Page 65 of The Tartan Trap

“On the contrary. I found exactly what I was looking for.”

His eyes were heavy upon hers, his meaning plain. Her cheeks went hot—a mixture of discomfit and pleasure, and she averted her gaze.

“Besides,” he said, dispelling the moment. “There are many things here that one cannot find in Scotland.”

“Such as?”

“The museums are nice.”

“What about the theater?”

“I'm not a fan of it, myself.”

“Whyever not?”

“The chairs are far too small and closely spaced for my liking. I’m forever having to sit like this so I don’t elbow the person next to me.” He hunched and tucked his elbows close to his frame. “And even still, the people behind me hiss their disappointment at not being able to see the show at all.”

Margaret laughed. “I’ve never been a bother to the person behind me. Perhaps because my brother insists on reserving a private box.”

“It’s not that; it’s because you’re short.”

“Five foot five is a perfectly acceptable height, thank you very much.”

“It’s short.” He smiled.

“Only by comparison. Would you rather I was built like you?” Margaret held her arms out from her sides and stomped forward. “A great lumbering lummox?”

Callum laughed, his eyes closed against the force of his own mirth. Margaret dropped her arms and stared. The sight of his head tipped back, his tanned throat exposed, his face split into a grin—it stunned her.

“No, I’m glad you’re not built like me. I might have fled in terror.” He recovered from his laughter enough to notice her frown. “What? What is it?”

Truthfully, Margaret’s mind was a muddle, but the issue that had consumed many of her thoughts over the past few days was clear. Suddenly, she felt she had the courage—or the desperation—to ask it directly.

“I’m just wondering why you paused the other evening at the ball, when I asked what drew me to your attention in the first place.” Margaret hoped that he didn't hear the slight tremor of vulnerability in her voice.

If Callum did, he ignored it. He swallowed deeply.

His expression was grave when he said, “I confess I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“So you admit it, then.” She blinked. “You’ve been lying to me.”

Margaret felt a strange pairing of emotions—a tiny thrill of vindication that she’d been right all along, quickly swallowed by a much darker disappointment that she didn’t wish to examine too closely. She wished to escape both feelings; she suddenly wished she hadn’t asked the question at all. She strode forward, her parasol clutched in her hand.

Callum walked with her as if he hadn’t noticed she was attempting to flee. “I’ve never outright lied to you, Margaret.”

“Yes, you have! And what’s worse, I should have known better than to believe you!” She exhaled a bleak laugh. “Heaven’s sakes, you’ve even told me you think I’m the most beautiful lady in the ton.”

“Because you are the most beautiful woman in the ton,” he said calmly. “At least to me.”

“What are you getting at?” she snapped, rounding on him. “You’ve already admitted you lied, so what do you hope to get from continuing this little game of yours?”

His forehead creased. “I’m not playing a game, Margaret. I’m exceedingly serious.”

Margaret hardly heard him. “Calling me beautiful. Bringing me flowers. I don’t find it funny.”

“Neither do I, I simply⁠—”

“Lavinia Bleecher has a dowry almost as big as mine, and she’s twice as pretty. Go bother her.”