Maggie by M.C. Beaton

extinguish their torches.
    Roshie put a large key in the lock and opened the door. His face had not relaxed its lines of disapproval since they had left Glasgow.
    “Is there any electricity?” asked Peter, groping about in the blackness of the hall.
    “No, my lord.”
    “Well, light the gas.”
    “Nae gas, my lord. Just candles.”
    “Dear God,” said the earl impatiently. “Then strike a match, man, and light some candles and take some money and find some restaurant which will supply you with food for all of us.”
    Roshie muttered something in Gaelic, and the earl sensed rather than saw Maggie’s hurt.
    “You will speak English from now on, Roshie,” said the earl sharply. “Mrs. Macleod is to be treated with courtesy at all times. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Yes, my lord,” said Roshie gloomily. He lit a candle and led the way into a drawing-room on the ground floor and proceeded to light branches of candles until the room was flooded with a soft light.
    Peter looked around with pleasure. The furniture had obviously not been changed since the days of the Regency. Faded, striped, green-and-gold wallpaper adorned the walls and the chairs and tables were Sheraton and Chippendale.
    Maggie sank down into a chair beside the cold fireplace.
    “Before you go to find that food,” said the earl to Roshie, “be a good fellow and see if there’s anything to drink in the cellars.”
    Roshie’s face brightened for the first time that day and he hurried off, to return some minutes later with a bottle of whisky and three glasses.
    “You may join us for a drink later, Roshie,” said the earl firmly. “Food. Now.”
    “Very well,” sighed Roshie, backing out, his eyes fixedlongingly on the bottle.
    The earl poured two glasses of whisky and gave one to Maggie. Then he bent and put a match to the paper and sticks which were arranged in the hearth and added lumps of coal from a brass scuttle, concentrating on his task until a cheerful blaze was crackling up the chimney.
    “Well, Maggie,” he said straightening up. “Here we are.”
    “Yes,” said Maggie wearily. She finished her whisky in one gulp and held out her glass for more. Maggie was fortifying herself for the inevitable. Soon they would go to bed and this strange young man would proceed to do all those terrible things to her that Inspector Macleod had done. Why couldn’t they all leave her alone? Why was she so weak and spineless? She should have stayed in Glasgow and suffered the curiosity of the mob until the house was sold and then she should have escaped to America… alone.
    As if to confirm her worst fears, the earl said, “I’ll just take a candle and inspect the bedrooms.”
    He was gone for some time. Maggie heard the street door bang and the sound of dishes being laid in the dining-room across the hall. There was a great to-ing and fro-ing as if Roshie had brought back the entire staff of a restaurant to cater to his master’s needs, which, in fact, was exactly what the enterprising Highlander had done.
    At one point, Roshie walked into the drawing-room where Maggie sat and said, “With your permission, Mrs. Macleod,” and, without waiting for it, poured himself a liberal glass of whisky and knocked it back in one gulp.
    He then gave Maggie a jerky little bow and left the room. His face had been a polite mask, but Maggie knew that Roshie disapproved of her, to say the least.
    Dinner was a silent affair. Roshie had banished the restaurant staff before calling Maggie from the drawing-room. He was afraid she might be recognized.
    The earl joined Maggie as the soup was being served byRoshie. “We’re lucky,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve been quite the little housewife. The beds are made and the fires are lit. Roshie! Splendid man! Where did you conjure up this banquet?”
    “Wee place I ken,” said Roshie. “The food’s no’ bad.”
    “Pull up a chair, Roshie,” said Peter. “You may as well join us.”
    Maggie ate very little and