Wild Wicked Scot. Julia London

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

      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