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ordering her home to Perth but provided no escort; and perhaps the most humiliating discovery for her mistress was that he had spent the time arranging safe passage to Carlisle for a wealthy Englishwoman who had stayed in the very room Margaret now occupied and he’d been a frequent visitor in the room. Although Murdoch had denied they were lovers, Margaret’s brother had assumed they were and so must most of the townsfolk.
    All this being so, as time passed Celia had imagined Roger less and less welcome. She herself had never wed, nor even bedded – her former mistress having run a strict household – so she could only guess at the emotion of such a reunion as was now commencing. But having heard her mistress weeping many a night, watched her search crowds for a sign of her long-absent husband, and noted her listening for his name when the Bruce was mentioned, Celia had grown to hate her former mistress’s son and presumed Margaret felt much the same.
    Dame Katherine had impetuously loaned Celia to her gooddaughter Margaret for the journey to Edinburgh to seek the murderer of Jack Sinclair, Roger’s factor, and to trace Roger’s own whereabouts. He had by then been gone months longer than he had originally planned. Oblivious to the danger of travel and the tension in English-occupied Edinburgh, Celia, eager to please themistress who was training her to be a lady’s maid, had gone without protest. She had not understood the sacrifice she had unwittingly undertaken until they arrived at Murdoch Kerr’s tavern. The rawness and the filth had first frightened, then disgusted her. She knew that Margaret had regretted bringing her along, considering her desire to be a lady’s maid ludicrous in the midst of war. But that very war had forced them to abide together long enough that they came to appreciate each other’s virtues. Margaret had begun to confide in Celia, who did everything she could to help her new mistress’s cause. Even now only Celia and Hal knew of Margaret’s spying work for James Comyn, and Celia had grown accustomed to evading questions about her mistress’s whereabouts.
    But since the murder of Old Will, Celia had wondered whether their subterfuge was as successful as she had thought. She feared that someone else had learned of Margaret’s work for Comyn and had searched the undercroft for information.
    ‘If you’ve naught better to do, you might help me in the tavern,’ Sim barked, badly startling Celia.
    She wondered how the weasel had managed to creep up behind her. ‘I’ve rooms to ready,’ she snapped, thinking Sim her prime suspect.
    ‘Where’s the mistress?’
    ‘Busy.’ Celia picked up her skirts and hurried up the stairs before he could ask any more.
    Margaret’s feet felt weighted down and her heart pounded so hard she feared she might faint before she reached the landing. So many times she had imagined this moment, but nothing had prepared her for the jolt of hearing it had finally come. At the top of the stairs she found herself irritated by the need to deal with her estranged husband on the night that a nobleman was to lodge here. The mundane practicality steadied her. This was all part of her life, her own familiar life. Roger was her husband after all, not a stranger. She smoothed her apron as she crossed the landing to her chamber door. Reaching for the latch, she wondered whether Roger would be pacing or sitting. Upon opening the door she was startled to find him standing just within, blocking what little light came through the shutters.
    ‘Maggie,’ he said softly, reaching out to her.
    She backed away. She did not doubt it was him, but she was not ready to walk into his arms. ‘First I would see you, Roger. I must see with my own eyes that you are truly here.’ She felt for the lantern just inside the door and opened the shutter, marvelling at how steady her hands were when she felt so breathless.
    Roger tucked his thumbs in his belt and watched her as she studied