Free Molly by M.C. Beaton

expression, all the while clutching an extremely chic blonde in his arms.
    “May I take it?” said Lord David. He was obscurely disappointed in Molly.
    “Oh, my lord,
of course
,” breathed Mrs. Pomfret, scenting a romance.
    Lord David and the marquess walked in silence down to the little harbor of Hadsea. It was a beautiful morning with a fresh breeze scudding across the bay.
    “Here, you have a look at it first,” said Lord David, handing Roddy the book. “I only need to know the passionate bits. Spare me the rest.”
    “Right-ho!” said Roddy and bent his fair head over the pages of
The Highland Heart.
    He read and skimmed and read and skimmed and then read and read. “Stop it,” said Lord David. “You’re not supposed to be enjoying it.”
    “But it’s great stuff,” protested his friend. “Oh, well, I’ll give you the gist of it.
    “There’s this laird called Angus who lives up somewhere in the Highlands and runs about the heather with his childhood sweetheart, Morag. Then he goes off to the fleshpots of London, after giving a final ruffle to Morag’s hair—”
    “That won’t get me far,” Lord David put in gloomily.
    “Don’t interrupt. The laird hasn’t got warmed up yet.”
    “Why do lairds go to London?”
    “I don’t know. To sell grouse or something. Anyway, this Morag scrapes away at her violin in the manse—she’s the minister’s daughter—and pines for Angus. Angus returns, but on his arm—oh horrors I—is his sinister, overly sophisticated, painted fiancée, Cynthia. Hey, that’s a coincidence.”
    “My Cynthia is not overpainted. Stop digressing,” said Lord David.
    “Oh, yes, where was I? Well, this Cynthia puts old Morag’s eye out, her with painted nails and Paris gowns—Cynthia, I mean. But the veil is torn from Angus’s eyes—”
    “The veil? What’s the chappie wearing a veil for? Is he a pansy?”
    “Of course not. That’s poetic, that is. And how is the veil torn? Angus comes upon Cynthia beating a kitchen maid with a riding crop. ‘Awa, wi’ ye,’ he cries to the fair Cynthia.
    The veil has been tore frae ma eyes.’ See?”
    “And Morag throws away her violin and rushes into his arms, I suppose,” yawned Lord David.
    “Not a bit of it. She’s a strong lass, is Morag. ‘Ye cannae get roond me, ye wi’ yer seductive London ways,’ she says, throwing her head back and staring him straight in the eyes. Morag does a lot of that, by the way. Angus strides about the heather in agonies. He remembers all sorts of endearing things about his Morag. How they ran about the braes together and all that. Oh, and he remembers her tending the broken wing of a sick grouse.”
    “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” howled Lord David. “Any decent Highland lass knows exactly what to do with a grouse with a broken wing: wring its neck and pop it in the pot.”
    “You have no heart,” said Roddy severely. “How are you going to charm Miss Molly if you won’t listen? Now all seems hopeless for the laird, but the fair Morag has a dog called Hamish—”
    “Dear God.”
    “—called Hamish,” repeated Roddy firmly. “Well, this lovable mutt falls in the River Door, which is in spate. The one thing the redoubtable Morag cannot do is swim. She watches in horror as her mutt is swept downstream. But picking up his kilts—what do lairds wear under their kilts?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Filthy beast! Anyway, Angus plunges in at great risk to life and limb and rescues Hamish. He walks toward her, clasping the dripping-wet dog in his arms. ‘Oh, Angus,’ says Morag. ‘Och, Morag,’ says he, and clasps her in his strong arms and presses her dear, curly head against his manly bosom.”
    “How the bloody hell can he clasp Morag with a great wet mutt between them? What happened to the dog?” asked Lord David testily.
    Roddy scanned a few pages with a puzzled eye. “That’s funny. This writer can’t be a dog lover. He presses his firm masculine lips against her soft