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edge of a ditch. With a gasp of delight, she knelt to pick some, wrinkling her nose at the strong, unpleasant scent. Bruised and applied, it was good to heal sores and difficult to find near home. Pleased, she tucked it into her pocket and continued on her way.
    She rubbed a hand across her forehead and tried not to think about how tired she was. Instead she focused on the hours ahead. Following what promised to be her first decent meal in weeks, tonight she'd luxuriate in a big tub of clean, steaming water. She couldn't wait to wash off the dust of the road. And she couldn't wait until tomorrow morn, when she'd be snug in a soft feather bed at Scarborough's, imagining the public coach rattling down the road toward London with that bawface tucked inside.
    The thought was so vivid and appealing, she nearly missed the gravel drive that led to a yellowish stone mansion in the distance.
    The building threw a long shadow. The sun was setting. She tucked her plaid tighter around her black bodice and skirt. When Adam saw her dressed in mourning, he'd understand right off how completely he'd neglected his family and home. It would be a simple matter to persuade him to sign the papers MacLeod had drawn up.
    In the fading light she hurried along the path, marveling at the way the gravel was so raked and pristine. Scarborough must employ an army of servants. But they weren't here now, she realized as she drew close.
    The mansion was shut up tight as a jar of Aunt Moira's preserves!
    The sun sank over the horizon as Caithren stared at the heavy, bolted oak door. Hearing the call of a single hawk overhead, apparently the only living creature in the vicinity, she stifled a sob.
    So much for her happy daydreams. She would have to stay the night in Pontefract, steel herself to climb back on the coach in the morning, then somehow survive the nine days it would take to reach London.
    She counted on her fingers. She should arrive on the day of Lord Darnley's wedding, just in time to present herself as an uninvited guest. It was the only place she knew for certain she'd be able to find Adam.
    Touching her amulet, she prayed there'd be no summer storm or anything else to delay the coach, because God only knew where Adam would be headed the morning of August thirty-first.
    A scuffling sound on the roof made her glance up. Probably some sort of wee animal. Or rats.
    Cait shuddered. "Set a stout heart to a steep hillside," she said aloud, imagining her mother saying the words. She squared her shoulders and was turning back toward the road when there came the snort of a horse and an answering neigh.
    Horses meant people. Her spirits lifted. Maybe Adam and his friends were here after all, and they'd just been out hunting. And even if it were strangers, maybe they could spare her the long walk—
    She heard a muted thump and the crunch of gravel, as someone apparently dropped from the roof. Then another thump .
    "Sealed up. Cannot even get inside and snatch a few trinkets to pay our way. Damn it to bloody hell." Coming from around the side of the mansion, the man's voice sounded cultured. But he was cursing a string of oaths the likes of which Cait had never heard.
    She scooted into the archway that housed the front door and pressed herself against the cold stone wall.
    "I'm glad it's sealed up." The second man's voice was whiny. "I don't fancy taking things, Geoffrey."
    "Everything here is ours, Wat. Or should be. You crackbrain."
    The man called Wat didn't respond to the insult. "But Cainewood's horses? What about those?"
    "The horses are rightly mine." The first man kicked at the ground, or at least Caithren thought he did. It was difficult to tell from around the corner. "We had to take them. We were low on funds with no way to get here. Can't you get that through your thick skull? Did you want to walk? Sleep in the open and beg for our supper?"
    "We could have found work."
    "Work? When hens make holy water. Should we stoop to chopping wood for a