"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 out 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?"

"I think it's sweet," Margaret said gently.

"When I arrived, my aunt was in a panic. She wouldn't let me see her. Said I was right, that Catriona was ill. But I went around back and climbed through her window. She was lying in her bed, curled up in the tightest ball you've ever seen. I've never seen anything so-" His voice broke. "I dropped the flowers."

Angus cleared his throat, then took a sip of ale. Margaret noticed that his hands were shaking. "I called her name," he said, "but she didn't respond. I called it again and reached out to touch her, but she flinched and pulled away. And then her eyes cleared, and for a moment she looked like the girl I knew so well, and she said, 'Grow strong, Angus. Grow strong for me.' "

"Two days later, she was dead." He looked up, his eyes bleak. "By her own hand."

"Oh, no…" Margaret heard herself say.

"No one told me why," Angus continued. "I suppose they thought me too young for the truth. I knew she'd killed herself, of course. Everyone knew-the church refused to bury her in consecrated ground. It was only years later that I heard the whole story."

Margaret reached across the table and took his hand. She gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Angus looked up, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded brisker, more… normal. "I don't know how much you know of Scottish politics, but we've a good many British soldiers roaming our land. We're told they're here to keep the peace."

Margaret felt something queasy growing in the pit of her stomach. "Did one of them… was she…?"

He nodded curtly. "All she did was walk from her house to the village. That was her only crime."

"I'm so sorry, Angus."

"It was a path she'd traveled all her life. Except this time, someone saw her, decided he wanted her, and took her."

"Oh, Angus. You do know that this wasn't your fault, don't you?"

He nodded again. "I was nine. What could I have done? And I didn't even learn the truth until I'd reached seventeen-the same age Catriona was when she died. But I promised myself-" His eyes burned dark and fierce. "I promised God that I'd not let another woman be hurt the same way."

He smiled lopsidedly. "And so I've found myself the subject of more brawls than I'd care to remember. And I've fought several strangers I'd rather forget. And I don't receive many thanks for my intervention, but I think that she-" His eyes flitted heavenward. "I think that she thanks me."