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Once they were gone, Margot and Lynetta returned to the ballroom, jointly disappointed that the arrival of strangers had not brought Montclare into their midst, and quickly fixed their attentions elsewhere.
Lynetta danced, while Margot stood about, trying not to appear anxious. Was her dancing really as horrible as that? Apparently so—no one had asked her to stand up.
After what seemed like hours of waiting about, a bell was rung and the cake was served. A footman handed Margot a flute of champagne. She liked how it tickled her nose and sipped liberally as she and Lynetta stood together, waiting for Quint, the Norwood Park butler, to bring them a piece of the cake.
“Oh my!” Lynetta whispered frantically, nudging Margot with her shoulder.
“What?”
“It’s Fitzgerald.”
“Where?” Margot whispered just as frantically and dabbed at her upper lip to blot away any champagne.
“He’s coming this way!”
“Is he looking at me? Is it me he approaches?” Margot begged, but before Lynetta could answer, Mr. Fitzgerald had reached her side.
“Miss Armstrong,” he said, and bowed over his extended leg, his arm swirling out to the side. She’d noted lately that several young men just up from London bowed in that fashion. “Miss Beauly, may I offer felicitations on the occasion of your birthday?”
“Thank you,” Lynetta said. “Umm... I do beg your pardon, but I mean to, ah... I think I shall have some cake.” She awkwardly stepped away, leaving Margot and Fitzgerald standing together.
“Ah...” Good God, Margot’s heart was fluttering. “How do you find the ball?”
“Magnificent,” he said. “You are to be commended.”
“Not at all.” She could feel an absurd grin forming at the compliment. “Lynetta has helped me, of course.”
“Of course.” Mr. Fitzgerald shifted to stand beside her, and through the tight sleeve of her gown, Margot could feel her skin sizzling where his arm brushed hers. “Miss Armstrong, would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next dance?”
Margot ignored the swell of panic that she might very well break one of his toes. “I would be delighted—”
“Miss Armstrong.”
“Pardon? What?” she asked dreamily as someone touched her elbow.
Mr. Fitzgerald smiled. “Your butler,” he said, nodding at someone over her shoulder.
Margot forced her gaze away from Mr. Fitzgerald and around to Quint. “Yes?” she asked impatiently.
“Your father asks that you join him in the family dining room.”
Margot blinked. Of all the rotten timing! “Now?” she asked, endeavoring to sound angelic but hissing a bit.
“Shall I hold your champagne until you return?” Mr. Fitzgerald asked.
Margot hoped she didn’t look as ridiculously pleased as she felt. But still, she didn’t trust any number of the young women who were presently circulating about them like sharks. “Umm...” She looked pleadingly at Quint. “Perhaps Pappa might wait?”
But as usual, Quint returned her look impassively. “He asks that you attend him at once.”
“Do go on,” said Mr. Fitzgerald with a warm smile. “We shall have that dance when you return.” He took the flute from her hand and politely bowed his head.
“You are too kind, Mr. Fitzgerald. I shan’t be but a moment.” Margot whirled about, and with a glare for poor old Quint, she picked up her skirts and sailed out.
When she entered the family dining room, the smell of horse and men assaulted her, and Margot had to swallow her aversion to it. She was surprised to see her father seated with the rough-looking men who had arrived at Norwood Park earlier. Her brother Bryce was there, too, watching the five men as one might observe animals in the wild. Four of the men were devouring their food, sounding a bit like a pack of animals who had not eaten in quite a long time.
“Ah, there she is, my daughter, Margot,” her father said, standing and holding out his hand to her.
She reluctantly walked forward and took it, curtsying to him. Up close, she noticed the man with the ice-blue eyes bore the dirt and grime of what she guessed was several days on the road. He wore a dark, unkempt beard, and she wondered idly if perhaps he’d lost his razor. His gaze presumptuously raked over her, from the top of her coiffed hair—the paper birds seemed to interest him—to her face and bodice and down the length of her body.
How rude. Margot narrowed her eyes on him, but her glower seemed to please him. His blue eyes sparked as he came slowly to his feet, towering almost a foot above her.
“Margot, may I introduce Chieftain Arran Mackenzie. Mackenzie, my only daughter, Miss Margot Armstrong.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. Did he not know that to stare so intently was impolite? Margot dipped another perfect curtsy and extended her hand. “How do you do, sir?”
“Verra well, Miss Armstrong.”
His voice had a deep, lilting brogue that was quite unexpected and tingled at the base of her skull.
“And how do you do?” he asked, taking her hand in his. It was huge, and his thumb felt calloused as he stroked it across her knuckles. Margot thought of Mr. Fitzgerald—with his long, slender and manicured fingers. Mr. Fitzgerald had the hands of an artist. This man had bear paws.
“I am well, thank you,” she said, and lightly pulled her hand away. She looked expectantly at her father. He seemed in no hurry to dismiss her now that he’d introduced her to these men. How long was she to remain here? She thought of Mr. Fitzgerald standing in the ballroom just now, with two flutes of French champagne in his hands. She could imagine any number of young ladies who were closing in around him, ready to cart him off like so many buzzards.
“Mackenzie is to receive a barony,” her father said. “He shall be Lord Mackenzie of Balhaire.”
Why on earth should she care about that? But Margot was ever the dutiful daughter and smiled at the man’s throat. “You must be pleased.”
The man tilted his head to one side to catch her eye before he responded. “Aye, that I am,” he said, and his gaze moved boldly to her mouth. “I verra much doubt you will understand just how pleased I am, Miss Armstrong.”
A strong shiver ran down Margot’s spine. Why did he look at her like that? He was so brazen, so unguarded! And her father, standing just there!
“Thank you, Margot,” her father said from somewhere near her—she wasn’t really sure where he was, as she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from this beast of a man just yet. “You may return to your friends.”
What was this? She felt like the prize county sheep, paraded in for viewing. Look at the fine wool on this one. It vexed her—there were times her father seemed to forget that she was not a bauble to be held up for admiration.
She stared steadily into those icy blue eyes and said, “It is a pleasure to have made your acquaintance.” It was not a pleasure at all—it was a nuisance—and she hoped the man could see it in her gaze. Well, if he couldn’t see it, his companions certainly could. They’d all stopped eating and were staring at her almost as if they’d never seen a woman before. Which, judging by their clothing and wretched table manners, was almost believable.
“Thank you, Miss Armstrong,” he said, that voice so deeply lilting that it felt like a feather stroking down her spine. “But the pleasure has been completely mine, aye?” He smiled.
Those words and that smile made Margot feel strangely warm and fluid. She hurried out, eager to be as far from those men as she could.
By the time she reached the ballroom, however, his name was forgotten, because Mr. Fitzgerald was dancing with Miss Remstock. Margot’s champagne was nowhere to be seen, and every other thought she had flew out of her head.
The next afternoon, her father informed her that he’d agreed to give her hand in marriage to that beast Mackenzie and then turned a deaf ear to her cries.
CHAPTER ONE (#u02d575e6-7985-5db7-b9ff-abefb8a3b383)
The Scottish Highlands
1710
UNDER A FULL Scottish moon on a balmy summer night, the air was so still that one could hear the distant sea as plainly as if one were standing in the cove below Castle Balhaire. The windows of the old castle keep were open to the cool night, and a breeze wafted through, carrying away with it the lingering smoke from the rush torches that lit the great hall.
The interior of the medieval castle had been transformed into a sumptuous space befitting a king—or at least a Scottish clan chieftain with a healthy sea trade. The clan chieftain, the Baron of Balhaire, Arran Mackenzie, was sprawled on the new furnishings of the great hall along with his men, with a fresh batch of ale and a small herd of lassies to occupy them.
At the top of the Balhaire watchtower, three guards passed the time tossing coins onto a cloak with each roll of the die. Seamus Bivens had already divested his old friend Donald Thane of two sgillin with his last roll. Two sgillin was not a fortune to a guard of Balhaire, thanks to Mackenzie’s generosity to those loyal to him, but nevertheless, when Seamus took two more sgillin, Donald felt the loss of his purse and his pride quite keenly. Heated words were exchanged, and the two men clambered to their feet, reaching for their respective muskets propped against the wall. Sweeney Mackenzie, the commander, was content to let the two men battle it out, but a noise reached him, and he leaped to his feet and stepped between them, holding them apart with his hands braced against their chests. “Uist!” he hissed to silence them. “Do ye no’ hear it?”
The two men paused and craned their necks, listening. The sound of an approaching carriage bounced between the ghostly shadows of the hills. “Who the devil?” Seamus muttered, and forgetting his anger with Donald, grabbed up the spyglass and leaned over the wall to have a look.
“Well?” Donald demanded, crowding in behind him. “Who is it, then? A Gordon, aye?”
Seamus shook his head. “No’ a Gordon.”
“A Munro, then,” said Sweeney. “I’ve heard they’ve been eyeing Mackenzie lands.” These were relatively peaceful times at Balhaire, but one should never have been surprised by a change in clan alliances.
“No’ a Munro,” Seamus said.
They could see the coach now, pulled by a team of four, accompanied by two riders in back and two guards alongside the coachman. The postilion held a lantern aloft on a pole to light their way, in addition to the light cast from the carriage lamps.
“Who in bloody hell comes at half past midnight?” Donald demanded.
Seamus suddenly gasped. He pulled the spyglass away from his eye and squinted at the coach, then just as quickly put it back to his eye and leaned forward. “No,” he said, his voice full of disbelief.
His two companions exchanged a look. “Who?” Donald demanded. “No’ Buchanan,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, referring to the Mackenzies’ most persistent enemy through the years.
“Worse,” Seamus said gravely, and slowly lowered the spyglass, his eyes gone round with horror.
“By God, say who it is before I bloody well beat it from you,” Sweeney swore, clearly unnerved.
“’Tis...’tis the Lady Mackenzie,” Seamus said, his voice barely above a whisper.
His two companions gasped. And then Sweeney whirled about, grabbed up his gun and hurried off to warn Mackenzie that his wife had returned to Balhaire.
Unfortunately, coming down from the tallest part of Balhaire was no easy feat, and by the time Sweeney had made his way into the bailey, the coach had come through the gates. The coach door swung open, and a step was put down. He saw a small but well-shod foot appear on that step, and he broke into a run.
* * *
ARRAN MACKENZIE ADORED the pleasant sensation of a woman’s soft bum on his lap, and the sweet scent of her hair in his nostrils, especially with the golden warmth of good ale lovingly wrapping its liquid arms around him. He’d sampled freely of the batch his cousin and first lieutenant had brewed. Jock Mackenzie fancied himself something of a master brewer.
Arran was slouched in his chair, his fingers slowly tracing a line up the woman’s back, lazily trying to recall her name. What is it, then—Aileen? Irene?
“Milord! Mackenzie!” someone shouted.
Arran bent his head to see around the blond curls of the woman in his lap. Sweeney Mackenzie, one of his best guards, was shouting at him from the rear of the hall. The poor man was clutching his chest as if his heart was failing him, and he looked quite frantic as he cast his gaze around the crowded room. “Wh-wh-where is he?” he demanded of a drunk beside him. “Wh-wh-where is Mackenzie?”
Sweeney was a fierce warrior and a dedicated commander. But when he was agitated, he had a tendency to stutter like he had when they were children. Generally there was little that could agitate the old salt, and that something had made Arran take notice. “Here, Sweeney,” he said, and pushed the girl off his lap. He sat up, gestured his man forward. “What has rattled you, then?”
Sweeney hurried forward. “She’s b-b-b-back,” he breathlessly managed to get out.
Arran frowned, confused. “Pardon?”
“The L-L-L...” Sweeney’s lips and tongue seemed to stick together. He swallowed and tried to expel the word.
“Take a breath, lad,” Arran said, coming to his feet. “Steady now. Who has come?”
“L-L-L-Lady M-M-Mackenzie,” he managed.
That name seemed to drift up between Arran and Sweeney. Did Arran imagine it, or did everything in the hall suddenly go still? There was surely some mistake—he exchanged a look with Jock, who looked as mystified as Arran.
He turned to Sweeney again and said calmly, “Another breath, man. You’re mistaken—”
“He is not mistaken.”
Arran’s head snapped up at the sound of that familiar, crisply English, feminine voice. He squinted to the back of the hall, but the torches were smoking and cast shadows. He couldn’t make out anyone in particular—but the collective gasp of alarm that rose up from the two dozen or so souls gathered verified it for him: his wench of a wife had returned to Balhaire. After an absence of more than three years, she had inexplicably returned.
This undoubtedly would be viewed as a great occasion by half of his clan, a calamity by the other half. Arran himself could think of only three possible reasons his wife might be standing here now: one, her father had died and she had no place to go but to her lawful husband. Two, she’d run out of Arran’s money. Or three...she wanted to divorce him.
He dismissed the death of her father as a reason. If the man had died, he would have heard about it—he had a man in England to keep a close eye on his faithless wife.
The crowd parted as the auburn-haired beauty glided into the hall like a sleek galleon, two Englishmen dressed in fine woolen coats and powdered wigs trailing behind her.
She could not possibly have run out of money. He was quite generous with her. To a fault, Jock said. Perhaps that was true, but Arran would not have it said that he did not provide for his wife.
His wife’s grand entrance was suddenly halted by one of Arran’s old hunting dogs whose sight had nearly gone. Roy chose that moment to amble across the cleared path and plop himself down, his head between his paws on the cool stone floor, oblivious to the activity of humans around him. He sighed loudly, preparing to take his nap.
His wife daintily lifted her cloak and stepped over the beast. Her two escorts walked around the dog.
As she continued toward him, Arran had to consider that the third possibility was perhaps the most plausible. She had come to ask for a divorce, an annulment—whatever might give her freedom from him. And yet it seemed implausible she would have come all this way to ask it of him. Would she not have sent an agent? Or perhaps, he reasoned, as she made her way to the dais, she meant to humiliate him once more.
Margot Armstrong Mackenzie stood with her hands clasped before her and a faltering smile for the stunned, speechless souls around her. Her two escorts took up positions directly behind her, their gazes warily assessing the hall, their hands on the hilts of their small swords. Did they think they’d be forced to fight their way out? It was a possibility, for some of Arran’s people wore expressions of anticipation—far be it from any Scotsman to back away from anything that even remotely hinted at the potential for a brawl.
Not a death, then. Not a lack of funds. He had not ruled out divorce, but no matter what the reason, Arran was suddenly furious. How dare she return!
He leaped off the dais and strolled forward. “Has snow fallen on hell?” he asked calmly as he advanced on her.
She glanced around the hall. “I see no trace of snow,” she said as she removed her gloves.
“Did you come by sea? Or by broom?”
Someone on the dais chuckled. “By sea and by coach,” she said pleasantly, ignoring his barb. She cocked her head to one side and looked him over. “You look very well, my lord husband.”
Arran said nothing. He didn’t know what to say to her after three years and feared anything he did would unleash a torrent of emotion he was not willing to share with the world.
In his silence, Margot’s gaze wandered to her surroundings, to the rush torches, the iron chandeliers, the dogs wandering about the great hall. It was quite different from Norwood Park. She’d never cared for this massive great room, the heart of Balhaire for centuries now. She’d always wanted something finer; a fancy room, a London or Paris ballroom. But to Arran, this room was highly functional. There were two long tables where his clan sat, with massive hearths on either end of the hall to heat it. A few rugs on the floor muted the sound of boots on stone, and he’d always rather liked the flickering light of the torches.
“It’s still charmingly quaint,” she said, reading his thoughts. “Everything exactly the same.”
“No’ everything,” he reminded her. “I was no’ expecting you.”
