“All right, you don’t believe me. But I am certain of it,” Margot snapped. “I have done an awful thing, coming here as I did under false pretense. But that doesn’t mean my family is corrupt. It means only that my father is frightened.”

He didn’t speak.

She came to her feet. “Everyone around you is so convinced of it, aren’t they? But perhaps they forget that when something so horrible is said of you, it is also said of me. And I am the earl of Norwood’s daughter! I know my father, and he will not stand for such slander. He will protect us with all that he has.”

Arran steadily held her gaze.

“You’ll see soon enough,” she said, and stalked angrily from his study to her own rooms.

Margot wished she felt as confident as she presented herself to Arran. She believed what she said...but nonetheless, the next morning, she took her lessons in earnest.

Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A QUICK DEPARTURE from Balhaire required a monumental effort, especially with the possibility of no return looming over Arran like a dark cloud. There were so many things to do, so many people to see and things that must be said.

And yet, in spite of the gloom that surrounded him, the speed with which he was forced to muster was also a blessing—he had very little time to ponder the many what-ifs running through his thoughts.

He and Margot hardly spoke at all, both of them preoccupied with the imminent departure. When Arran arrived at his chamber well after midnight, he would find her curled into a ball in a fast sleep. He was thankful for that, too—with the exception of the night he’d learned the depth of her betrayal, his mind could not be persuaded to amorous events.

But when he gazed down at her, her face awash in the innocence of a mind quieted by sleep, he wondered...could she be leading him to his doom? Had this been the plan all along? Could he be so blind that he didn’t see the truth?

Arran was not alone in his suspicions—Jock had them, too. Late Wednesday, a messenger sent by MacLeary arrived from Mallaig with the news that there was more talk of a traitor in their midst, a cancer to the ideals and spirit of the Highlands.

“Aye, this news I know,” Arran said impatiently. “What else?”

“The laird bids me tell you that there are those to the north who believe the cancer must be struck out before it corrodes their plans for the future of Scotland.”

“Is that all there is?” Jock growled at the man.

The messenger nodded.

“Go on with you, then. Fergus will take you to the kitchens to fill your belly, aye?” Jock said, and handed the man a few coins before ushering him out.