For once in her life, Margot was confident in the decision she was making. For once in her life, she was entirely confident she could do what she was being asked to do, without equivocation. Whatever it took to free Arran, she would do, without complaint.

She peeled his hand from her chin and stood up. “I can do it.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FURY WAS AN inadequate word to describe what Arran felt. He assumed they’d put laudanum or some witch’s brew into his brandy, for nothing else explained how he’d become so leaden and incapable of defending himself. It had taken a full day to rouse himself from that fog—at least, he thought it was day—only to find himself in a dank hole. He was not alone; two of his men were nearby. Ben, whom the Armstrongs had rounded up when they’d drugged Arran. And Dermid, who, near as Arran could tell, had been in this hellhole for a month. He couldn’t see them, could only hear them. He couldn’t see anything, quite literally, as there was scarcely any light at all.

But the English were arrogant, stupid pricks. Not only had they failed to divest him thoroughly of plausible weapons—he had an eating knife tucked away into his boot—but also they’d left the three Scotsmen unattended for the most part, appearing only occasionally to push food through narrow slots in the doors. Arran and his men shouted to hear each other, but no one seemed to care that they did. Their voices brought no one.

At the top of the wall in Arran’s cell was a narrow window that allowed a bit of light. The opening was too small for a man to fit through. There was a hole in the window, big enough to allow bitterly cold air to filter into his cell at night and to carry the sounds of people and beasts moving about during the day. He had gathered, given the stench and the sounds, that they were somewhere near the stables.

He’d also determined that whoever brought food to them each day trudged across flagstones that passed near his window. He heard the heavy steps, then heard a door open. Then heard the clang of it as he drew it closed, somewhere inside this building.

Arran had a plan. He would feign illness and refuse to touch the food the man brought. Eventually, someone would have to open the door to see if he was dead. When that happened, he would overpower the bastard, kill him if necessary and take the man’s keys. He’d have to be precise about it—his knife was too small to inflict deep damage. He’d have to slice across a throat. He reasoned he had one chance—it was either kill or be killed.

Well. It was kill.