Page 97 of Wild Wicked Scot

Arran stabled the horse before it was completely dark, brushed him and fed him oats, which, thank God and Griselda, there seemed to be quite a lot of in two large urns. When he was satisfied his horse could rest for the night, he grabbed the food Mackenzie had given them and returned to the lodge.

Margot was still asleep on the settee when he returned. He built a fire in the great room, then went into the kitchen and built another. With that fire burning, Arran went in search of a bucket. He found one and took it out the back door to the well. After a few strong-armed pumps to force the rusted lever, he filled the bucket, returned it to the kitchen and put it over the fire to heat. It was the best he could do for bathing.

When he had water warm enough for his wife to wash, Arran returned to Margot’s side. She was curled on the settee, one arm bent to pillow her head. He nudged her with his hand.

“No,” she murmured.

“I’ve hot water if you’d like to bathe.”

She slowly opened her eyes and turned her head. “Truly?”

Arran caressed her arm. “I’d no’ tease you about something so important, would I?”

She slowly pushed herself up. “For your sake, I hope not.”

He chuckled low and helped her to her feet. Then, with an arm around her waist, he led her to the kitchen. Margot peeled off a layer of filthy clothes, down to a filthier chemise, and plunged her hands into the water. She sighed with contentment, then bent over it and began to scrub her face.

Arran found a cloth for her and watched in mute fascination as she scrubbed herself clean with the hot water. When she had finished and had wrung her auburn hair as dry as she might, she said, “I haven’t anything to wear.”

“I’ll have a look about, aye?” He handed her a plaid that she wrapped tightly around herself.

He found some buckskins, a moth-eaten woolen coat, a yellowed lawn shirt and a plain brown skirt, the sort a crofter might wear. He returned with his finds to the kitchen. Margot was in a chair near the fire, her knees up under her chin, her hair long and tangled.

She looked at the clothes with blank eyes. “Why are we here? And for how long?” she asked. “And why did your men go another way?”

He laid the clothes on the table. “Someone is looking for me yet. It wasna safe to return to Balhaire.”

Her brows sank into a dark frown. “Scotsmen? Or English?”

“Scotsmen. Probably English, too, then.”

“What are we to do?” she asked softly.

“I donna know,” he responded truthfully. He was too weary to think clearly. “For now, we hide.”

“Without food or clothing?”

He shrugged. “We’ll manage, we will.” He didn’t say that he feared it would be a very long time before they could leave here. That they would have to manage or starve.

She turned her gaze back to the fire. “Are we safe here?”

“Aye, for the time being.”

“But not forever.” She glanced back at him. “We can’t run forever, can we?”

It was not a question, really, but a remark. Arran couldn’t offer her the reassurances she wanted, and he didn’t want to try.

He turned away from her and used the water to bathe himself as best he could. He had close to a full beard now. His hair had come out of its queue at some point. He wet his hair and pushed it behind his ears. When he was done, he pulled on one of the lawn shirts and the buckskins and joined a contemplative Margot at the fire.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“That you haven’t said you were right,” she said, and rested her chin on her knees.

“About what?”

“About my father. You haven’t reminded me that you didn’t trust him all along. Or that I so foolishly did.”

“I didna think you needed reminding,leannan. You discovered it on your own, aye?”