Page 66 of The Tartan Trap

“Please,” he said, his palms outstretched in a placating gesture. “Calm down.”

If those words had ever had their intended effect when a gentleman spoke them to a lady, it certainly wasn’t in this instance.

Margaret’s anger flared pure and bright; she thwacked Callum in the knee with her parasol. A little too hard, perhaps, as there was a splintering sound. Margaret gasped; her eyes went wide.

Callum’s brow furrowed in concern and he cupped a large hand at her elbow. “Are you quite all right?”

“Me?” Her voice sounded as dazed as she felt. Most of her anger had somehow been leeched from her body by the warmth of his hand. “You were the one just struck.”

“Ach, you couldn’t hurt me with that little bit of lace.” He smiled, but there was hint of wariness to his features. “Margaret, I haven’t lied—I’ve meant every single compliment I’ve ever given you. Why do you insist on believing I’m having fun at your expense?”

“Because—because…” Heat flooded her cheeks.

Margaret could hardly tell him the truth—that she couldn’t imagine a world in which a man like him was courting her seriously. Callum was tall and broad and deliciously masculine. When he walked through a ballroom, all the fans fluttered in his wake—out of necessity, as the ladies were just trying to cool themselves.

And though Margaret liked who she was on the inside, she was acutely aware that there was simply more of her than there was of other ladies. She wasn’t too short, but she was definitely plump. Chairs were always placed too close together for her liking, and her dresses required more yardage.

Margaret sighed.

If anything, Callum’s look of concern grew. “You truly believe I would treat you in such a way. Why?” He paused as if considering his own question for several moments. A positively lethal expression took hold of his features. His eyes narrowed, his head cocked ever so slowly. “Has someone made sport of you in such a way before?”

Margaret momentarily couldn’t speak; she just shook her head.

Callum fairly growled, “If you point me in his direction, I swear that past wrong will be swiftly rectified.”

She fought a shiver at his words. It wasn’t just because they were spoken in that deep voice of his—it was because she suspected Callum truly meant them. Margaret felt that if she were but to speak a man’s name, that man would meet with some sort of calamity in the near future. There was a small barbaric part of her that found that exceedingly attractive.

“No.” She shook her head. “There’s no one.”

“Then what is it? Do you not wish to marry?”

“That isn’t it,” she said reflexively. Then she cursed herself a fool, for if she had been smarter, quicker, she could have told him she didn’t, and the whole thing would have been ended. The trouble was, Margaret didn’t think that was what she truly wanted—not anymore.

“Is it me that you object to?” he asked.

Margaret shook her head and barely kept from rolling her eyes. How was she to put such a thing into words?

“Just tell me,” he said, and there was something so earnest about his wheedling tone that, to both of their surprise, she did.

CHAPTER 24- MARGARET

“Ithought—” she started. She swallowed and gathered her courage. “I thought if I married anyone, it would be the third son of an earl.”

Callum stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

“You know,” she said. “A gentleman with a crooked nose and a hump in his back from studying textbooks in low light.”

Callum’s frown only deepened. Finally he said, “You’re in love with the third son of an earl who’s a humpback?”

“Don’t be purposefully obtuse.” Margaret began walking again.

She’d thought she’d been hurrying along, but Callum, mammoth that he was, kept pace with her easily.

“I confess I am confused,” he said.” Is there an earl’s son, or is there not?”

“Apparently not,” she said, stopping in the center of the path once more. “Apparently there’s only you.” She gestured at him lamely.

“And what is it about me that you find so objectionable?”