Page 76 of Wild Wicked Scot
Margot wished she felt as confident as she presented herself to Arran. She believed what she said...but nonetheless, the next morning, she took her lessons in earnest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AQUICKDEPARTUREfrom Balhaire required a monumental effort, especially with the possibility of no return looming over Arran like a dark cloud. There were so many things to do, so many people to see and things that must be said.
And yet, in spite of the gloom that surrounded him, the speed with which he was forced to muster was also a blessing—he had very little time to ponder the many what-ifs running through his thoughts.
He and Margot hardly spoke at all, both of them preoccupied with the imminent departure. When Arran arrived at his chamber well after midnight, he would find her curled into a ball in a fast sleep. He was thankful for that, too—with the exception of the night he’d learned the depth of her betrayal, his mind could not be persuaded to amorous events.
But when he gazed down at her, her face awash in the innocence of a mind quieted by sleep, he wondered...could she be leading him to his doom? Had this been the plan all along? Could he be so blind that he didn’t see the truth?
Arran was not alone in his suspicions—Jock had them, too. Late Wednesday, a messenger sent by MacLeary arrived from Mallaig with the news that there was more talk of a traitor in their midst, a cancer to the ideals and spirit of the Highlands.
“Aye, this news I know,” Arran said impatiently. “What else?”
“The laird bids me tell you that there are those to the north who believe the cancer must be struck out before it corrodes their plans for the future of Scotland.”
“Is that all there is?” Jock growled at the man.
The messenger nodded.
“Go on with you, then. Fergus will take you to the kitchens to fill your belly, aye?” Jock said, and handed the man a few coins before ushering him out.
Having delivered him into Fergus’s hands, Jock shut the door, walked to the sideboard, poured two drams of whisky and handed one to Arran.
“Well, then,” Arran said. “Either I might draw the cancer out myself or become the cancer, aye?” He downed his whisky.
“Assuming the Lady Mackenzie has no’ begun to cut already,” Jock muttered.
Arran understood his cousin’s grave doubts—God knew he had them, as well. But he didn’t know what else he might do. To stay at Balhaire with the Jacobite rumors swirling around him made him nervous. To go to England was to face arrest and execution. The only hope he had was to expose Tom Dunn before anything might happen.
At four o’clock Thursday morning, he roused Margot out of a deep sleep and told her to ready herself. It was time to go.
He stood in the foyer of Balhaire and looked around him. These familiar stone walls, the place of his youth, of his manhood. He spoke softly to Jock—and tried to ignore that the big man fought back tears. He squatted down and rubbed Old Roy behind the ears and received athump thump thumpof his tail against the floor in gratitude. Roy likely would be gone by the time Arran returned—if he returned. And looking into Roy’s brown eyes, he felt his own mortality.
He stood and walked out of Balhaire without looking back, lest his grief bring him to his knees.
They set sail with the morning tide. Two days later, they landed at Heysham on England’s shores and began the ride to Norwood Park. At least Margot’s riding had improved. She kept pace and seemed more at ease on a horse than before.
They were guests at the modest home of Mr. Richard Burns near Carlisle their first night in England. Mr. Burns was a Scot and his wife’s cousin a Mackenzie. Burns generally was happy to welcome Scots entering England, but he looked quite unhappy to see Arran. He allowed Arran and Margot to enter his home but sent the four men who accompanied them to sleep with the horses. And even so, he glanced nervously about in the gloaming, as if expecting an army to emerge from the bushes and attack them.
Inside the small foyer of the house, Margot removed the heavy woolen coat, revealing her trews. Mrs. Burns stared at her so intently, her gaze wandering over Margot’s frame, that Arran could see Margot’s cheeks blooming in shame.
“You’ll forgive my wife,” he said to his hosts. “She takes no pleasure in these clothes, but it is a necessity for riding long hours over the course of two days.”
“You’ll want some supper,” Mrs. Burns said stiffly, and gestured for them to follow her down a narrow hall and into a dining room.
Mrs. Burns set the rough-hewn table with two tallow candles and pieces of tarnished silver and bowls. She poured ale from a ewer. A small lass, no more than ten years, appeared with a pot she could scarcely carry. Arran took it from her and ladled hare stew into his bowl, and then Margot’s, before giving the pot back to the girl to carry to the other side of the table.
There was very little discussion over supper. Mrs. Burns asked after Balhaire and her cousin Mary.
“She is well,” Arran said.
“God keep her,” Mrs. Burns muttered.
Mr. Burns ate quickly and stood when he’d finished his meal, apparently wanting to be gone from them as quickly as possible. Arran had been a guest in this house more than once, and Burns had never been anything but welcoming. He could only assume that word of treason had reached this man’s ears.
When the meal was finished, Mrs. Burns led Arran and Margot by the light of a single tallow candle up to a room at the far end of the hall.
