Margot and her attire as she was with the changes in this room. He could see them all studying her, could see women glance down at their best gowns and could imagine them finding the garments wanting. Was that not the way it should be? Should not the lady of the house be dressed in the finest? Nevertheless, he was proud of his people, too—they’d all dressed for the occasion. Plaids were cleaned and pressed, and the ladies’ gowns a sea of color.
But none of them had styled their hair as Margot had. None of them wore jewels glittering at their throats. None of them had seed pearls embroidered into their stomachers.
Margot’s grip of his arm tightened. “They’re wearing the plaid,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“But...” She glanced up at iron candle rings above the hall.
“The candles are beeswax,” he bragged.
Her gaze moved to the tartan draperies he’d ordered hung over the windows so her view was not that of the bailey. He’d even had the dogs taken down to the kitchens tonight so they’d not be underfoot for the dancing.
“Come,” Arran said. He had to tug her a little, but Margot came with him across the great hall. She smiled at the Mackenzies and politely thanked them for attending. When they reached the dais, Arran seated her in an upholstered chair and motioned Fergus to come forward. “Champagne for milady,” he said. “Whisky for me.” Then he sat beside her, took her hand in his and asked warmly, “What do you think, then, wife? Here is your society,” he said proudly, sweeping his arm to the many souls gathered in the hall.
“My society?”
“Aye. It’s what you’ve wanted, it is no’? Society.”
She looked at him as if he were speaking Gaelic. “Yes, but...where are your neighbors?”
“My neighbors?” He laughed. “These are my neighbors.”
She seemed oddly disappointed by that. But she smiled again when Fergus served her champagne in a crystal flute, and asked excitedly, “When will the dancing begin?”
“Now.” He signaled the musicians, and they began with a familiar jig.
Griselda, he noticed, was the first one to stand up with her current suitor.
“Would you like—”
“No, no...let them begin. We’ll dance the next set, shall we?” She smiled and sipped her champagne.
The floor was quickly full of dancers, and they began in earnest, kicking up their heels in true Scots fashion, the voices around them rising with the gaiety of the occasion. They’d gone down the line once, and Arran looked to Margot to see her enjoyment.
But Margot didn’t look as if she was enjoying it at all. She looked dismayed. “What is wrong?” he asked.
She turned her gaze to him, and he was surprised by the terror in her eyes. “Nell and I practiced all week.”
Arran laughed. “You donna need a lot of practice for this,” he said, and stood up. “Lady Mackenzie, will you dance with me, then?”
“No,” she said immediately. “No, I can’t.”
“Margot—”
“Please don’t ask me again, Arran. I won’t dance.”
She stood up and hurried off the dais, disappearing into the crowd.
Arran slowly resumed his seat, bewildered. What had just happened?
It was a quarter of an hour before she came back, coming up the dais steps as if she were trudging to her doom. She took her seat and stared straight ahead, her hands curled tightly on the arms.
All around them, Mackenzies were dancing and shouting in their tongue, drinking ale—they did not seem to care for the champagne he’d had brought in from England for a dear price—and calling up to the laird and lady their felicitations on their marriage. Margot said nothing. She did not smile, did not nod, did nothing to acknowledge them.
Arran grew angry with her. He didn’t understand her sullen behavior, her refusal to dance when she’d seemed so excited by the prospect. When he could bear it no more, he stood up and walked off the dais, and asked a lass to dance with him.
He didn’t know how many sets he spun through, but he drank and laughed and enjoyed himself. He would not sit on the dais with his sullen bride.
When he at last looked to the dais, he was not surprised to see she’d gone.
Fueled by whisky and humiliation, he went in search of her. He found her in her bed. Margot’s beautiful dress was lying in a heap on the floor, and the pieces of hair she’d used to arrange her coif were thrown onto her dressing table. He sent the maid scurrying.
“What is the matter with you, then?” he demanded.
She sat up and stared at him. “Is it not obvious?”
“Obvious?” he exclaimed hotly. “There is no’ a bloody thing obvious about you, Margot. I gave a ball for you, and here you are, crying into your pillow like a child!”
“I’m not crying into my pillow. I am plotting my escape!”
“You want to escape?” He threw open the door and gestured to it. “Go. Escape.” When she did not move, he slammed the door shut and heard the sound of it reverberating down the stairs.
“You canna imagine the effort it has taken to give you this ball—”
“That wasn’t a ball!” she cried, and suddenly swung out of the bed, stalking to her vanity. “That was just another night in your great hall!”
“Diah, but you are a petulant child, are you no’? Those people came to celebrate your marriage, and what do you do, then? You sulk and mope and then flee like a rabbit instead of welcoming them as you ought as lady of this house and clan!”
She slammed down the hairbrush she’d just picked up. “I tried to greet them, but they speak in that awful language! Not one of them wore a ball gown or a proper evening coat. It was all plaid! They wouldn’t drink the champagne, and dear God, the dancing!” she exclaimed, shaking her hands to the ceiling.
“You wanted dancing!”
“Not that sort of dancing! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“You hate it all, is that it?”
She gasped and looked at him. “No, that’s not—I never said that.”
“You didna say it, Margot, but it is in your every move, your every glance, your every look! You are—”
He caught himself. He ran both hands over his head and sighed.
“What? What am I?” she demanded, folding her arms tightly. Defensively.
“Bloody impossible, aye?”
“So are you. And this
