“You could have robbed me anytime while we’ve been sitting talking. I knew from the moment you spoke to me—I sensed I could trust you.”

“Well, trust me on this, too. We need to get you safe home, and double-quick before your parents think you’ve been abducted or worse by some ne’er-do-well. Am I right?”

Though Margaret’s heart sank, she could not argue with him. “Mama will be furious with me, and as for Papa—oh God, I can’t begin to imagine what my father will say.”

“He’ll be too relieved to have you back safe to be angry with you.”

“You don’t understand. He has always thought me utterly selfish and rather pointless. This betrothal is the only worthwhile thing I have ever done in his eyes. He’ll never forgive me.”

“I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think, but any road there’s no point procrastinating. Chin up, Miss Scott! Courage, lass.”

His kind, heartfelt words stiffened her resolve. Margaret was struggling resolutely to her feet when Fraser Scott grabbed her arm roughly. “Run!” he hissed.

“I don’t understand. . . .”

“Run as if your life depends on it, miss,” he urged, looking over her shoulder in alarm and grabbing a club that had been concealed behind his trolley. “Harm a hair on that lassie’s head and so help me . . .” he roared.

In a blind panic Margaret picked up her skirts and prepared to flee.

“Not so fast,” a male voice rasped in her ear as a pair of powerful arms enveloped her.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

DONALD CAMERON OF LOCHIEL RETAINED his firm hold on Lady Margaret’s arm as they proceeded past Charing Cross and on to Whitehall, determined not to let her escape his clutches again. The shock of seeing her, her damp hair straggling down her back, her face streaked with mud, her gown torn and filthy, and in such dubious company, too, had made him leap to the worst of conclusions. In the confusion which followed before Lady Margaret recognised him, she had kicked him on the shin and her companion had rapped his other leg with his club. She had been quite unrepentant about both, informing him pointedly that the only person who had assaulted her was him.

Reluctantly accepting his evening cloak, she had lapsed into silence as they walked, while he did his best to keep her in the shadows, as hidden as possible from curious passers-by. “What on earth were you thinking,” Donald demanded, “running off into the night like that?”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“No, you most certainly were not. Good heavens, Lady Margaret, for a young woman of your station to merely venture out alone in daylight would be enough to set tongues wagging. To run off as you did, into the deserted docks in the middle of the night—you do realise your reputation would be in tatters if that became common knowledge?”