Margot had made it halfway through the hall before Arran finally deigned to come out of his blasted seat. He stepped out from behind the table. He had dressed for the occasion, too, wearing a plaid that hung to his knees above his stockings and brogues. He wore the plaid with a waistcoat and coat, and an inky black neck cloth at the collar. One curl of hair fell disobediently across his brow. He did indeed cut a fine figure, yet as much as Margot admired him, a sickly little thought flitted through her brain. Was that not the dress of the Jacobites?

Arran casually strolled down from the dais as if he had nowhere to be. When he reached her, he folded one arm behind his back and bowed over the other one. “Lady Mackenzie,” he said. “Welcome.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She slipped her hand into his and sank into a curtsy.

“How bonny you are tonight,” he said, his gaze on the swath of plaid she wore as he lifted her up. “It appears as if you’ve made amends with Mr. Creedy.”

“He was very kind. Do you like it?”

“That I do,” he said, taking her in. “Verra much. Will you join me on the dais?” He was awfully formal with her this evening.

Margot allowed him to escort her up to the dais and hand her into a chair next to his.

“Shall I have the lad fetch you an ale?” he asked as he resumed his seat, gesturing to one of the young men who served the main table.

“Wine, if you please.”

Arran arched a dubious brow.

“You do have wine, do you not?”

“Aye, we’ve wine. Of course we’ve wine,” he said impatiently. “But the Mackenzies prefer ale. Perhaps you might like to sample the batch Jock has brewed. He’s quite proud.”

So she had to prove herself to him even in what she drank, it would seem. Margot kept her countenance pleasant as she drew a calming breath. “I’d like nothing better than to sample Jock’s ale! I’ve no doubt it’s astonishingly good and, I hope, free of poison.”

Arran smiled. “Alas, I canna promise you that. Jock! Lady Mackenzie has expressed a rather keen desire for your ale.”

Jock gave Margot a disbelieving look.

“Please,” she said, and put her hand on Arran’s. “My husband’s praise is hard earned, and he has sung it long and loud for your ale, sir. I simply must try it myself.” She said it as brightly and as convincingly as possible. Which wasn’t very brightly or convincingly at all.

Jock bowed curtly, straightened curtly and walked away curtly. Margot shifted her gaze to her husband. “Happy?”

“No,” he said easily. “But a wee bit mollified,” he added, his gaze full of amusement. “Jock is even more distrusting than I.”