Sweeney hurried forward. “She’s b-b-b-back,” he breathlessly managed to get out.

Arran frowned, confused. “Pardon?”

“The L-L-L...” Sweeney’s lips and tongue seemed to stick together. He swallowed and tried to expel the word.

“Take a breath, lad,” Arran said, coming to his feet. “Steady now. Who has come?”

“L-L-L-Lady M-M-Mackenzie,” he managed.

That name seemed to drift up between Arran and Sweeney. Did Arran imagine it, or did everything in the hall suddenly go still? There was surely some mistake—he exchanged a look with Jock, who looked as mystified as Arran.

He turned to Sweeney again and said calmly, “Another breath, man. You’re mistaken—”

“He is not mistaken.”

Arran’s head snapped up at the sound of that familiar, crisply English, feminine voice. He squinted to the back of the hall, but the torches were smoking and cast shadows. He couldn’t make out anyone in particular—but the collective gasp of alarm that rose up from the two dozen or so souls gathered verified it for him: his wench of a wife had returned to Balhaire. After an absence of more than three years, she had inexplicably returned.

This undoubtedly would be viewed as a great occasion by half of his clan, a calamity by the other half. Arran himself could think of only three possible reasons his wife might be standing here now: one, her father had died and she had no place to go but to her lawful husband. Two, she’d run out of Arran’s money. Or three...she wanted to divorce him.

He dismissed the death of her father as a reason. If the man had died, he would have heard about it—he had a man in England to keep a close eye on his faithless wife.

The crowd parted as the auburn-haired beauty glided into the hall like a sleek galleon, two Englishmen dressed in fine woolen coats and powdered wigs trailing behind her.

She could not possibly have run out of money. He was quite generous with her. To a fault, Jock said. Perhaps that was true, but Arran would not have it said that he did not provide for his wife.

His wife’s grand entrance was suddenly halted by one of Arran’s old hunting dogs whose sight had nearly gone. Roy chose that moment to amble across the cleared path and plop himself down, his head between his paws on the cool stone floor, oblivious to the activity of humans around him. He sighed loudly, preparing to take his nap.

His wife daintily lifted her cloak and stepped over the beast. Her two escorts walked around the dog.