Page 16 of The Tartan Trap

The boy frowned, his smudged nose dipping with the expression. “How can you love someone you haven’t even seen?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous.” Callum frowned. “We’ve been writing to each other—secret penpals. I’ve been looking for her for years.”

It was a strange mixture of truth and lies. He had been looking for a woman he wanted to make his wife, so that part was true. And this Miss Margaret had been writing letters, though she certainly hadn’t intended upon Callum being the recipient.

If he were being honest, Callum didn’t know why he’d told the boy his feelings about her in the first place. Perhaps it was because he longed to confess to somebody, anybody. He felt as if the last few days had been the most monumental of his life. Yet there was no outward change, no mark of the transformation that had taken place.

Stephen scowled. “And what do you plan to do, once you’ve met her?”

Callum shrugged. “Marry her, if she’ll have me.”

“You’re from Scotland,” he accused.

Callum nodded his agreement. lt wasn’t something he could hide, not the moment he spoke to someone, at least.

Stephen thought for long moments, then tilted his head. “How much is the information worth to you, then?”

He dug in his waistcoat and came up with a sovereign. The other boys gasped.

Stephen’s eyebrows flew upward; he held out his hand. “Mighty generous of you.”

Callum held the coin just out of reach. “The information first. Then payment.”

Just then, the door to the neighboring church creaked open. A thin woman emerged and paused upon the crooked steps, blinking for several moments in the sunshine.

“That’s her. That’s Miss Margaret,” Stephen said, snatching the coin from Callum’s fingers and darting away.

Callum didn’t care that the boy and his cohorts left so suddenly. He stared at the woman. She was a bit older than he’d expected, perhaps thirty or so years of age. Her dark brown hair was pulled back severely against her head. Her dress was of fine make, though it had been mended many times. She was exceedingly plain in both face and figure, her narrow lips drawn downward in a deep frown.

Callum didn’t care. He started across the street, his heart pounding.

It’s happening, he thought. I’m going to meet her.

When he got close enough, the woman blinked up at him in alarm. She pulled her wrap more closely about her shoulders.

“Miss Margaret?” he asked lamely.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Callum frowned. “Pardon me, Miss…?”

“It’s Mrs., sir. Mrs. Cooper.”

Callum’s heart sank. She was married already. “My apologies.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you, sir?” The woman glanced about nervously, as if this might be some sort of a trick.

“Apologies. It’s just—I found something of yours. A journal.” Callum dug in his pocket and presented the small book.

The woman stepped back, frowning as if she found the journal objectionable. “That’s not mine, sir. I have no journal.”

He frowned. “But you are Margaret, are you not?”

“Of course not, sir. My name’s Martha. Martha Cooper.”

“My mistake,” he said, tucking the book back into his pocket. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

Callum turned and scanned the street, frowning, but of course the redheaded boy was nowhere to be seen. He’d gone and taken Callum’s sovereign with him.