Arran slowly sat up and leaned his head against the wall. He closed his eyes and listened to the jingle of bridles and squeak of leather saddles as riders passed by. Arran’s thoughts filled with images of Margot, dressed in trews, her cheeks appealingly flushed by the exertion of the ride. The image was a peculiar draw in his belly, a sadness mixed with regret and the misery of knowing he’d likely never see her again. “Margot,” he whispered.

He heard her laugh, a sound like a sweet confection.

As if his predicament could be any worse, now he was hearing things.

And then he heard the laugh again. He opened his eyes. That was definitely feminine laughter. He didn’t hear the clop of horses hooves, which said to him the riders had stopped. Arran vaulted up and lunged for that window, leaping as high as he could, his fingers seeking a hold on the grainy sill. But he couldn’t hold it and slid down the rough stone wall. He backed up and tried again, this time bracing his foot against the wall to vault himself higher.

He failed to reach it. “Margot!” he shouted.

The sound of horses again—the riders were moving away. Diah, had he imagined it? Was he losing his mind? Arran stared up at the window. He’d lost track of time; the light that came in through the windows was gray and dirty, hiding the sun or the moon. He couldn’t say if it was morning or afternoon.

He tried to think through all the reasons Margot would be close by. Was something to happen? Was the trial to be held here? Had she come to see him hang? He stood in the middle of the cell, staring at the window, trying desperately to think.

* * *

“REMEMBER, WE WERE riding to Keswick to call on the Daltons when we were diverted because the road had fallen into great disrepair,” Knox said low as they gazed up at an abbey door in need of a coat of paint. The entire abbey looked ramshackle.

“I remember,” Margot said.

“Listen to me, Margot,” Knox said, catching her hand.

She made herself turn her attention away from the derelict abbey.

“He will know if we dissemble. You must make it seem quite sincere, do you understand? You were scarcely able to hobble along, and so forth.”

“Knox... I understand,” she said calmly. She looked back at the abbey facade. “It almost seems abandoned.”

“Not yet. But let this be a lesson to us all—this is what happens when one amasses gambling debts. All right, then, shall we?” Knox said, and together, they walked up the steps to the door.

Knox lifted the brass knocker on the door and let it fall once, then twice more. Eventually a man opened the door. He was wearing an old-fashioned powdered wig, and his well-worn pantaloons were sagging at the knees. He peered curiously at them.