Gretna Greene

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 granted, 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.