Margot whirled away from them and marched after Sweeney. She might have seized the moment...but Margot guessed these men would probably have a jolly laugh about her in the days to come. They’d tell their children about the time the laird’s wife came back from England and he sent her home straightaway. Ballads would be written about this monumental occasion and the story would grow...but not before she had a word with the man who didn’t have the courage to banish her himself.

Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

THERE WAS AN art to training men for hand-to-hand fighting. It required a balance between distracting one’s opponent and a relentless assault on their defenses. Arran rode slowly around the field, calling out suggestions and warnings, corrections and encouragement as he watched the men go through their paces.

His more experienced men were engaged when he noticed that several of them had stopped fighting and were looking in the direction of Balhaire.

Arran glanced over his shoulder to see what had their attention, half expecting an invading English army. Or a funeral procession. Or a comet. What he did not expect to see was his wife riding astride a bay as if running from a fire. Her gown was hiked up around her knees, and her slippers were in the stirrups. Her hair had come partly undone from her coif, and she had no hat. He recalled that she was not a particularly experienced rider and wondered who had given her this horse.

Arran wheeled his much larger horse around. Son of a devil, what was she doing here? And why the bloody hell had someone not intercepted her?

She reined to an unsteady halt, slipping to one side but somehow managing to keep her saddle. “There you are!” she said with breathless cheerfulness.

“What are you doing here? This is no’ a place for a woman.” For an English buttercup, he meant, as any woman from the Highlands would be quite at ease with a bit of brawling.

“And why not?” Margot asked, leaning over to stroke the horse’s neck. “It’s grown men, punching each other. Nothing untoward in that, is there?”

She said it as if she rather enjoyed a good fight, which he knew could not be further from the truth. Arran looked past her to Balhaire. He expected to see Jock riding after her to corral her like a stray ewe. But no one was coming. Where were his men?

“Splendid day for it, too,” she continued breezily. “A day so splendid that one might expect a man to accompany his wife on a picnic.” She arched a brow.

“A picnic,” he repeated slowly. He was fairly certain that was the first time in his life he’d ever uttered that word aloud.