“—and he will make doubly sure Arran is arrested so no blame falls on his fair head, aye? And if, by some miracle, Arran might escape England, he could very well be murdered as he sleeps at Balhaire for all that they say of him now. The Highlanders call him traitor, too.”

Margot stared at Griselda, her thoughts churning, her heart sinking. “You’re wrong,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re hysterical—”

“And you are bloody naive, Margot. Arran is suddenly the most wanted man in England and Scotland, and you! You fret over what you will wear and if we can be friends! You donna know anything.”

Margot felt sick. She couldn’t move. She could only stare at Griselda as the truth began to seep into her brain.

Griselda’s shoulders sagged. “Come on, then,” she said, her voice gone dull. She brushed past Margot to collect the food. “I must teach you to mount a horse by yourself. We’ll save the shooting for the morrow.”

The sun was sliding toward the west when Griselda and Margot returned to Balhaire. Margot could scarcely walk, but she somehow managed to march through the bailey and into the foyer. “Where is the laird?” she asked Fergus.

“His study, milady,” Fergus said, his gaze and tone cool.

Margot determinedly made her way to Arran’s study.

She knocked once, twice on the door, heard his muffled voice and entered the room.

Arran immediately stood up. His gaze raked over her, a frown forming in his brow as he took in her trews, her boots and coat.

“Is it true?” Margot demanded.

“What?”

“Do you honestly believe you will be arrested? That my father would turn on you, and by doing so, turn on me? Is it true you could be murdered in your sleep here at Balhaire?”

Arran sighed and rubbed his eye. “Zelda’s nattering, is she?” He settled one hip against his desk, folding his arms across his chest.

“Is it true?” Margot asked again, her voice now weakened with her despair.

“I donna know. Possibly.” He shrugged. “Probably. I am the name on everyone’s lips, aye? I need to put Tom Dunn’s name there, and I hope to God your father will help me. But it may verra well be too late.”

The weight of his admission collapsed Margot. She staggered a step forward and fell into a chair. She could not imagine that her father would be involved in something as horrible as this. “You’re wrong, Arran. You’re all wrong. My father will protect you, of course he will. You are my husband! How could he possibly do less?”

Arran smiled, and she bristled at how patronizing his smile seemed to be. As if he thought she was a precocious child insisting that faeries were real.