Page 67 of The Tartan Trap

“Nothing.”

She could hardly admit that that was the problem. If he’d had faults—other than being relentlessly focused on her—she might have been able to talk herself into believing he wanted her. If he’d been stupid, that might have counter-balanced his daringly good looks. Inattentiveness, a bit of boorishness…even a hint of body odor would have been welcome in her mind. But there was very little to complain about if Callum had been telling the truth this whole time.

She shook her head and started walking. “I’m just trying to figure out what you see in me. You could have anyone.”

“I just want you.”

Margaret did her best not to scowl, even as a ribbon of warm delight unspooled in her stomach. “Perhaps I would feel better if this were a more private courtship, but with you about, everyone stares.”

“Who stares?”

“Everyone,” she said. “The ladies, the gentlemen, all of them.”

“And you don’t like the staring.” He said it slowly as if he was endeavoring to understand everything she was saying.

“Right,” she said. “I don’t care for it.”

“But such a thing hardly would matter as long as you cared for me,” he said, a wrinkle in his brow.

“I don’t know if I care for you,” she said honestly.

“Which is precisely my point. You don’t know me well enough.”

“Shouldn’t you say that neither of us know the other?” she demanded. “Part of what I find so discomfiting about this is how firmly you’re set upon me. Perhaps I would feel better if you’d made more of an effort in regards to other ladies. Yet, to everyone’s knowledge, I’m the only one you’ve visited. Why is that?”

He smiled. “Margaret, have you been talking about me behind my back?”

“It’s not funny, Callum.” She barely refrained from stamping her tiny foot in the grass.

“You’re right. Courting should be a serious thing, with absolutely no amusement allowed.”

Margaret sighed and gave him a withering glance as he grinned at her. “Perhaps I wouldn’t feel so out of sorts if you would admit, once and for all, that you were accompanying her down the street.”

“Accompanying who?”

“Miss Daisy Knope.”

“Who on earth is Daisy Knope?” His voice rose slightly for the very first time. “I don’t know any Daisy. I’m not sure I’ve ever met a Daisy, let alone walked with one.”

Margaret’s face twisted into a mulish glower. “That isn’t true. I saw you with her.”

“Margaret,” he said, taking a deep breath as if to regain his poise. “I haven’t accompanied any other woman on a walk since I arrived in London.”

“Yet I saw you walking with her.” Margaret’s arms were crossed.

“Where?” he demanded. “When?”

“Before the start of the Season, on Highbury Street. I was looking for…” Margaret paused, for she had been making one last-ditch effort to find her missing journal. “A pair of boots,” she finished, rather lamely.

Callum didn’t seem to have noticed her fumble. He squinted over her left shoulder as if, if he focused hard enough, he might be able to see into the past.

Finally his frown deepened and he met Margaret’s eyes. “Are you speaking of the lady with the sprained ankle?”

“Pardon?”

“I do recall there was a lady on Highbury Street. Blonde hair, lots of bric-a-brac in it.” He gestured above his head to help illustrate his meaning.

Margaret had to admit that did indeed sound like Daisy.