Wild Wicked Scot. Julia London
was afraid.
Now the chaise rolled through the village where people lined the roads, trying to get a glimpse of her before the chaise disappeared behind the thick walls that surrounded the enormous castle.
The castle was even more imposing up close. Margot had to crane her neck to see the tops of the towers as the conveyance slowed and rolled to a stop. She sat up, her fingers curling tightly around the edges of the cushions on the bench.
The door suddenly swung open. Someone put a step there. Margot quickly tried to repair her hair—she must have looked a fright, especially since she’d had to come all this way without her ladies’ maid. Nell Grady was traveling behind with Margot’s many trunks.
The dark head of her husband appeared in the door. “Come,” he said simply, and held out his gloved hand to her.
It was only her desire to be out of that miserable coach that propelled Margot to step out of the chaise. She faltered only slightly, her legs feeling quite stiff after such a long journey. But she managed to right herself and paused to look around her.
“Welcome to Balhaire,” Mackenzie said.
Welcome to this? Margot was so overwhelmed by the sight of the bailey, she couldn’t speak. It was teeming with animals and people. Chickens hurried out of the way of horses, and dogs sniffed around the boots of the men who had come down from their mounts. She scarcely had time to take it all in before the main doors opened and a woman swept out with a shout. She was tall and slender and had a long braid of dark red hair. The woman didn’t look at Margot—she was speaking in the language of the Highlands to Mackenzie.
Whatever he said in return caused the woman to jerk a disdainful gaze to Margot.
“Miss Griselda Mackenzie. My cousin,” Arran said, sighing.
Margot curtsied. Griselda’s brows rose to almost the top of her head, and she folded her arms across her chest, her long fingers drumming on her arm as she studied Margot. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Margot said.
The woman pressed her lips together.
“I hope we might be friends,” Margot added as an afterthought.
It was clearly the wrong thing to say; the woman said something quickly and quite vehemently to Mackenzie, then twirled about and went inside.
Margot blinked at her departing back. “I don’t... Did she understand me? Does she speak English?”
“Aye,” Mackenzie said, his countenance stormy. “She speaks English quite well.”
That was the moment Margot was certain her situation could not possibly get any worse.
But then Mackenzie led her inside that looming castle.
It was dark and close, the corridors lit by candles stuck in old wall sconces. It smelled musty, as if it had never been aired. Moreover, Margot heard a moaning sound that made her blood run cold. It sounded as if someone was dying—until she realized it was the wind whistling down the ancient flues, creating drafts at every doorway.
She wearily followed Arran about those winding, dark corridors for what seemed several minutes before they emerged into what he proudly announced was the old great hall. There were several people milling about, making merry, all of them dressed in what looked like various layers of wool clothing, not a hint of silk or satin among them. None of them had donned wigs or dressed their hair. Worse, there were dogs. Not the small parlor dogs that Margot was accustomed to seeing in a house, the sort that might nestle in a lady’s lap—but big dogs. Big hunting dogs that wandered around the great hall as if they were quite at home here. Two of them even ventured forward to sniff at her clothing as Arran led her toward a raised platform on which sat a long wooden table.
He made his way to a pair of upholstered seats in the very middle of the table, facing the hall. He sat.
Margot stood uncertainly, wondering if a butler or footman would seat her. Arran glanced up at her, then looked meaningfully at the seat beside him.
She sat.
“Are you hungry?” he asked when she had seated herself on the very edge of the chair covered in a dingy fabric.
“A little.”
He lifted his hand, signaled to someone—there were so many people milling about, it was impossible to know—and a boy soon appeared and set two tankards of ale before them, his eyes as big as moons when he looked at Margot. She pitied him—he’d probably never seen a woman with hair properly powdered. And she, in turn, was staring wide-eyed at the tankard he’d set before her. “Will we not have wine?” she asked of no one in particular.
“Ale,” Arran said, and lifted his tankard and drank thirstily, as if he was sitting in a tavern with a group of men instead of at a table with his wife. She stared at him, appalled by his manners and the fact that she would be expected to drink like a sailor, but was interrupted by a woman who approached the table. She had graying hair and a swath of plaid that she wore draped over one shoulder. She held the end of it bunched in her hands.
“You’re the new Lady Mackenzie, aye?” she asked, and held up the bunched end of the plaid. “Fàilte!” She opened the plaid. Nestled in it was a small chick.
Margot didn’t understand if the woman meant to give her the chick or if she was simply mad—but she shrank back against her chair in horrified surprise. Arran said something to the woman, flicking his wrist at her, and the woman frowned, covered the chick and moved away.
“Who are these people?” Margot asked testily as a couple approached the dais and Arran waved them away, as well.
“My clan,” Arran said. The boy appeared again. He was carrying a bowl in each hand, and tucked under his arm were two spoons. The boy, who was not wearing gloves, placed the bowls before them, and then the spoons.
“They are your clan now, aye?” Arran said. He picked up his spoon and began to eat.
“Pardon?”
He paused to look at her. “These people are your clan now, Lady Mackenzie.”
She hadn’t really thought of it like that before now. She looked out at the people milling about, laughing and talking with each other, casting curious looks at her. She looked at the thick soup before her, the spoon the boy had carried tucked up against his side under his arm.
“Do you no’ care for the soup?” Arran asked.
The soup? She didn’t care for this place, these people! “I’m not hungry after all.” She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “I should like a bath now.”
“A bath,” he repeated slowly.
Good God, surely they bathed here! “Yes. A bath.” She looked at him pointedly.
Arran fit another spoonful of soup into his mouth and shrugged. He lifted his hand once more, and this time, an older man with a pate of thinning ginger hair appeared at his side. Arran consulted with the man about her bath...at length. It seemed a long stretch of minutes passed before the man walked away and Arran turned back to his meal. He took three quick bites in succession, wiped his mouth with the napkin and stood, his chair scraping loudly behind him. With a sigh, he held out his hand to her, palm up. “Aye, then. A bath for milady. I’ll bring you round to our chambers.”
“What do you mean, our chambers?”
“The master’s chambers,” he clarified.
She was beginning to feel ill. “I don’t understand. You haven’t private rooms for me?” she asked disbelievingly.
Arran looked so baffled that Margot’s belly began to roil. She could not—would not—share a room with this man. It was unheard of! It was egregious, a complete lack of decorum! She couldn’t imagine it, all that leather and wool and—
She swallowed, and her fingers curled into fists. “A great house generally has rooms for the master and the mistress,” she