When he reached his chambers, he opened the door and stepped inside. It was dark—he’d not sent the lad up to light the room. He stood a moment at the threshold, allowing his vision to adjust with the moonlight streaming in through the open window so that he might find a candle. He slowly became aware that something was different.

There was nothing on the floor.

The clothes and boots and hats and coats he’d left scattered about the room were gone. And there was a dark shadow draped across the back of a chair. He recognized the shimmering threads that seemed to move in the moonlight. Aye, that was the gown Margot had worn this evening. She’d taken his breath away, arriving in all her glory as she had, that swath of plaid across her breast. There was not a fairer woman in all the Highlands, and he’d been acutely and painfully aware that she was his.

He might have treated her more fairly. But her appearance had reminded him of a night long ago, when two Mackenzie chieftains had come to Balhaire to meet with him. Arran had ordered supper to be served in true Scotch hospitality. He’d informed his unhappy bride of her obligation to play the dutiful wife of a new Scottish baron.

Margot had attended in all her finery. She’d been a bonny vision, a jewel in this rugged, heather-strewn landscape. And then she’d proceeded to express her ennui. “Is that all you talk about, you Scots—seafaring and sheep?” she’d asked disdainfully.

“Aye, madam, when one or the other will provide for our people,” Brian Mackenzie had said.

Margot had rolled her eyes, propped her head on her hand and carried on as if she were a sulking child instead of a grown woman and a chieftain’s wife, as responsible for the welfare of their clan as he.

She had embarrassed him, and they’d quarreled about it afterward. Arran had accused her of sabotaging his friendships and affiliations. She’d claimed not to have understood the importance of the men who had come to dine, and blamed him for failing to inform her.

That night had ended as many of their nights had—with each of them retreating from the other.

In truth, Arran had expected the same of her tonight. He’d pushed her, had challenged her and had fully expected—even hoped—she would cry off and go scampering back to England and free him of his doubts. But Margot had kept her countenance serene, had done her best to be one of them. She’d danced, for God’s sake, something she’d steadfastly refused in the four months they’d lived as husband and wife.

He touched her gown now, felt the smooth texture of the silk, the raised bits of thread so artfully woven into the skirt. If her gown was here, where was she?