Mrs. Burns set the rough-hewn table with two tallow candles and pieces of tarnished silver and bowls. She poured ale from a ewer. A small lass, no more than ten years, appeared with a pot she could scarcely carry. Arran took it from her and ladled hare stew into his bowl, and then Margot’s, before giving the pot back to the girl to carry to the other side of the table.

There was very little discussion over supper. Mrs. Burns asked after Balhaire and her cousin Mary.

“She is well,” Arran said.

“God keep her,” Mrs. Burns muttered.

Mr. Burns ate quickly and stood when he’d finished his meal, apparently wanting to be gone from them as quickly as possible. Arran had been a guest in this house more than once, and Burns had never been anything but welcoming. He could only assume that word of treason had reached this man’s ears.

When the meal was finished, Mrs. Burns led Arran and Margot by the light of a single tallow candle up to a room at the far end of the hall.

“It’s lovely. You are very kind to offer us a bed,” Margot said.

Mrs. Burns grunted some response and went out, closing the door firmly behind her.

Arran locked the door. He walked around the small room, moving the drapes so he could see what was out the window in the unlikely event they should be forced to exit from here. He wouldn’t rule anything out—he did not feel entirely safe.

When he was convinced there was no one lurking to slay them in their sleep, no poisonous asps, no deadly spiders, he turned around. Margot was standing in the middle of the room, her shirttails pulled free of her trews. Her hair was sticking up in strange places, and her coat was dirty, as if she’d brushed up against a tree covered in lichen. Dark circles were beginning to shadow her eyes.

“You are weary,” he said. He took the coat from her and laid it on a chair. “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to a bed so small he couldn’t imagine how it would hold both of them.

Margot sat and watched impassively as he knelt down on one knee to remove her boots.

When he’d pulled them off her feet, he glanced up. Her face was ashen. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t do that,” she said, looking at her feet. “Don’t be kind to me. I don’t deserve your kindness—”

“Margot—”

“I don’t!” she exclaimed, and covered her face with her hands. “I’ve been so cake-headed. You’re all right, I’ve been the biggest fool—how could I have been so stupid?”