Once outside, she stood with her gaze fixed on the hills beyond Balhaire. She had assumed, given the tension between them, that Arran had been happy to see her go. When her father told her that she must come back to Balhaire, Margot had thought only of how displeased Arran would be to see her again. But pained? Was that true? Had she really pained him, or had this woman interpreted his foul mood as hurt? Wouldn’t Margot have known if Arran wanted her to stay? Would he not have asked her to stay?

She was still standing there trying to sort things out when a group of men came thundering onto the main road on their way to the castle. Several people came out of their houses and shops to have a look. Margot stepped back, flattening herself against the wall of Mrs. Gowan’s shop as they rode past.

She closed her eyes against the dust and opened them again as a lone rider reined to a hard stop.

It was Arran. He stared down at her as his horse danced impatiently beneath him. “Margot? What are you doing here?”

“Ah...” She glanced at the door of the shop. “Mrs. Gowan has kindly agreed to send up a few things to the castle.”

Arran glanced at the shop, then at Margot. “You’ll make do without me tonight, aye?” he said brusquely. “I’ve business in Lochalsh.”

Business in Lochalsh? What business might he have there? It was a tiny hamlet on the western shore with only a few fishermen. “You’ll be away?” she asked plaintively. “But I thought we might—”

“You donna mean to complain of it, surely,” he said, his voice full of warning.

Margot clenched her jaw to keep from doing precisely that. “Not at all. I wish you a safe journey,” she forced herself to say.

“Aye, exactly as I thought.” He spurred his horse on.

Margot watched him go, hating the suspicion rising up in her. With a sigh, she began to trudge back up the hill to the castle, waving away the dust the horses had kicked up.

Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

AT THE END of the very long day, after dining with Nell in the sitting room adjacent to the master’s chambers, Margot retired to Arran’s bed.

Fergus was agitated. “The hearth has no’ been lit, milady.”

“Then perhaps you might light it,” Margot said as sweetly as possible.

Fergus lit the hearth...but then he sent the dogs in. Quite literally sent them in. That was another thing she and Arran had argued about in the past—he allowed old and retired working dogs into Balhaire to live when they were no longer useful to their masters. At one time there were ten of them wandering about, sniffing corners and following behind people with the hope of earning a table scrap or a head scratch!