Margaret came awake the following morning just the way she always did: completely and in an instant.
She sat upright, blinked the sleep from her eyes, and real-ized three things. One, she was in the bed. Two, Angus was not. And three, he wasn't even in the room.
She hopped to her feet, grimacing at the irreparably wrinkled state of her skirts, and made her way to the small table. The empty cranachan bowls were still there, as were the sturdy pewter spoons, but they had been joined by a folded piece of paper. It was wrinkled and smudged, and looked as if it had been torn from a larger piece of paper. Margaret imagined that Angus had had to search the inn fairly thoroughly just to find this little scrap.
She smoothed it open and read:
Gone for breakfast. Will return shortly.
He hadn't bothered to sign it. Not that that mattered, Mar-garet thought as she searched the room for something with which she might brush her hair. As if the note could have come from anyone but Angus.
She smiled as she looked down at the bold, confident handwriting. Even if someone else had had the opportunity to slip the note into her room, she would have known it was from him. His personality was right there in the lines of his letters.
There was nothing to use as a brush, so she settled for her fingers as she moved to the window. She pushed the curtains aside and peeked out. The sun had made an appearance, and the cerulean sky was gently dotted with clouds. A perfect day.
Margaret shook her head and sighed as she heaved the window open for some fresh air. Here she was in Scotland- with, as it turned out, no reason to be in Scotland-she had no money, her clothing was stained beyond redemption, and her reputation would probably be in shreds by the time she returned home.
But at least it was a perfect day.
The village had already come awake. Margaret watched a young family cross the street and enter a small shop, then shifted her gaze onto yet one more couple who had clearly just eloped. Then she took to counting all the young couples moving from street to inn and back to street.
She didn't know whether to smile or frown. All this eloping couldn't be a good thing, and yet some romantic corner of her soul had been stirred the previous night. Maybe some of these new brides and grooms weren't the complete idiots she'd called them the night before. It wasn't entirely unreasonable to suppose that some of them actually had good reasons for running off to Scotland to elope.
With an uncharacteristically sentimental sigh, she leaned a little farther out the window and started making up stories for all the couples. That young lady had an overbearing father, and this young man wanted to wed his true love before he joined the army.
She was trying to decide which young lady had the wicked stepmother, when a thunderous cry shook the building. Margaret looked down just in time to see Angus tearing out into the street.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnne!"
Margaret gasped. His sister!
Sure enough, a tall, black-haired miss was standing on the other side of the street, looking extremely panicked as she tried to hide behind an obviously well-maintained carriage.
"Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce," Margaret whispered. If she didn't get down there soon, Angus was going to kill his sister. Or at least frighten her into temporary insanity.
Picking up her skirts to well above her ankles, Margaret dashed out of the room.
Angus had been feeling reasonably cheerful, whistling to himself as he'd set about finding the perfect Scottish breakfast to bring back to Margaret. Porridge, of course, and a true Scottish scone were necessities, but Angus wanted to give her a taste of his country's delectable smoked fish as well.
George had told him that he'd have to go across the street to the fishmonger in order to get some wild salmon, and so he'd told the innkeeper that he'd be back in a few minutes for the porridge and scones, and pushed open the front door.
He hadn't even taken a step into the street when he spied it. His carriage. Sitting innocently across the street with two of his best horses hitched up to it.
Which could only mean one thing.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnne!"
His sister's head poked out from around the side of the carriage. Her lips parted with horror, and he saw her mouth his name.
"Anne Greene," he roared, "don't you take another step!"
She froze. He barreled across the street.
"Angus Greene!" came the shout from behind him. "Don't you take another step!"
Margaret?
Anne stretched out a little farther from behind the carriage, the stark terror in her eyes giving way to curiosity.
Angus turned around. Margaret was racing toward him with all the grace and delicacy of an ox. She was, as always, completely focused on a single subject. Unfortunately, this time that subject was him.
"Angus," she said in that matter-of-fact tone of hers that made him almost think she knew what she was talking about, "you don't want to do anything rash."
"I wasn't planning on doing anything rash," he said with what he would deem saintly patience. "I was just going to strangle her."
Anne gasped.
"He doesn't mean it," Margaret hastened to add. "He's been very worried about you."
"Who are you?" Anne asked.
"I do mean it!" Angus shouted. He jabbed his finger at his sister. "You, young lady, are in very big trouble."
"She has to grow up sometime," Margaret said. "Remember what you said to me last night about Edward."
Anne turned to her brother. "Who is she?"
"Edward was running off to join the navy," Angus growled, "not following a fool's dream to London."
"Oh, and I suppose London is worse than the navy," Margaret scoffed. "At least she isn't going to have her arm shot off by some Portuguese sniper. Besides, a season in London isn't a fool's dream. Not for a girl her age."
Anne's face brightened visibly.
"Look at her," Angus protested, waving his arm at his sister while he stared at Margaret. "Look how beautiful she is. Every rakehell in London will be after her. I'm going to have to beat them off with a stick."
Margaret turned to Angus's sister. Anne was quite pretty, with the same thick black hair and dark eyes that her brother possessed. But she was no one's idea of a classic beauty. No one's but Angus's.
Margaret's heart swelled. She hadn't, until that very minute, realized just how well Angus loved his sister. She laid a hand on his arm. "Maybe it's time to let her grow up," she said softly. "Didn't you say you had a great-aunt in London? She won't be alone."
"Aunt Gertrude has already written that I might stay with her," Anne said. "She said she would like the company. I think she might be lonely."
Angus's chin jutted forward like an angry bull. "Don't try to make this about Aunt Gertrude. You want to go to London because you want to go to London, not because you're worried about Gertrude."
"Of course I want to go to London. I never said I didn't. I was merely trying to point out that my going benefits two people, not just one."
Angus scowled at her, and she scowled back, and Margaret caught her breath at how alike the two siblings looked in that moment. Unfortunately, they also looked as if they might come to blows at any moment, so she deftly stepped between them, looked up (Anne was a good six inches taller than she was, and Angus topped her by well over a foot), and said, "That's very sweet of you, Anne. Angus, don't you think Anne made a good point?"
"Who's side are you on?" Angus growled.
"I'm not on anybody's side. I'm just trying to be reasonable." Margaret pulled on his forearm, drew him aside, and said in a low voice, "Angus, this is exactly the same situation about which you counseled me last night."
"It's not at all the same thing."
"And why not?"
"Your brother is a man. My sister is just a girl."
Margaret glowered at him. "And what is that supposed to mean? Am I 'just a girl' as well?"