessing her.
“But thank you kindly for your concern for my safety.” She moved down the sideboard, ending the conversation.
Mr. Pepper didn’t press her further, but she noticed that the moment Worthing appeared, Pepper was at his side, whispering in his ear. How long did these two men intend to remain at Balhaire? They really served no purpose other than to make her anxious. She would be much more at ease in her odious task if she didn’t feel as if someone was constantly watching her.
When she finished her breakfast and was certain she’d not be accosted by either Mr. Pepper or Sir Worthing, Margot put on her hat and gloves and went out into the bailey in search of Sweeney.
She found him easily enough. “A horse please, Sweeney,” she said after she’d greeted him. “Preferably one a bit smaller than the one you saddled for me earlier this week. One that I might actually ride without fear of being thrown. Oh, and if you please, a proper saddle.”
“Proper,” Sweeney said, his nerves apparently calmer today.
“Yes. One suitable for a lady to ride.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ll have a look around, then,” he said, and disappeared into the stables. When he at last reemerged, he was leading a black Fell pony behind him. The horse had a shaggy, thick mane that covered his eyes. He was broad, but much shorter than the one she’d ridden two days ago.
“Oh, this one is lovely,” Margot said, stroking the horse’s nose.
“Aye, he’s a good-tempered mount, and sure-footed, he is. He’s good with inexperienced riders, aye?”
“Yes, well. I suppose that would suit me perfectly.” She sighed.
Sweeney cupped his hands for her and helped her up onto a sidesaddle so ancient that it was cracked across the seat. It took her several moments to find her balance, but when she felt as if she was sitting as confidently as she could, she said, “Should anyone inquire, I am calling on a friend.”
“You are?” Sweeney asked, clearly dubious.
Margot looked pointedly at him.
“Aye, mu’um,” Sweeney said with the confidence of a man who knew no one would inquire.
After she made several attempts to get the pony to move, Sweeney resorted to giving the beast a slap on the rump. Margot eventually rode out, the pony trotting out the gates as sure-footedly as Sweeney had promised.
She rode down a wide, flat path that took her through fields of heather before becoming noticeably steeper. The path moved from there into the woods, where patches of primrose and harebells grew, and the air was sweet with the scent of honeysuckle. There wasn’t a sound in the air besides birds chirping and the tide coming in to shore, and Margot very much appreciated the solitude. Remarkably for a woman who was estranged from her husband, she never had solitude. Someone was always watching her. Her father, her brothers. The man Arran had sent from Scotland.
The pony seemed to know precisely where she wanted to go and moved down the path with ease. When she reached the beach, she could see a ship anchored quite far out. She could see the figures of men moving about on the deck of that ship and noticed that someone had pulled a rowboat up onto the shore.
A month ago, Margot would have thought nothing of this ship. She would not have been particularly interested if it had just come in or was preparing to sail. But now she wondered if that ship was a key to her husband’s guilt or innocence.
She was gazing out at the ship when a movement caught her eye, and she turned to see a man coming out of the woods. When he saw her, he stopped. He rubbed his hands on his dirty trousers and glanced at the ship, then at her.
