An unexpected surge of pain shot through him. He thought of that day, of watching that chaise roll away from Balhaire, and how he’d felt a small part of him harden and die. The assumption that he should forgive her for having left him, or that she could demand it of him, rankled. He slowly rose to his feet and walked to where she stood. He slid his hand to the side of her neck and held her firmly so that she could not look away. “No one commands me, madam,” he said low. “Least of all you. I donna have to forgive you. I donna have to keep you. So mind your fool tongue before I throw you out on your arse, aye?”

Once again, he expected her to flee—in tears, naturally—but Margot merely tilted her head to one side and said, “Is there more? Or is that all you have to say?”

“Woman, donna push me. You’ll take your leave now,” he growled, and let go of her neck before he did something foolish...like kiss her as he was suddenly burning to do. “I am but a wee moment from tossing you,” he warned her.

She smiled. But she turned to the door. “I’ll see that your bath is made ready,” she said, and yanked open the door, then walked through without shutting it behind her or looking back.

Arran watched her go, the confident sway of her hips, her regal bearing. Damn her.

* * *

ARRAN EMERGED FROM his dressing room sometime later, with letters and bills of lading to attend. But he halted in his bedchamber, confused to find that a small table had been moved to the windows, which had been opened to a cool evening breeze.

“What is this?” he asked Fergus, who was lighting the candles in a silver candelabra.

“Lady Mackenzie,” Fergus said simply, frowning. He poured wine into a crystal goblet.

Arran had forgotten the crystal goblets even existed. He’d brought them from Antwerp a year or so ago and had them put in the stores. Now he groaned at the sight of them. “I said I would dine alone. I donna want a fancy table in my chamber, aye? Does no one heed me?”

Fergus paused in his task and looked up. “The lady...insisted,” he said, searching for the appropriate word.

“Diah,” Arran muttered, and accepted the goblet from Fergus. “All right, then, you’ve made me king. Now go on about your business and, for the love of Scotland, leave me be, aye?”

Fergus quit the room without another word.

Arran finished his meal as he tried to look over documents that desperately needed his attention. But it was hopeless—he could not rid his mind of the meeting he’d had today, of the accusations against him.