willing to make if it meant keeping her.
And if the city was so terrible, why was she so determined to return?
“Will you at least think on my offer?” he asked gruffly.
She did not answer.
He pulled the plaid around him and then gained his feet and belted it into place. He had one more thing to say to her, and he hoped she was listening. “I ken you’re a good reporter, Pen. I can see it in the way you work, the questions you ask. I’m not asking you to give that up. I would come to you, wherever you decided to live. But living a life of loneliness is no life at all.” He hesitated. “I know, because it’s the life I’ve led until now.”
In the darkness, he could hear her swallow.
“I won’t press you, if the thought of me coming to London is so distasteful. ’Tis your choice, and if you go, know you are always welcome to return, whenever you want. But you don’t need to be independent to prove yourself to other people, or to me. I ken how brave you are. But perhaps it’s sometimes braver to risk your heart, aye?”
She stood motionless. Wordless.
And he knew then that he’d lost her. She was going back to London. Without him.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her.
----
The London Times, Tuesday, August 22, 1843
AN IDYLLIC SETTING IN
MORAIG, SCOTLAND
by P. Tolbertson
It is rare that a holiday changes your life.
Most people travel for a bit of adventure or perhaps a well-deserved rest. Others travel to visit a location of historical significance and spend their time prowling for artifacts or knowledge. But it is uncommon to find a place that has all these things and moreover leaves you transformed by the experience.
Moraig, Scotland, is that place, and more.
Londoners seeking an escape from the swelter of summer can find no more perfect idyll and should set their sights on this charming little town posthaste. Visitors are greeted by men draped in ancient plaids, their Highland heritage on full and proud display. Refreshing breezes off the nearby Atlantic coast and well-furbished rooms at the local inn tempt you to spend the entire holiday in a state of relaxation. At night, Moraig’s residents enjoy a bit of revelry, and the town boasts a dozen varieties of fine Scottish whisky. Try the local ale at the Blue Gander’s public room, and be sure to ask for Miss Sally, who will serve you a wink along with your pint. History lovers will appreciate Kilmartie Castle and the ruins along the shores of Loch Moraig. Keep an eye out for the crodh mara, fairy creatures who emerge from the loch under moonlight—they might very well steal your desire to return home.
And should you find your heart captured by the loveliness of the town or perhaps one of its residents, do not despair. The local blacksmith can marry you, if you’ve a notion. And if you are unsure of your heart, remember . . .
There is always next year.
----
C HAPTER N INE
“Y ou’re an idiot.”
William rolled his eyes, given that this was at least the third time this week he’d been told something of the sort, most recently by his brother, James. The fact that the latest claim came from McRory did little to soothe his fraying temper.
“Aye.” He glared at the butcher. “You’ll not find an argument from me there. But we need every able-bodied man between the ages of fifteen and fifty to stand in their plaid and greet the tourists. Today is your turn, and I dinna particularly care if you object or not.”
McRory scowled. “Ye daft nubbin, this isn’t about the plaid. You are an idiot to have let Miss Tolbertson go.”
A growl loosened in William’s chest to have the conversation circle predictably around to Pen. He understood he was an idiot in that vein as well, and the entire town took every opportunity to remind him. “I dinna let her do anything. She decided her own way.”
“Well, you’ve been nothing but unpleasant since she left two months ago, and you’re as liable to scare the bloody
And if the city was so terrible, why was she so determined to return?
“Will you at least think on my offer?” he asked gruffly.
She did not answer.
He pulled the plaid around him and then gained his feet and belted it into place. He had one more thing to say to her, and he hoped she was listening. “I ken you’re a good reporter, Pen. I can see it in the way you work, the questions you ask. I’m not asking you to give that up. I would come to you, wherever you decided to live. But living a life of loneliness is no life at all.” He hesitated. “I know, because it’s the life I’ve led until now.”
In the darkness, he could hear her swallow.
“I won’t press you, if the thought of me coming to London is so distasteful. ’Tis your choice, and if you go, know you are always welcome to return, whenever you want. But you don’t need to be independent to prove yourself to other people, or to me. I ken how brave you are. But perhaps it’s sometimes braver to risk your heart, aye?”
She stood motionless. Wordless.
And he knew then that he’d lost her. She was going back to London. Without him.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop her.
----
The London Times, Tuesday, August 22, 1843
AN IDYLLIC SETTING IN
MORAIG, SCOTLAND
by P. Tolbertson
It is rare that a holiday changes your life.
Most people travel for a bit of adventure or perhaps a well-deserved rest. Others travel to visit a location of historical significance and spend their time prowling for artifacts or knowledge. But it is uncommon to find a place that has all these things and moreover leaves you transformed by the experience.
Moraig, Scotland, is that place, and more.
Londoners seeking an escape from the swelter of summer can find no more perfect idyll and should set their sights on this charming little town posthaste. Visitors are greeted by men draped in ancient plaids, their Highland heritage on full and proud display. Refreshing breezes off the nearby Atlantic coast and well-furbished rooms at the local inn tempt you to spend the entire holiday in a state of relaxation. At night, Moraig’s residents enjoy a bit of revelry, and the town boasts a dozen varieties of fine Scottish whisky. Try the local ale at the Blue Gander’s public room, and be sure to ask for Miss Sally, who will serve you a wink along with your pint. History lovers will appreciate Kilmartie Castle and the ruins along the shores of Loch Moraig. Keep an eye out for the crodh mara, fairy creatures who emerge from the loch under moonlight—they might very well steal your desire to return home.
And should you find your heart captured by the loveliness of the town or perhaps one of its residents, do not despair. The local blacksmith can marry you, if you’ve a notion. And if you are unsure of your heart, remember . . .
There is always next year.
----
C HAPTER N INE
“Y ou’re an idiot.”
William rolled his eyes, given that this was at least the third time this week he’d been told something of the sort, most recently by his brother, James. The fact that the latest claim came from McRory did little to soothe his fraying temper.
“Aye.” He glared at the butcher. “You’ll not find an argument from me there. But we need every able-bodied man between the ages of fifteen and fifty to stand in their plaid and greet the tourists. Today is your turn, and I dinna particularly care if you object or not.”
McRory scowled. “Ye daft nubbin, this isn’t about the plaid. You are an idiot to have let Miss Tolbertson go.”
A growl loosened in William’s chest to have the conversation circle predictably around to Pen. He understood he was an idiot in that vein as well, and the entire town took every opportunity to remind him. “I dinna let her do anything. She decided her own way.”
“Well, you’ve been nothing but unpleasant since she left two months ago, and you’re as liable to scare the bloody
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