“Just at the bottom of the hill are the stables,” Knox said, speaking quickly and quietly. “They are unmanned tonight—I’ve just come from there. Saddle your horses. Be prepared to ride.”

“And you?” Arran asked.

“I’ll lead you out of here,” Knox said. He turned and began to stride away, the candlelight bobbing with his near sprint.

Arran didn’t pause to question Knox’s intent. At least they were out of the cells. At least now they had a fighting chance. “Aye, let’s go, then,” he muttered to Ben, and together, they carried Dermid down the road.

* * *

MARGOT WAS BEGINNING to panic. Putnam was frightening her. She had two of his markers on the table before her, and he was perspiring heavily, alternating between tears and anger. Where was Knox?

She forced herself to draw a steadying breath and mentally ran through her options: she could scream, which would surely bring someone...if there was anyone lurking about this old abbey besides the butler. She could pretend that she needed a retiring room and flee. But if Knox hadn’t found Arran, where would she go? And how would she come back for him?

As she was debating what to do, Putnam picked up the deck. “Again,” he said.

“My lord, you are distressed—”

“I am not distressed! I’ve been divested of my money by a woman who has come here on disagreeable business! Do you think me ignorant, Lady Mackenzie? I know what you’re about,” he snarled.

Good God, where was Knox?

“You want that bloody Scot, do you? That traitor to your queen?”

She resisted the urge to argue with his slander. She had to be calm, quite calm, and slowly began to gather the coins and markers before her. His eyes seemed almost to bulge now as he watched her. “I don’t know what you are implying, my lord. I meant only to enjoy a bit of sport, as I said. My father has freed me from an unbearable marriage and I assure you...” She lifted her gaze, looked him directly in the eye and said gravely, “I don’t want him back. Perhaps a better question is, what do you want?”

Putnam slowly licked his bottom lip, as if seeking the last drop of wine.

“I think I know what you want,” she said calmly. “I think you want my money. Quite desperately.”

Putnam’s face mottled, and for a moment, she thought he would explode with anger. He looked as if he might lunge across the table for her throat at any moment, wrap his fingers around her gullet and squeeze. But then, inexplicably, he lowered his head and dissolved into tears. “I’ve lost everything,” he sobbed.

“I beg your pardon?”