For the moment, her husband remained slouched in his chair, his powerful legs sprawled before him, one hand firmly gripping his cup of ale, the other dangling lazily from the arm of his chair. His intent gaze made fear curl around her spine—he reminded her of the hawks he was so fond of training. She could feel his contempt rolling off him and covering her.

Margot did her best to put some stew in her belly. She was truly famished—but the nerves in her were building, making it difficult to swallow, making the food sit sourly in her belly. She could only guess what was coming, how incomprehensibly convincing she had to be now. She had begged and cajoled her father that this scheme would never work, that Arran would never believe she had missed him and wanted to reunite. How could she want something like that after three years without a word? How could he? And besides, the man had an uncanny way of seeing right through her.

But her father had taken her hands in his and said, “My darling girl, a man can be convinced of anything if his wife is as pleasing as she ought to be. Do you take my meaning?”

She took his meaning, all right. Lord Norwood thought he could order her to return to her husband and her husband would overlook his wounded pride and welcome her with open arms. He thought that Margot would politely inquire if it were true that Arran colluded with the French and the Jacobites and intended to give them entry into Scotland through Balhaire. And that Arran would happily tell her if it were true that he and his highly regarded Highland soldiers would join the French troops and invade England to remove Queen Anne from the throne and put James Stuart on it.

Her father apparently believed this so completely and thought it so important that he clearly felt himself justified in threatening Margot to do what she did not want to do once again. She had tried to convey to her father how irretrievably broken-down was her marriage to Mackenzie, how he must despise her now, how she had despised him. Not that she believed for a moment that he was involved in treason, for God’s sake, but she was in no position to ascertain the truth.

Her father would hear none of it.

This was ridiculous. If, by some small chance, Arran was involved in something so deplorable and indefensible, he would hide any evidence of it. He’d not amassed power and wealth with loose lips and carelessness. He certainly would not talk freely of it to her, especially not when he reviled her so. He would hold her at arm’s length no matter what he thought of her. Women existed to be bedded and impregnated. They were not included in important discussions. They were told what to do; they were not allowed to choose.