Arran had been surprised by the contents of the letter when he’d first received it. He’d been very careful to walk a thin line between chieftains who wanted Scottish independence and the Scotsmen who saw opportunities in the union with England. Certainly he had taken advantage of the union by increasing his trade with France and Ireland. He’d built a wealth where most clans were suffering. He raised cattle and sheep he sent to Glasgow and Edinburgh markets. He traded wool for silks with France. He trained soldiers who found good wages with the English army. And the glen that surrounded Balhaire had soil rich enough that he could grow enough food to feed his own clan. He was one of the few chieftains who had managed to stem the rising tide of emigration and provide for his people.

He was not a Jacobite, and suddenly to be labeled as one had baffled him. Something was definitely amiss.

A kitchen wench appeared with a tray. She set it before Arran, dipped a curtsy and scurried out.

“I donna know what Norwood is about,” Arran said between healthy bites of his breakfast. “But it is no coincidence that my wife should miraculously appear and profess a change of heart so soon after I received that letter, aye?”

“Aye,” said Jock. “My guess is that he has sent her. But for what reason?”

Arran shook his head. “I’ve done my duty by her, have I no’? I’ve sent her money. I’ve said no’ a single ill word against her or him.”

Jock shrugged. “Perhaps it is a coincidence. Perhaps it is only that he believes a wife belongs with her husband and has turned her out.”

“No,” Arran said. “He’d have turned her out long ago were that the reason. It is something more. And to have my name mentioned with the Jacobites just before she has come...it stinks to heaven, it does.”

Jock nodded. “What do you intend to do, then?”

Arran dropped his fork and leaned back, looking toward the window. The sun was just coming up on the day, rising up over the hills, casting long purple shadows. As much as he’d enjoyed last night, he didn’t trust her. This homecoming was gravely wrong.

There was something else niggling at him, too. The sadness he’d seen in her eyes. Did she regret what she’d done three years ago? Or did she regret that she was about to slide the knife into his back? “By the by, how long has it been since you’ve had word from Dermid?” he asked, referring to the man he kept in England to keep eyes on his wife.

Jock thought about it. “A month. Perhaps longer.”

Arran frowned at that. “It’s no’ like the lad to have allowed something like this to have happened without sending word.”

“It’s no’ like him,” Jock agreed. “What do you intend to do?”