Gretna Greene

'Weel, you're in for a treat,' George said, 'because my wife, she had some haggis made and ready to go for tomorrow. Had to boil it up, of course. Can't have a cold haggis.'

Margaret didn't particularly think the hot haggis looked terribly appetizing, but she forbore to offer an opinion on the matter.

Angus wafted the aroma-or fumes, as Margaret was wont to call them-in his direction and took a ceremonial sniff. 'Och, McCallum,' he said, sounding more Scottish than he had all day, 'if this tastes anything like it smells, your wife is a blooming genius.'

'Of course she is,' George replied, grabbing two plates off a side table and setting them in front of his guests. 'She married me, didn't she?'

Angus laughed heartily and gave the innkeeper a convivial slap on the back. Margaret felt a retort welling up in her throat and coughed to keep it down.

'Just a moment,' George said. 'I need to get a proper knife.'

Margaret watched him leave, then leaned across the table and hissed, 'What is in this thing?'

'You don't know?' Angus asked, obviously enjoying her distress.

'I know it smells hideous.'

'Tsk, tsk. Were you so gravely insulting my nation's cuisine earlier this evening without even knowing of what you speak?'

'Just tell me the ingredients,' she ground out.

'Heart, minced with liver and lights,' he replied, drawing the words out in all their gory detail. 'Then add some good suet, onions, and oatmeal-stuffed into the stomach of a sheep.'

'What,' Margaret asked to the air around her, 'have I done to deserve this?'

'Och,' Angus said dismissively. 'You'll love it. You English always love your organ meats.'

'I don't. I never have.'

He choked back a laugh. 'Then you might be in a wee bit of trouble.'

Margaret's eyes grew panicked. 'I can't eat this.'

'You don't want to insult George, do you?'

'No, but-'

'You told me you placed great stock in good manners, didn't you?'

'Yes, but-'

'Are you ready?' George asked, sweeping back into the room with blazing eyes. 'Because I'll be giving you God's own haggis.' With that, he whipped out a knife with such flair that Margaret was compelled to lurch back a good half a foot or risk having her nose permanently shortened.

George belted out a few bars from a rather pompous and overblown hymn-foreshadowing the actual meal, Margaret was sure-then, with a wide, proud swipe of his arm, sliced into the haggis, opening it for all the world to see.

And smell.

'Oh, God,' Margaret gasped, and never before had she uttered such a heartfelt prayer.

'Have you ever seen a thing so lovely?' George rhapsodized.

'I'll take half on my plate right now,' Angus said.

Margaret smiled weakly, trying not to breathe.

'She'll take a small portion,' Angus said for her. 'Her appetite's not what it once was.'

'Och, yes,' George replied, 'the babe. You'll be in your early months, then, eh?'

Margaret supposed that 'early' could be construed to mean pre-pregnancy, so she nodded.

Angus lifted a brow in approval. Margaret scowled at him, irritated that he was so impressed that she had finally participated in this ridiculous lie.

'The smell might make you a bit queasy,' George said, 'but there's nothing for a babe like a good haggis, so you should at least try, as my great-aunt Millie calls it, a no-thank-you-portion.'

'That would be lovely,' Margaret managed to choke out.

'Here you are,' George said, scooping her a healthy amount.

Margaret stared at the mass of food on her plate, trying not to retch. If this was no-thank-you, she shuddered to imagine yes-please. 'Tell me,' she said, as demurely as possible, 'what did your Aunt Millie look like?'

'Och, a lovely woman. Strong as an ox. And as large as one, too.'

Margaret's eyes fell back to her dinner. 'Yes,' she murmured, 'I thought as much.'

'Try it,' George urged. 'If you like it, I'll have my wife make hugga-muggie tomorrow.'

'Hugga-muggie?'

'Same thing as haggis,' Angus said helpfully, 'but made with a fish stomach instead of sheep.'

'How… lovely.'

'Och, I'll tell her to stuff one up, then,' George assured her.

Margaret watched in horror as the innkeeper pranced back to the kitchen. 'We cannot eat here tomorrow,' she hissed across the table. 'I don't care if we have to change inns.'

'So don't eat the hugga-muggie.' Angus forked a huge bite into his mouth and chewed.

'And how am I supposed to avoid that, when you've been prattling on about what good manners it is to praise the innkeeper's food?'

Angus was still chewing, so he managed to avoid answering. Then he took a long swig of the ale that one of George's servants had slipped onto the table. 'Aren't you even going to try it?' he asked, motioning to the untouched haggis on her plate.

She shook her head, her huge green eyes looking somewhat panicked.

'Try a bite,' he urged, attacking his own portion with great relish.

'I can't. Angus, I tell you, it's the oddest thing, and I don't know how I know this, but if I eat one bite of this haggis, I will die.'

He washed down the haggis with another sip of ale, looked up at her with all the seriousness he could muster, and asked, 'You're sure of this?'

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.