Wild Wicked Scot. Julia London

She shifted forward, standing close so that she could whisper. She laid her hand lightly on his arm, watched his gaze move to her hand, then to her bosom, and whispered, “I have need of a retiring room.”

      “Then you shall have one,” he said instantly.

      Margot smiled in the way she’d learned at the soirees and dinner parties, where she’d mastered the art of making time pass by testing all the silly things men would do for a mere smile. “Thank you for understanding.” She patted his arm, then slid her hand off it. She bobbed a bit of a curtsy. “I shan’t be long.” Unless he considered all night a long time.

      She moved to step around him, but Arran caught her arm once more. Not her hand, but her forearm, and his grip was tight. “No’ a retiring room as you might expect, having come from Norwood Park, but a closet that will suit. There is one in my chambers, you may recall, aye?”

      Oh, she remembered. Margot tried to tug her arm free, but he held tight. “I won’t trouble you.”

      “You already have,” he said curtly.

      She didn’t like the look in his eye. He looked a little as if he intended to carve her up, stuff an apple in her mouth and serve her up on a platter.

      “And I thought you bloody well missed me,” he said, his eyes going dark as he squeezed her arm.

      There was a time he might have intimidated her into utter silence with such a predatory look, but Margot had changed. She wasn’t the inexperienced debutante anymore, and she knew how to fight back. She tilted her head and gave him an even sultrier smile. “Oh, but I have, Arran. I’m afraid you’ve seen through me—the truth is that the journey has left me quite fatigued.” She glanced surreptitiously about—she could see how people near them strained to hear. So she rose up on her toes and whispered, “I want very much to please you, my lord, but I really must rest to be especially pleasing.”

      Arran’s gaze turned ferocious. It was full of lust and anger, and Margot’s pulse quickened with apprehension. He could kill her and no one here would say a word. No one in England would know for weeks, long after she’d turned to dust. He slid his arm around her waist and anchored her there, holding tight. “I think you misjudge your own strength, milady. Thank the saints that you’re a sturdy lass, aye? You’ll manage, I’ve no doubt.” He began to pull her through the hall, his grip on her unyielding.

      “This is hardly necessary,” she said, struggling to keep up with his stride. “Naturally I assumed you’d be concerned for my welfare. But never mind—if you desire that I accompany you, then of course I shall. You need only ask.”

      Arran stopped. He stepped away from her and bowed low. “My apologies, then,” he said. “By all means—I desire that you accompany me to my chambers. Now.” He gestured to the path in front of him, his jaw set, his eyes boring through hers. There was the hawk again, ready to swoop down and cart her off to be fed to his clan.

      Speaking of which... Margot glanced over her shoulder. Necks were craning. Ears were pointed like dogs’ ears to them. All eyes were locked on the laird and his wife. That was the way it had always been at Balhaire—a perpetual audience to her marriage.

      Margot sniffed. She nervously fingered a loose curl. She had no choice, really—she’d not have word going back to her father that she had been less than a dutiful wife on her first night at Balhaire. God only knew what he would do with her then.

      So she lifted her chin, smiled sweetly and began to walk along the path he’d indicated. Arran was right beside her, his hand possessively on the small of her back, the expanse of it covering her waist. She was reminded of other moments when his hands were on more exposed parts of her body, and her stomach began to turn little somersaults.

      “That’s a good lass,” Arran said into her ear, his voice trickling into her bloodstream. “Obedient and eager, just as a man’s wife ought to be.”

      Margot resisted the overwhelming urge to elbow him in the ribs and then run.

      They walked up the wide staircase that curled past paintings of Mackenzies, past historic armor that men liked to display for reasons that completely escaped her, past an array of swords fanned above the arched entrance to the hallway. Arran kept his hand on her as he steered her toward the two oak doors that led into the master’s chambers.

      Their arrival startled two boys in that long hallway who were replacing candles in the sconces.

      “Light the laird’s chamber!” Jock bellowed from behind them, startling Margot. She hadn’t even known he was there. The two lads scurried ahead, into Arran’s private rooms.

      When they reached the doors to the master’s chambers, Arran glanced over his shoulder and said to Jock, “We are no’ to be disturbed by anyone, aye? We’ve a bit of bad business to conduct.” He reached around Margot and gave the door a push, then pushed her through. He just as quickly ushered the young boys out, then closed the door and turned the lock.

      He slowly faced her and leaned against the closed doors, his head down, his gaze terrifyingly hard. Bad business. What did that mean, exactly? She had never thought him violent. Whatever he meant, she would likely die before he did anything—her heart was beating that wildly.

      “The chamber pot and a basin are just in there,” he said, nodding to a door at the far end of the room. “Avail yourself.”

      Margot glanced at the closet door warily and walked away from him and into the closet to collect herself.

      When she emerged, he was still standing at the door. He suddenly pushed away from it and strolled to the sideboard. He poured two goblets of wine and held one out, offering it to her. “For my wife, who has, remarkably, returned to me. To my bonny wife, who gave me no’ a word of apology, nor hope, nor explanation, who now claims to have missed me. Aye, what a day this has become.”

      His expression was so stormy that Margot felt herself begin to shake as she dried her hands. She had to be as convincing as she’d ever been in her life. “People have a change of heart all the time,” she said, and turned around to him. She took the wine he offered, drinking more than was polite in the hopes it would calm her nerves.

      Arran didn’t drink. His goblet dangled between two fingers as he watched her.

      Margot warily lowered her goblet.

      His gaze moved casually over her now, lingering on her bosom and her hem. But then he clenched his jaw and turned away, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her. “You’re as beautiful as ever, then. Boidheach,” he said low, and tossed back his wine in one long swallow.

      Margot wasn’t expecting that. Anger, indignation, indifference, yes, and any number of questions about why she’d left and why she’d come back. But not that she was beautiful. The sentiment made her feel ill. She was not beautiful—she was bad business. How could he think otherwise?

      “Aye, my bonny wife,” he said again, putting aside his goblet. “How often I’ve thought of her.”

      Margot’s cheeks flooded with shame. Was that true, or was he toying with her now? She wished he would rail at her, demand answers—but not tease her. “Surely you’ve not wasted your energy thinking of me,” she said.

      He snorted at that. “And why no’? Because you’ve wasted no time thinking of me?”

      That wasn’t true. It was far from true. She’d thought of him so often, trying to remember how, exactly, it had all gone wrong. But Margot couldn’t pretend with him now—she knew him well enough to know he was teetering on the edge of fury, and beyond that, who knew? She looked him directly in the eye and said, “Actually, Arran, I’ve thought of you often.”

      One dark brow arched above the other, as if that amused him. He began moving toward her, around her, behind her. “You’ve a peculiar way of showing it. Have you thought, then, of what I did to make you so unhappy? I have. But do you know what I wonder even more?”

      Margot tried not to show any emotion and tried