Page 71 of Wild Wicked Scot
Jock’s face began to mottle. He considered it his God-given responsibility to keep his laird safe.
“He’s right,” Arran said before Jock could argue. “If I go, he’s right, for God’s sake, Jock.” Arran obviously did not relish going to England—visions of being accosted by English troops and sent to London for trial spun sickeningly in his belly. But the prospect of clan warfare churned just as bitterly.
When Arran finally quit the room, it was well past midnight. He felt exhaustion beyond his years—it seemed impossible to believe that only a week ago, he’d felt confident in his life and the things he’d built here, confident in the long-term prosperity of Balhaire.
Now he felt wildly vulnerable, his flanks open to attack from all sides. He was anxious and devastated, with so many conflicting ideas building in his chest, pounding away at his ribs and his heart, beating him down.
God help him, he should never have married her. He should have heeded Jock’s warning from the beginning—what good could come from aligning with the English? It had been a doomed union from the start, but Arran had been too blind to see it. And yet...he still loved Margot. In some misshapen, ill-begotten way, he still loved her. He despised her for what she’d done, of course, and was gravely disappointed that she had. But Margot had not conceived this deceit. She was simply a fool.
Damn him if he would ever trust her. And without trust, what was left to them?
It was with trepidation that he walked into the master’s chambers. As he knew she would be, Margot was there. She was wearing a chemise, and a wrap around her shoulders. She’d brushed her hair from its coif, silken waves of auburn shimmering in the light of his hearth. Her eyes were wide and fixed warily on him, like those of a baby owl. Did she mean to seduce him now?
Arran didn’t know what to say or where to begin. He closed the door and stood there, simply looking at her, the beautiful face that had haunted his thoughts for years. Such a treacherous beauty, splitting him in two with equal parts desire and disgust.
“How you must hate me,” she said softly, morosely.
His disappointment was strangling him, but he didn’t hate her.
“You can’t possibly hate me as I hate myself,” she said.
“Why?” he asked plaintively. “Why did you open the cabinet—howdid you open it?”
“A hat pin. My brother taught me when we were children. I opened the cabinet because I had to know, Arran.”
“You thought that I would risk all that I’ve built here to betray the queen and my own countrymen?”
Her cheeks colored with her guilt. “I never believed it. I swear I didn’t. But I had to remove all doubt. You’ve been gone every day, and then there was the urgent meeting...” she said, sounding helpless.
He’d gone, all right. To avoid her. To defend her. To learn the truth about her.
“My father said he would hang if you conspired against the queen. He said he was in terrible jeopardy and I was his only hope. Arran, please believe me—everything I told you was the truth.”
“How can I believe it?” he asked. “You ask the impossible, Margot. You might have told me straightaway, aye? You might have given me the chance to help you. But what you did has made it far worse.”
“I wanted to tell you,” she said earnestly. “But I couldn’t imagine you would admit the truth if you were...that is, if you...” She shrugged and looked down, unable to say it aloud yet.
He paused and looked to the ceiling, trying to calm his thickening anger. “Did you think I wouldlieto you?” he asked, his voice low with fury. “Have Ieverlied to you? Have I dissembled in any way, then?”
She shook her head. She was fighting tears. Always the bloody tears!
“If you had asked me, instead of skulking around as you did, I would have told you the truth, Margot. No matter what the truth is, aye? I would have told you the truth because Ivowed,” he said, clapping his hand to his heart, “to honor you above all others. I gave you no reason to distrust that vow.”
“No. You’re right, of course you’re right,” she said, nodding, swallowing down her unshed tears. “But on my life, I didn’t know what else to do.”
“So you opened my private letters,” he said sharply.
She tried to speak again, but with a shake of his head he turned away from her. “Save your breath.” He was bone-weary now, and he didn’t care to hear her excuses. He stalked across the room and sat on the edge of his bed to remove his boots. “We’ll leave in two days,” he said.
“For England?”
“Aye, for England. I’ve no choice.” It was his only hope. To remain here and do nothing was to invite a raid. “We’ll sail for Heysham and ride from there. A chaise will take too long. Griselda will teach you to ride astride. Do as she says, aye?”
Margot wisely did not argue; she pressed her lips together and nodded.
Arran turned back to the task of removing his boots. He felt her weight on the bed, felt her moving toward him, felt her hands on his shoulder. She began to knead the knots away. He tried to shrug free of her touch, but she would not allow it.
“I’ll do whatever you ask me to do, Arran. I swear to you.”
