Then he would free his men, and they would fight their way out or die.

Arran wondered how long before his keepers realized he was not eating and opened the goddamn door.

In the meantime, he had ample opportunity to brood about that night in the Armstrong study. He’d been bloody stupid for having trusted Norwood.

In the study that evening, he’d watched Norwood pour three brandies, had accepted one and had drunk deeply before he broached the subject of Thomas Dunn. Norwood had seemed neither surprised nor particularly knowledgeable about Dunn. He’d merely smiled at Arran, put his hand on his shoulder and said, “You will understand, sir, when I say that in this regard, it’s either you...or me.”

And then a deep Highland mist had sunk down on Arran’s brain. He had been helpless, unable to lift his arms, as Bryce and another man overpowered him. He vaguely remembered being tossed into a carriage, and that his head kept bouncing off the squabs as they’d moved down the road. He recalled nothing more until he’d woken up in here. He had a straw mat, a bucket for waste and one filled with water.

He’d roared his frustration when he at last came to, which was how he’d found his men.

And then he’d continued to roar with frustration. For allowing himself to latch onto the slender ray of hope Margot’s assurances had given him.

Did she know he was here? His instincts told him she was as much a victim in this as he, but there was another, albeit smaller, part of him that wondered if she hadn’t known this would happen. She’d seemed in her cups that night, a condition he’d never known her to be in. Was it possible she’d been poisoned, too? Or had she drunk so that she wouldn’t have to face what was coming?

Arran had lost track of time when he heard the familiar footsteps outside the cell, trudging toward a door somewhere, and the sound of slop in a bucket knocking against a leg. He lay down on the straw mat and rolled on his side, facing the wall. He heard the sound of the jailer sliding food in to his men, then making his way down the hall to Arran’s cell.

He repeated the same thing here—he opened the door to the shelf, slid a cup of what smelled like cabbage soup and bread onto it, and then shut the door and turned the lock.

As unappetizing as the soup smelled, Arran’s belly rumbled. But he left it there, untouched. Tomorrow the man would return. He would see that Arran hadn’t eaten. He would wonder. He might go another day, or even two. But eventually, he would open the damn door.