Having delivered him into Fergus’s hands, Jock shut the door, walked to the sideboard, poured two drams of whisky and handed one to Arran.

“Well, then,” Arran said. “Either I might draw the cancer out myself or become the cancer, aye?” He downed his whisky.

“Assuming the Lady Mackenzie has no’ begun to cut already,” Jock muttered.

Arran understood his cousin’s grave doubts—God knew he had them, as well. But he didn’t know what else he might do. To stay at Balhaire with the Jacobite rumors swirling around him made him nervous. To go to England was to face arrest and execution. The only hope he had was to expose Tom Dunn before anything might happen.

At four o’clock Thursday morning, he roused Margot out of a deep sleep and told her to ready herself. It was time to go.

He stood in the foyer of Balhaire and looked around him. These familiar stone walls, the place of his youth, of his manhood. He spoke softly to Jock—and tried to ignore that the big man fought back tears. He squatted down and rubbed Old Roy behind the ears and received a thump thump thump of his tail against the floor in gratitude. Roy likely would be gone by the time Arran returned—if he returned. And looking into Roy’s brown eyes, he felt his own mortality.

He stood and walked out of Balhaire without looking back, lest his grief bring him to his knees.

They set sail with the morning tide. Two days later, they landed at Heysham on England’s shores and began the ride to Norwood Park. At least Margot’s riding had improved. She kept pace and seemed more at ease on a horse than before.

They were guests at the modest home of Mr. Richard Burns near Carlisle their first night in England. Mr. Burns was a Scot and his wife’s cousin a Mackenzie. Burns generally was happy to welcome Scots entering England, but he looked quite unhappy to see Arran. He allowed Arran and Margot to enter his home but sent the four men who accompanied them to sleep with the horses. And even so, he glanced nervously about in the gloaming, as if expecting an army to emerge from the bushes and attack them.

Inside the small foyer of the house, Margot removed the heavy woolen coat, revealing her trews. Mrs. Burns stared at her so intently, her gaze wandering over Margot’s frame, that Arran could see Margot’s cheeks blooming in shame.

“You’ll forgive my wife,” he said to his hosts. “She takes no pleasure in these clothes, but it is a necessity for riding long hours over the course of two days.”

“You’ll want some supper,” Mrs. Burns said stiffly, and gestured for them to follow her down a narrow hall and into a dining room.