The castle was even more imposing up close. Margot had to crane her neck to see the tops of the towers as the conveyance slowed and rolled to a stop. She sat up, her fingers curling tightly around the edges of the cushions on the bench.

The door suddenly swung open. Someone put a step there. Margot quickly tried to repair her hair—she must have looked a fright, especially since she’d had to come all this way without her ladies’ maid. Nell Grady was traveling behind with Margot’s many trunks.

The dark head of her husband appeared in the door. “Come,” he said simply, and held out his gloved hand to her.

It was only her desire to be out of that miserable coach that propelled Margot to step out of the chaise. She faltered only slightly, her legs feeling quite stiff after such a long journey. But she managed to right herself and paused to look around her.

“Welcome to Balhaire,” Mackenzie said.

Welcome to this? Margot was so overwhelmed by the sight of the bailey, she couldn’t speak. It was teeming with animals and people. Chickens hurried out of the way of horses, and dogs sniffed around the boots of the men who had come down from their mounts. She scarcely had time to take it all in before the main doors opened and a woman swept out with a shout. She was tall and slender and had a long braid of dark red hair. The woman didn’t look at Margot—she was speaking in the language of the Highlands to Mackenzie.

Whatever he said in return caused the woman to jerk a disdainful gaze to Margot.

“Miss Griselda Mackenzie. My cousin,” Arran said, sighing.

Margot curtsied. Griselda’s brows rose to almost the top of her head, and she folded her arms across her chest, her long fingers drumming on her arm as she studied Margot. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Margot said.

The woman pressed her lips together.

“I hope we might be friends,” Margot added as an afterthought.

It was clearly the wrong thing to say; the woman said something quickly and quite vehemently to Mackenzie, then twirled about and went inside.

Margot blinked at her departing back. “I don’t... Did she understand me? Does she speak English?”

“Aye,” Mackenzie said, his countenance stormy. “She speaks English quite well.”

That was the moment Margot was certain her situation could not possibly get any worse.

But then Mackenzie led her inside that looming castle.

It was dark and close, the corridors lit by candles stuck in old wall sconces. It smelled musty, as if it had never been aired. Moreover, Margot heard a moaning sound that made her blood run cold. It sounded as if someone was dying—until she realized it was the wind whistling down the ancient flues, creating drafts at every doorway.