Page 85 of Wild Wicked Scot
Stephen blinked. “Was I to bring a reply?”
Margot sighed. “No, Stephen. Thank you,” she said, and patted his shoulder as if she were his grandmother.
By early afternoon, Margot was in such a state of despair she began to fear she was losing her mind. It was as if she was walking through a nightmare from which she could not wake. She’d managed to get a few bites down and had resumed her pacing. Then she saw through the window horsemen approaching Norwood Park.
Her father.
Margot raced to the foyer, arriving at the same moment her father entered, bellowing for Quint.
With a cry of relief, Margot ran to him, hugging him tightly. “You’ve had me sick with worry, Pappa. Why did you go to Fonteneau?” she asked, and looked around him, to the door. “Where is Mackenzie?”
“He has remained at Fonteneau,” her father said. “Move aside, Margot. I can’t give Quint my gloves with you standing there,” he said, and shunted her aside.
“Why did Arran stay at Fonteneau?” she asked, panic filling her. “There was no note, no explanation—”
“Margot, please. I’m quite exhausted,” her father said dismissively. “I need to sit and think before you begin to bombard me with questions. We’ll speak later.” He brushed past her, striding in the direction of his study with Quint on his heels.
Margot was so stunned she was rooted to the marble tiles of the foyer, capable only of gaping after her father. So stunned that she scarcely noticed Bryce until he walked past her with a passing glance, following her father.
This cannot be happening.They had left with her husband and had returned without him, and now treated her as if she were a piece of furniture to be stepped around. A rising tide of anger began to push aside Margot’s astonishment. Fury began to beat down her exhaustion and fear and anxiety.
She refused to be treated like this.
She abruptly marched to her father’s study. She did not pause at the closed door, oh no—she shoved it open with all her might and strode through the door.
“Margot, for heaven’s sake!” her father snapped, startled by her entrance.
“Where is my husband, Pappa?” she demanded. “Why did he leave Norwood Park, and why hasn’t he come back?”
Her father’s face darkened. “You will not speak to me in that manner—”
“Tell me where he is!” she said sharply.
Her father’s expression turned stormy. “I’ll tell you where he is—in chains, as well he ought to be.”
For a sliver of a moment, Margot was certain she misheard. But the look of raw detachment on her father’s face slapped her awake to the truth. She grabbed the back of a chair, the news a physical blow to her. “Wh-what have you done, Pappa?” she stammered, her voice shaking. “We came to you for help. We came to tell you that Thomas Dunn—”
“I know all about Thomas Dunn!” he snapped. “Foolish girl! You thought I wouldhelpyou? Thomas Dunn is a drowning man. Don’t you know what to do with a drowning man? Kick him away so that he doesn’t drag you beneath the surface with him.”
Margot gasped. It was impossible to comprehend that the man saying such a vile thing was herfather. “So you allow him to drag Arran down with him?” she asked, incredulous. “When the two of you, together, could bring a traitor to justice?”
Her father snorted and flicked his wrist at her. “Thomas Dunn is a nobleman and has favor with the queen. Do you think anyone in England will believe a backwater Scotsman over him? He may say what he likes of Arran Mackenzie precisely because he’s made sure that no one will stand up for him.”
“Butwecan stand for him!” she cried. “You, Pappa!”
He snorted.
“He is myhusband,” she said, her voice shaking with fury.
“In name only.”
“No! He is myhusband, Pappa!”
“What, have you suddenly developed tender feelings for him, Margot?” her father snarled. “You?You have despised him from the moment I told you what your duty must be. Youfledhim. You wailed like a child when I told you that you must go back to Scotland for the good of your family. And now you would have us believe he is your dear husband?” He snorted disdainfully. “You did what I needed you to do. Now go and host a ball or a soiree. Gamble if you like. Go to London, order gowns for the Season—I don’t care what you do. But leave me be—I’m tired.”
Her breath was being squeezed from her lungs and the rush of blood in her head was deafening. At any moment, she would either faint or strike her father. “You have used me ill, my lord,” she said, her voice shaking as she clung to the chair with impotent rage.
“For God’s sake,” he said impatiently.
