“Aye.”

Margot cleared her throat and adjusted her cloak. “Ahem. I’ve come to inquire about a bit of tartan plaid.”

He looked surprised. Then suspicious.

“There is to be a gathering of sorts tonight...that is, the laird has kindly offered to host a gathering to welcome me home...and I should very much like to don a bit of plaid.”

“Ye want to don a plaid,” he repeated incredulously.

Was that so shocking? “I would like to, yes.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Ye’ve had a change of heart, is that it?”

Margot could scarcely blame his skepticism—he had come offering her various plaids before. He’d had a cart of them, proud of his work, and she...well, she had refused them. She could recall how appalled she’d been that anyone would think she would suddenly don the rough wool, and she had politely...or perhaps not so politely...refused them. “I suppose I have. I apologize, Mr. Creedy. I should never have been so hasty—”

“Ach, never ye mind, milady. It doesna matter what was said before, as long as we come back round to right.”

Margot blinked. She felt strangely deceptive, as she wasn’t entirely certain she’d come back to the fold. Or had she? Her purpose at Balhaire seemed so suddenly confusing.

Mr. Creedy read guilt into her hesitation. “Donna trouble yourself with regrets,” he said. “What sort would you like, then?”

“What sort?”

“An arisaid, then? A waistcoat? I’ve no’ enough time for that.”

“A what? No, not a waistcoat.”

“Aye, come, come,” he said, waving her in with a hand bent with age.

She ducked her head and stepped inside his house. It was a single room and it smelled of fish. In one half was a bed. In the other half sat a large loom, as well as various fabrics and yarns hanging from the walls. There was a shelf where several plaids were neatly folded and stacked. He took one from the stack and unfurled it, holding it up to her. It was an enormous cloth, a blanket big enough to cover the master bed.

“I’ll show you how it’s worn, then, if it suits ye. I’ll cut a strip and make a sash of it, aye?”

“Aye,” she said without thinking.

He draped it over her shoulder, reached around her and pulled one end to her hip, and then met that end with the other. “Fasten it here with a luckenbooth, aye?”

“A brooch? Ah. I see,” she said. “Yes, it’s perfect, Mr. Creedy. Thank you. Is it possible you might have it ready for this evening?”

“I’ll have it done in the hour. I’ll send it up with me lad then, shall I?”

“Thank you.” Margot smiled and gratefully squeezed the old man’s hand.

* * *