Wild Wicked Scot. Julia London
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.”
“I know,” she said, wincing a bit. “And for that, I do apologize.”
He waited for more. An explanation. A begging of his forgiveness. But that was all she would say, apparently, as she was looking around him now, to the dais. “Oh, how lovely,” she said. “You have indeed added something new.”
He squinted over his shoulder. The dais was the only thing left of the original great hall besides the floors and the walls. It was a raised platform where the chieftain and his advisers had taken their meals over the years. The use of it was not so formal now, but still, Arran liked it—it gave him a view of the entire hall.
It took him a moment to realize she was admiring the carved table and upholstered chairs he’d acquired on a recent trade voyage, as well as the two silver candelabras that graced the head table. He’d taken those in payment from a man who was down on his luck and had needed some horses for a desperate run from authorities.
“It’s French, isn’t it?” she asked. “It looks very French.”
Was what French? And what did it matter at this moment, given the great occasion that was unfurling before them? Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie of Balhaire were standing in the same room, and no knives had been drawn! Call the heralds! Trumpet the news! What the devil was his wife doing here after three years of silence, nattering on about his dining table? Why was she here without warning, without a word, particularly having left him in the manner she had?
Her audacity made him feel unstably angry; his heart was pounding uncomfortably in his chest. “I was no’ expecting you, and I’d like to know what has brought you to Balhaire, madam.”
“Aye!” someone said at the back of the hall.
“Goodness, I do beg your pardon.” She instantly sank into a very deep curtsy. “I was so taken by familiar surroundings that I failed to announce that I’ve come home.” She smiled beatifically and held out her hand for him to help her up.
“Home?” He snorted at the absurdity.
“Yes. Home. You are my husband. Therefore, this is my home.” She wiggled her fingers at him as if he’d forgotten her hand was extended to him.
Oh, he was aware of that hand, and more important, that smile, because it burned in Arran’s chest. It ended in a pair of dimples, and her luminescent green eyes sparkled with the low light of the hall. He could see the wisps of her auburn hair peeking out beneath the hood of her cloak, dark curls against her smooth, pale skin.
She kept smiling, kept her hand outstretched. “Will you not come and greet me?”
Arran hesitated. He was still dressed in his muddied riding clothes, his coat had gone missing from his body, his collar was open to his bare chest, and his long hair was tamed by only his fingers and harnessed in a rough queue down his back. Nor had he shaved in several days, and he no doubt reeked a bit. But he reached for her hand and took it in his.
Such fine, delicate bones. He closed his calloused fingers around her fingers and yanked her to her feet with enough force that she was forced to hop forward. Now she stood so close that she had to tilt her head back on that swan-like neck to look him in the eye.
He glared at her, trying to understand.
She arched a single dark brow. “Welcome me home, my lord,” she said, and then, with a smile that flashed as wicked as the diabhal himself, she surprised him—shocked him, really—by rising up on her toes, wrapping an arm around his neck and tugging his head down to hers to kiss him.
Bloody hell, Margot kissed him. That was as surprising as her sudden appearance. And it was not a chaste kiss, either, which was the only sort of kiss he’d known from his young bride, timid and prudish, who’d left him three years ago. This was a full-bodied kiss, one that bore the markings of maturity,