Scottish Brides (27 page)

She nodded.

“Well, if that's the case . . .” He reached over, took her plate, and slid the entire contents onto his own. “Can't let a good haggis go to waste.”

Margaret starting glancing around the room. “I wonder if he has any bread.”

“Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“If you think you can manage for ten more minutes without perishing, old George will most likely bring out some cheese and pudding.”

The sigh Margaret let out was heartfelt in the extreme.

“You'll like our Scots desserts,” Angus said. “Not an organ meat to be found.”

But Margaret's eyes were strangely fixed on the window across the room.

Assuming she was merely glazing over from hunger, he said, “If we're lucky, they'll have cranachan. You'll never taste a finer pudding.”

She made no reply, so he just shrugged and shoveled the rest of the haggis into his mouth. Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, it tasted good. He hadn't realized how hungry he'd been, and there was truly nothing like a good haggis. Margaret had no idea what she was missing.

Speaking of Margaret . . . He looked back at her. She was now squinting at the window. Angus wondered if she needed spectacles.

“My mum made the sweetest cranachan this side of Loch Lomond,” he said, figuring that
one
of them had to keep up the conversation. “Cream, oatmeal, sugar, rum. Makes my mouth water just—”

Margaret gasped. Angus dropped his fork. Something about the sound of her breath rushing through her lips made his blood run cold.

“Edward,” she whispered. Then her countenance turned from surprise to something considerably blacker, and with a scowl that would have vanquished the dragon of Loch Ness, she shot to her feet and stormed out of the room.

Angus set down his fork and groaned. The sweet aroma of cranachan wafted in from the kitchen. Angus wanted to bang his head against the table in frustration.

Margaret? (He looked at the door through which she had just exited.)

Or cranachan? (He looked longingly at the door to the kitchen.)

Margaret?

Or cranachan?

“Damn,” he muttered, rising to his feet. It was going to have to be Margaret.

And as he walked away from the cranachan, he had the sinking feeling that his choice had somehow sealed his fate.

Four

 

 

 

 

The rain had subsided, but the damp night air was a
slap in the face as Margaret dashed through the front door of The Canny Man. She looked wildly about, twisting her neck to the left and the right. She'd seen Edward through the window. She was sure of it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple moving quickly across the street. Edward. The man's golden blond hair was a dead giveaway.

“Edward!” she called, scurrying in his direction. “Edward Pennypacker!”

He made no indication of having heard her, so she picked up her skirts and ran into the street, yelling his name as she closed the distance between them.

“Edward!”

He turned around.

And she did not know him.

“I-I-I'm so sorry,” she stuttered, stumbling back a step. “I mistook you for my brother.”

The handsome blond man inclined his head graciously. “It's quite all right.”

“It's a foggy night,” Margaret explained, “and I was looking out the window . . .”

“There is no harm done, I assure you. But if you will excuse me”—the young man put his arm around the shoulder of the woman at his side and drew her near—“my wife and I must be on our way.”

Margaret nodded and watched them disappear around the corner. They were newlyweds. From the way his voice had warmed over the word “wife,” she knew it had to be so.

They were newlyweds, and like everyone else here at Gretna Green, they'd probably eloped, and their families were probably furious with them. But they looked so very happy, and Margaret suddenly felt unbearably tired, and forlorn, and old, and all those sad, lonely things she'd never thought she'd be.

“Did you have to leave right before the pudding?”

She blinked and turned around. Angus—how the devil did such a large man move so quietly?—was looming over her, arms akimbo, eyes glowering. Margaret didn't say anything. She didn't have the energy to say anything.

“I assume that wasn't your brother you saw.”

She shook her head.

“Then for the love of God, woman, can we finish our meal?”

An unwilling smile danced across her lips. No recriminations, no “You stupid woman, why did you go running off into the night?” Just “Can we finish our meal?”

What a man.

“That would be a fine idea,” she replied, taking his arm when he offered it. “And I might even taste the haggis. Just a taste, mind you. I'm sure I won't like it, but as you said, it's only polite to try.”

He raised a brow, and something about his face, with those big, bushy eyebrows, dark eyes, and slightly crooked nose, made Margaret's heart skip two beats.

“Och,” he grunted, stepping toward the inn. “Will wonders never cease? Are you telling me that you were actually listening to me?”

“I listen to almost everything you say!”

“You're only offering to try the haggis because you know I ate your portion.”

Margaret's blush gave her away.

“A-ha.” His smile was positively wolfish. “Just for that, I'm going to make you eat hugga-muggie tomorrow.”

“Can't I just try that cranopoly that you were talking about? The one with the cream and the sugar?”

“It's called cranachan, and if you endeavor not to nag me the entire way back to the inn, I might be inclined to ask Mr. McCallum to serve you some.”

“Och, you're ever gracious,” she said sarcastically.

Angus stopped in his tracks. “Did you just say ‘och?' ”

Margaret blinked in surprise. “I don't know. I might have done.”

“Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, you're beginning to sound like a Scotswoman.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

It was his turn to blink in surprise. “I'm quite certain I've never mistaken you for a Scot until this very moment.”

“Don't be obtuse. I meant the bit about the son of God, heathen spirits, and your Scottish hero.”

He shrugged and pushed open the door to The Canny Man. “It's my own little prayer.”

“Somehow, I doubt your vicar would find that particularly sacrosanct.”

“We call them ministers up here, and who the devil do you think taught it to me?”

Margaret nearly tripped over his foot as they reentered the small dining room. “You're joking.”

“If you plan to spend any time in Scotland, you're going to have to learn that we're a more pragmatic people than ye of warmer climes.”

“I've never heard ‘warmer climes' used as an insult,” Margaret muttered, “but I believe you've just managed it.”

Angus pulled her chair out for her, seated himself, and then continued with his pontification. “Any man worth his salt quickly learns that in times of great need, he must turn to the things he can trust best, things he can depend upon.”

Margaret stared at him with a mix of incredulity and disgust. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“When I feel the need to summon a higher power, I say, ‘Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce.' It makes perfect sense.”

“You're a stark, raving lunatic.”

“If I were a less easygoing man,” he said, signaling to the innkeeper to bring them some cheese, “I might take offense at that.”

“You can't pray to Robert the Bruce,” she persisted.

“Och, and why not? I'm sure he's more time to watch over me than Jesus. After all, Jesus has the whole bleeding world to look after, even Sassenachs like you.”

“It's wrong,” Margaret said firmly, her head shaking with her words. “It's just wrong.”

Angus looked at her, scratched his temple, and said, “Have some cheese.”

Margaret's eyes widened in surprise, but she took the cheese and put some in her mouth. “Tasty.”

“I'd comment on the superiority of Scottish cheese, but I'm sure you'll already be feeling a wee bit insecure about your nation's cuisine.”

“After the haggis?”

“There's a reason we Scots are bigger and stronger than the English.”

She let out a ladylike snort. “You're insufferable.”

Angus sat back, resting his head in his hands, with his arms bent out at the elbows. He looked like a well-sated man, a well-confident man, one who knew who he was and what he meant to do with his life.

Margaret couldn't take her eyes off of him.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, “but everyone loves me so well.”

She threw a piece of cheese at him.

He caught it and popped it into his mouth, grinning wolfishly as he chewed. “You do like to throw things, don't you?”

“Funny that I never felt the inclination to do so until I met
you.
”

“And here everyone told me I brought out the best in them.”

Margaret started to say something and then just sighed.

“What now?” Angus asked, clearly amused.

“I was
about
to insult you.”

“Not that I'm surprised, but why did you think the better of it?”

She shrugged. “I don't even
know
you. And here we are, bickering like an old married couple. It's quite incomprehensible.”

Angus eyed her thoughtfully. She looked tired and weary, and just a little bit baffled, as if she had finally slowed down enough for her brain to realize that she was in Scotland, dining with a stranger who had very nearly kissed her not an hour earlier.

The subject of his perusal broke into his thoughts with a persistent, “Don't you think?”

Angus smiled guilelessly. “Was I supposed to make a comment?”

That earned him a rather fierce scowl.

“Very well,” he said, “here is what I think. I think that friendship blossoms most quickly under extreme circumstances. Given the events that have unfolded this evening and, indeed, the common purpose that unites us, it's not surprising that we are sitting here enjoying our meal as if we have known each other for years.”

“Yes, but—”

Angus briefly considered how splendid his life would be with the removal of the words, “yes” and “but” from the English language, then interrupted with, “Ask me anything.”

She blinked several times before replying, “I beg your pardon?”

“You wanted to know more about me? Here is your chance. Ask me anything.”

Margaret grew thoughtful. Twice she parted her lips, a question on the tip of her tongue, only to close them again. Finally she leaned forward and said, “Very well. Why are you so protective of women?”

Tiny white lines appeared around his mouth. It was a small reaction, and well controlled, but Margaret had been watching him closely. Her question had unnerved him.

His hand tightened around his mug of ale, and he said, “Any gentleman would come to a lady's aid.”

Margaret shook her head, recalling the wild, almost feral look of him when he'd dispatched the men who'd attacked her. “There is more to it than that, and we both know it. Something happened to you.” Her voice grew softer, more soothing. “Or perhaps to someone you love.”

There was an achingly long silence, and then Angus said, “I had a cousin.”

Margaret said nothing, unnerved by the flatness of his voice.

“She was older,” he continued, staring at the swirling liquid in his mug of ale. “Seventeen to my nine. But we were very close.”

“It sounds as if you were fortunate to have her in your life.”

He nodded. “My parents were frequently in Edinburgh. They rarely took me with them.”

“I'm
sorry,” Margaret murmured. She knew what it was like to miss one's parents.

“Don't be. I was never lonely. I had Catriona.” He took a sip of his ale. “She took me fishing, she let me tag along on her errands, she taught me my multiplication tables when my tutors threw up their arms in despair.” Angus looked up sharply; then a wistful smile crossed his face. “She wove them into songs. Funny how the only way I could remember that six by seven was forty-two was to sing it.”

A lump formed in Margaret's throat because she knew this story did not have a happy ending. “What did she look like?” she whispered, not entirely certain why she wanted to know.

A nostalgic chuckle escaped Angus's lips. “Her eyes were much the same color as yours, maybe a touch bluer, and her hair was the richest red you've ever seen. She used to lament that it turned pink at sunset.”

He fell silent, and finally Margaret had to voice the question that hung in the air. “What happened to her?”

“One day she didn't come to the house. She always came on Tuesdays. Other days I didn't know if she'd visit or not, but Tuesdays she always came to help me practice my numbers before my tutor arrived. I thought she must be ill, so I went to her house to bring her flowers.” He looked up with an oddly regretful expression. “I think I must have been half in love with her. Who ever heard of a nine-year-old boy bringing his cousin flowers?”