Arran did not answer her as Jock put the ale before them. Just behind him, a boy carried two plates for Arran and Margot. Their discussion—if one could call it that—was put aside for the sake of dining. They ate in silence. Arran was brooding.

Margot was ravenous. She realized how very little she’d eaten since she’d arrived at Balhaire. The haddock was delicious, cooked to perfection in a creamy broth, and surprisingly, the dark ale complemented it nicely. But the ale had the unfortunate effect of filling her belly to the point of bursting. Her stays began to dig into her ribs.

When they’d finished the meal, Arran signaled the musicians to play.

Margot leaned back, one hand lying across her ailing abdomen, stifling a small and undignified belch, when a young man came forward wearing a pair of plaid trews. He had curly hair like Arran’s and reminded Margot of a medieval troubadour. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he’d produced a lyre and begun to play.

He bowed low in a courtly fashion. “Laird Mackenzie, may I have your leave to ask Lady Mackenzie to stand up with me?” he asked in his lilting brogue.

“Oh.” Margot sat up, wincing a little at the discomfort of her gown. “No, thank you, sir—”

“You are quick to deny him, aye?” Arran said. “Does a Scotch dance displease you, wife?”

“Not at all. But I—”

“Oh, aye, I remember—you’re a poor dancer. Is that no’ what you said?”

Margot stared at him.

He shrugged. “Aye, I do remember a few things.”

Oh, this wretched man! “I only wish that I was more familiar with the Scotch style of dancing,” she said apologetically to the young man. “Would you not prefer a more adept partner?”

“Of course no’,” Arran answered for him. “For there is no bonnier partner than my wife, is that no’ so, lad?”

“It is indeed, laird.”

“Go on, then, Margot,” he said, gesturing to the hall. “You will always be a poor dancer if you donna at least try, aye?” He smiled wickedly at her.

Heaven help her, but she would have kicked him then and there if she hadn’t been so uncomfortable in her gown. Instead, she turned the full force of her smile she’d learned in English salons on that young man. “I would be delighted, sir. Thank you.” She stood up.

The young man’s face lit; he hurried forward to offer his hand. Margot cast her smile to Arran, whose eyes were shining with delight. “Donna hold back, Gavin. What my wife lacks in skill, she makes up tenfold with jolly enthusiasm.”

If looks could kill, Arran would be lying in a pool of blood right now. But Margot laughed gaily. “You might want to consider removing all the knives from the table before I return, my lord.”