“Come,” Margot said, and slipped through the gate, into a secret garden her father had built for her many years ago. It was wildly overgrown now; roses climbed the wall untrimmed and untended. A birdbath had been overturned. Vines as thick as her finger spread along the raised beds. But the swing still hung from a tree, and the child’s table and chairs were still in the middle of the garden. Just beneath the table was the little carriage that she would hitch to her spaniel and laugh with delight as he pulled it down the path.

Arran fit himself through the opening. “What is this, then?”

“My secret garden.” She smiled at the memories she had of this garden. Of playing here with Knox for endless afternoons while their governess nodded off in the corner. “Pappa built it for me when I was a small girl. Isn’t it delightful?”

“Aye,” he said. He squatted down and picked something up off the ground. He examined it, then held it out to Margot. It was a toy soldier, no bigger than a large acorn. “That belonged to Knox!” she said, and took it from his hand.

“Aye, it’s lovely, Margot. Now that you’ve seen it, we ought to return—”

“I wanted to show you this so you’d understand,” she interjected.

“Understand what?”

“That a father who cared so much for his daughter he would create this special place for her would not one day betray her. It’s impossible.”

Arran looked around them before his gaze settled on her. He reached for her hand. “We must go back now, aye?”

He didn’t believe her yet.

In the house once more, they settled in as if they had come back from a grand tour and meant to stay for a time. They had just sat down to afternoon tea—or rather, Margot to tea, and Arran at the window—when her father came bustling into the room with his arms open. “Margot, my love!” he exclaimed warmly, and wrapped her in a tight embrace, kissing her cheeks, then holding her back to look at her before hugging her again. “I cannot believe my good fortune! I assumed it would be quite a long time before I saw my darling girl again.”

Margot laughed. Bryce had come in, too. He looked decidedly less pleased by her appearance. “It’s so good to see you, Pappa! And you, Bryce.” She lifted her cheek to be kissed.

“Ah, our favorite Scot,” her father said, and embraced Arran as if he were his own son.

Margot was terribly relieved. The small part of her that had doubted her father disappeared. She was right—he was not conspiring against Arran.