Wild Wicked Scot. Julia London

was not Montclare. “Oh, bother,” Lynetta muttered.

      It was not even one of the many men who often came up to Norwood Park from London to conduct business with Margot’s father and brothers. Frankly, the men who had walked through the front doors and onto the marble tile of the foyer were unlike any men Margot had ever seen.

      “Goodness,” Lynetta murmured beside her.

      Goodness, indeed. There were five altogether, all of them tall and broad-shouldered and quite muscular, their natural hair tied in long queues. Except for the man in front of them all—his dark hair was a wild tangle of curls around his head, as if he hadn’t bothered at all to dress it. Their coats, splattered with mud, were long and split up the back for riding. Their breeches and waistcoats were not silk or brocade, but rough wool. They wore boots that were scuffed and worn at the heels.

      “Who are they?” Lynetta whispered. “Are they Gypsies?”

      “Highwaymen,” Margot murmured, and Lynetta giggled a bit too loudly.

      At the sound of Lynetta’s laugh, the man in front instantly lifted his head, almost like a beast sniffing the wind. His eyes locked on Margot. Her breath caught; even from this distance she could see that his gaze was ice blue and piercing. He held her gaze as he methodically removed his riding gloves. She thought she ought to look away, but she couldn’t. A shiver slipped down her spine; she had the terrible thought that those eyes could see right into her soul.

      Someone spoke, and the five men began to move forward. But just before the man in front disappeared under the balcony and from view completely, he looked up at Margot once more, his gaze frighteningly intelligent and potent.

      Another shiver ran down her spine.

      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