Wild Wicked Scot. Julia London

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СКАЧАТЬ matter of her leaving him for England had not been resolved, and quite honestly, Margot didn’t know if it could ever be resolved. She hadn’t the slightest idea what he thought or wanted, especially after all this time. She couldn’t even say what she wanted...but she did not want this, to be a pawn in a dangerous game.

      For the moment, her husband remained slouched in his chair, his powerful legs sprawled before him, one hand firmly gripping his cup of ale, the other dangling lazily from the arm of his chair. His intent gaze made fear curl around her spine—he reminded her of the hawks he was so fond of training. She could feel his contempt rolling off him and covering her.

      Margot did her best to put some stew in her belly. She was truly famished—but the nerves in her were building, making it difficult to swallow, making the food sit sourly in her belly. She could only guess what was coming, how incomprehensibly convincing she had to be now. She had begged and cajoled her father that this scheme would never work, that Arran would never believe she had missed him and wanted to reunite. How could she want something like that after three years without a word? How could he? And besides, the man had an uncanny way of seeing right through her.

      But her father had taken her hands in his and said, “My darling girl, a man can be convinced of anything if his wife is as pleasing as she ought to be. Do you take my meaning?”

      She took his meaning, all right. Lord Norwood thought he could order her to return to her husband and her husband would overlook his wounded pride and welcome her with open arms. He thought that Margot would politely inquire if it were true that Arran colluded with the French and the Jacobites and intended to give them entry into Scotland through Balhaire. And that Arran would happily tell her if it were true that he and his highly regarded Highland soldiers would join the French troops and invade England to remove Queen Anne from the throne and put James Stuart on it.

      Her father apparently believed this so completely and thought it so important that he clearly felt himself justified in threatening Margot to do what she did not want to do once again. She had tried to convey to her father how irretrievably broken-down was her marriage to Mackenzie, how he must despise her now, how she had despised him. Not that she believed for a moment that he was involved in treason, for God’s sake, but she was in no position to ascertain the truth.

      Her father would hear none of it.

      This was ridiculous. If, by some small chance, Arran was involved in something so deplorable and indefensible, he would hide any evidence of it. He’d not amassed power and wealth with loose lips and carelessness. He certainly would not talk freely of it to her, especially not when he reviled her so. He would hold her at arm’s length no matter what he thought of her. Women existed to be bedded and impregnated. They were not included in important discussions. They were told what to do; they were not allowed to choose.

      “It is time to finish your meal,” Arran said. “You dawdle now, aye? You and I have much to discuss.” He stood up.

      Margot looked up as she fit the spoon in her mouth. More than six feet of man towered over her. She chewed slowly as she regarded him. He’d always had a physique honed by his training of soldiers, as big and as strong as an ox. Three years hadn’t softened him in the least. Quite the contrary—he looked even leaner and harder now, his hair in need of a cut, his ice-blue eyes as shrewd as ever.

      “Be quick about it,” he added, and stepped off the dais, to where her father’s men sat. He spoke to them, gesturing to two of his men who had instantly come forward. Moments later, Pepper and Worthing stood up, glanced uneasily at Margot, then followed the Scots out of the great hall. Arran went in another direction.

      Margot panicked slightly, but then again, Worthing had warned her they’d not be allowed to stay. He was her father’s confidant—in fact, it was Worthing and two other gentlemen who had brought from London the rumors and accusations against Arran to her father.

      “He’ll not want any Englishmen in his hall,” Worthing had warned Margot. “You must be prepared to see us depart.”

      “No,” Margot had said. “I’ll ask him—”

      “He will instantly suspect you if you speak for us, madam. You must play the part of a disobedient wife who means to make amends.”

      Disobedient wife. Is that what they thought of her? As if she were a child who had disobeyed all the men in her life? As if she’d been expected to stay in an untenable position merely because men had put her there? Frankly, it would have helped tremendously if she knew just how a disobedient wife behaved when she wanted to make amends. Margot did not.

      She watched Arran walk through the hall, pausing to speak to one or two people, glancing meaningfully back at her once or twice. His long, dark hair was a tangled queue, and his buckskins, lawn shirt and waistcoat were soiled, his boots scuffed. Who knew what the man had done all day? Margot bowed her head and recalled the sensation of his body in hers, carrying her away to that sensual place.

      She missed that, anyway. She hadn’t realized how much she would miss it, how empty her life would become. She missed knowing that someone could be gentle with her, careful of her.

      Margot felt the sickly warmth of fear as she thought of it. She had wounded him in the worst way one could wound a man, and she had no hope that he would care much for her now—she had seen the harshness in his gaze. She was afraid of him, disgusted by him, attracted to him.

      Anxiety swelled in her, and she abruptly stood, suddenly desperate to escape to the privacy of her old rooms.

      The moment she came to her feet, however, Jock appeared. “Madam.”

      “Jock!” she said with a cheerfulness that belied the fright he’d given her. It seemed impossible that anyone could be larger than her husband, but Jock was. His dark ginger hair was streaked with gray and had always given her the impression that he carried the gloomy mists of the Highlands around with him.

      “How good to see you. You are well?” she asked as pleasantly as she could force herself.

      His brows dipped. He was not fooled by her. “Whatever you require, I am at your service, aye?”

      Her wish was too complicated for poor Jock. But in that space of hesitation, Jock rubbed a finger against his cheek, and a movement to her left caught her eye. A rat, in the form of a man, went scurrying in the direction Arran had gone to report her attempt to flee.

      She sighed and frowned at Jock. “That wasn’t necessary, was it?”

      His eyes narrowed with his silent disagreement.

      He’d always been a worthy adversary. He’d never trusted the marriage brokered between her and Arran. Margot put her hands to the small of her back. “I mean only to stretch my legs. I’ve come quite a long way.”

      Jock merely stood there. Typical.

      “And I am in need of a ladies’ retiring room.” She arched a brow, expecting him to retreat as all men did when confronted by women and their bodily functions. But Jock stood like a mountain before her, his expression unchanged.

      “Perhaps my old rooms are available?”

      “There are no rooms for you, madam. We didna expect you.”

      Obviously. “You mustn’t trouble yourself, Jock. I’m certain my maid has made them ready by now,” she said, and slipped past him.

      “Milady—”

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