Moreover, that Englishman’s voice had sounded vaguely familiar. But then again, Arran wasn’t certain he wasn’t hearing things now. Surely he’d imagined Margot’s laugh.

He was trying to will himself to face another night when he heard footsteps coming back toward him. But these weren’t the footsteps of the jailer. These were quick and light. He heard the clang of the door, and the footsteps were now inside. Someone was moving down the hall, jangling the doors, trying to open them.

The doors opened, and he heard Ben shout; then a male voice shouted back. “Mackenzie!”

Arran froze. Was this it? Had they come to take him for the mockery that would be his trial? But wouldn’t there be more than one of them to take him?

“Aye, here!” Ben shouted. Arran realized at once what Ben was doing—his men would do anything to protect him, including pretending to be him now. He suddenly shoved aside the soup from the shelf and shouted. “Here! The laird is here!”

The footsteps hurried toward him. He heard a fumbling of keys, first one in the lock, then another. Then a third. A moment later, the door swung open, almost hitting Arran. He blinked against the candlelight, still unable to make out who was there.

“For God’s sake, come on,” the man said. “The jailer will return at any moment.”

“Who—”

“Are you blind? Knox Armstrong.”

Arran couldn’t gather his wits. He didn’t know why Knox was here, and he could only assume that like all of the Armstrongs, Knox was against him. But Knox’s arm appeared through the candlelight, and he grabbed Arran’s forearm. “Come,” he demanded. “You’ll have us all killed.”

“My men,” Arran said.

“We’ve no time—”

“My men,” he said again.

Knox threw the keys at him. “I’ll keep watch. Make haste, make haste,” he urged him, and hurried down the corridor.

“Here, milord!” Ben said, his hand showing in the slit of his door.

Arran fumbled with the keys, found the one that worked and opened the door. Ben burst through and grabbed the keys from Arran. “Go, laird, donna wait for us. Dermid is ill, aye?”

Ben lunged for a door across from his. He opened the door and disappeared inside. He reappeared only moments later with Dermid half-draped over his shoulder.

“Diah,” Arran exclaimed. The man was emaciated, his hair matted against his skull.

“Go milord,” Ben urged him. “The clan can survive without me or Dermid, but they canna go on without you. Save yourself.”

“The hell I will,” Arran said. He took part of Dermid’s weight from Ben, and together they dragged the ailing man from the jail.

Just outside the door, Knox was waiting. “The keys, the keys,” he said, gesturing for them. “We’ve not a moment to waste.”

Ben handed him the keys.