She glanced behind her and stepped into the dimly lit dressing room. She was aware of Arran’s things hanging around her, heavy with his scent. Scuffed boots on the floor. Plaids and coats, buckskins and lawn shirts hung from hooks and in a wardrobe standing open.

Margot’s fingers trailed against his things as she moved through to his small, private study that adjoined the dressing room, and slowly, carefully turned the door latch. She held her breath, opened the door a fraction and peeked in. She was almost expecting to see him sitting there, his head bent over a ledger, his quill moving quickly across the columns. But the room was empty and the hearth so cold that the acrid smell of old smoke lingered. The only light came through a pair of windows that looked out to the hills.

Margot stepped in and left the door open so that she might hear if someone entered the master bedchamber. Frankly, it would have been a miracle if she heard anything at all—the sound of her wildly beating heart filled her ears.

Voices in the hallway caused her heart to stop beating altogether for a moment, and she jerked her gaze over her shoulder, holding perfectly still, straining to listen. The voices passed by—servants, by the sound of it. She glanced up at the mantel clock—it was a quarter past five o’clock. Nell would come in soon to help her dress for dinner. And God knew what Balhaire servant would pop in to ready things for the return of Arran.

If she was going to look, she had very little time. Margot hurried to his desk and quickly opened two drawers. Nothing. There were only a few items on his desk—the estate ledger and some correspondence that had come from one of the clansmen. She was feeling anxious now and started to leave the room, but noticed a small cabinet set apart from the desk and up against the wall. She leaned over and pulled on the door. It was locked. Margot squatted down beside the door and pulled again, just to be sure. Yes, the door was locked, and her heart began to beat mercilessly against her chest.

She stood up and looked wildly about for something to pry open the door, but seeing nothing immediately, she remembered the knives in the bedchamber. She swore under her breath, raced across the room to his chest of drawers, retrieved one of the knives and ran back again. She slid the tip of the knife in at the lock and tried to jiggle it open, using both hands to hold the knife and steadying the cabinet with her knee.

She thought she could feel the doors begin to give when she suddenly heard a ruckus in the corridor.

“Water to bathe, Fergus! I’ve the dust of the road in my throat and in my ears.”