“Something like that. I always thought you’d come to assure yourself of my welfare instead of sending Dermid as you did.”

“You thought I’d come all the way to England, chasing after you like a fox after a hen?”

“Chase is a strong word. I rather prefer visit.”

“I didna receive an invitation to visit, aye?”

“You never needed an invitation! You’re my husband! You might have come to me whenever you liked. Didn’t you always before?” she asked with a salacious look. “Didn’t you miss me, Arran? Perhaps only a little?”

“I’ve missed you in my bed,” he said, holding her gaze. “It’s been a damn long time.”

Color crept into Margot’s cheeks again, but she steadily held his gaze. “Has it really been so long?”

His gaze drifted to her mouth. An eternity. He sat up, leaning in. “A verra long time, lass. It’s been three years, three months and a handful of days.”

Margot’s smile faded. Her lips parted slightly and her lashes fluttered as she looked at him with surprise.

“Aye, leannan, I know how long I’ve been free of the burden of you. Does that surprise you?”

Something in her eyes dimmed. “A little,” she admitted softly.

Arran smiled wolfishly. His pulse was thrumming now, beating the familiar rhythm of want. He pushed hair from her temple and said, “Pity that I donna care to reacquaint.”

There it was again, a flicker of some emotion in her eyes. Had he struck a blow? He didn’t care if he had—it would never equal the blow she’d struck him.

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Balhaire, the Scottish Highlands
1706

BATTERED AND BRUISED, tossed about the inside of a chaise for days upon days now, making an arduous journey north, Margot was utterly exhausted. But at last they had arrived at the place she was to call home.

She could not have been more despondent.

Balhaire was a dark, bleak castle that rose up out of the ground and was shrouded in mist, just like the hills around it. It was a tremendous structure erected in some long-ago time, anchored by two towers and surrounded by a castle wall. Outside the wall there was a small village of humble thatch-roofed cottages with smoke curling up from the chimneys to a leaden sky.

As the chaise slowed, Margot could hear dogs barking, children shouting. She heard the driver cursing a cow that would not move from the road. The coach slowed to a stop, then jerked forward again.

She moved across to see out the other coach window and saw people coming out of their cottages, lining the road, calling up to Mackenzie, who rode somewhere in front of the chaise. She heard his response, too—one word or two, all in a language she did not know.

Margot shrank back from the window. This place frightened her.