By the seventh day, Margot rode with Arran so that Dermid might have his own mount. It made the travel a little quicker, for as hearty as his wife had proven to be, she was slower than the three men.

On the twelfth day, they reached the farm of Ben Mackenzie’s uncle...but they were not welcome. Mr. Mackenzie spoke in Gaelic. “You must go,” he said. “They’re looking for you.”

“Who?” Arran asked.

“The Gordons,” he said, looking nervously about, as if he expected them to leap from the trees and attack. “Word has gone round that you escaped to England and now they wait for you to return. You can’t stay here, laird. I don’t want trouble.”

Arran frowned. This news meant he couldn’t go to Balhaire without risking confrontation. “Give us bread, some meat and cheese,” he said. “Ale if you can spare it.”

“Why aren’t we dismounting?” Margot moaned, leaning back against him as they waited for Ben’s uncle to bring them food.

“We willna stay,” Arran said. He looked across at Ben and, again, spoke in Gaelic so that he’d not unduly alarm Margot. “Take Dermid to Balhaire. We’ll carry on to Kishorn. Ride as hard as you can, lad. Tell Jock that no one must come to us. No one, not until it’s safe. There will be eyes everywhere, aye?”

“Aye,” Ben said.

Mr. Mackenzie appeared again with a large bundle of food for them. Arran nodded at Ben; he took the bundle and divided the food inside. He gave half to Arran and said, “Godspeed,” and he and Dermid turned toward home.

Arran headed north.

“Where are we going?” Margot cried, and tried to sit up.

“Uist,” he said, pulling her back into his chest. “It willna be much longer now.”

“But...”

That was all she said—the woman was too beaten to argue.

* * *

THEY REACHED KISHORN just before nightfall. Thank God for it—Arran knew that neither his horse nor Margot could endure another step. Margot slid off the horse before him, and her legs collapsed under her. He was instantly beside her, helping her up.

“I didn’t realize...” She shook her head. “Where are we?”

Arran looked up at the old hunting lodge that had been in his family for centuries. He slipped one arm under Margot’s knees, the other behind her back, and picked her up.

“I can walk,” she protested weakly.

“You’re exhausted.” He walked to the entrance, put her down and opened the door, pushing it wide. Just inside the entrance he found candles and a tinderbox. He lit a candle and held it aloft, fit it into a candelabra, then lit two more.

Margot had stepped inside behind him and was looking around at the beamed ceiling, the stone walls. “What is this place?”