“You really must go,” Margot interrupted. She paused a moment to catch her breath, still fuming from his slight of the Mackenzies.

Sir Worthing looked her over, as a father might when considering a small child’s request. And then he patronizingly agreed. “Very well, madam. If that is truly your desire.”

Margot’s heart began to race with indignation. She was a grown woman, the lady of Balhaire—did he think he could condescend to her in that way? “Whether it is truly my desire or a moment’s desire has no bearing, sir. I am the lady of Balhaire, and I have asked you to leave.”

He bowed his head in acquiescence.

“Thank you.” She shifted, intending to step around him and walk away, but Sir Worthing suddenly clamped his hand down on her arm to stop her and held it in a tight grip.

“I beg your—”

“We will go, Lady Mackenzie. For now,” he said coldly. “But I must impress on you how important it is that you send some word to your father, posthaste.”

“I know,” she said, and tried to remove her arm from his grip.

“Do you?” he asked icily, squeezing harder. “Do you desire to see your father swinging from a gibbet?”

Margot gasped. “No! How dare you—”

“If you think this is some sort of parlor game, allow me to be quite clear—if you fail to do what you’ve been sent here to do, the blood of your father will be on your hands, and believe me, there will be no harbor safe enough for you. Not here. Not in England. You’ll have no place to go, madam, so you’d best do as he has bid you.”

He was not only clear, he was also terrifying her. What had her father done that would warrant his hanging? She tried again to jerk her arm free of his grip, but he held tightly. “Do you understand me?”

“Quite,” she said sharply. “And do you in turn understand that my father will hear of this?”

A cold smile turned up the corners of his mouth, and he chuckled darkly. “You are a child,” he sneered. “I knew the moment you fled your marriage that your mettle was as weak as a dandelion.”

Stunned, Margot could only gape at him.

“Take your hand from my wife, lad, or I’ll take your hand from you.”

A flood of relief swept through Margot at the sound of Arran’s deep voice. Sir Worthing let go of her arm, and she stumbled back into Arran’s chest. His hand settled possessively on her waist.

“Sir Worthing was just informing me that he and Mr. Pepper will take their leave of Balhaire,” she said breathlessly.

Arran glared at Sir Worthing, who now looked ridiculous to Margot in his foppish wig and lace cuffs next to her husband. “Today,” she added. “Straightaway. It’s quite a long journey to England.”