"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.

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."