Man Of The Mist. Elizabeth Mayne

you go, then.” Willie gave ground a step or two, and Evan squeezed between his friend’s large body and the door, then held the crowd back so that the girl could come out, as well.

      “You didn’t have to give up your place, too,” she said as they reached the less crowded wooden banquette.

      “Oh, I don’t mind.” Evan stopped on the edge of the crowd, looking right and left down the line of carriages that had discharged their passengers onto the banquettes but had yet to clear the traffic on High Street. It made him glad he’d taken a room in town for the night. “Do you see your carriage?”

      The girl had turned away from him, searching around the boards, looking for her elusive ticket. Then she about-faced and stood on tiptoe, shielding her eyes from the glare of the low sun with her hand. “No.”

      “You’re sure your voucher isn’t in your reticule?”

      “Quite sure.” She moved her hand away from her face and looked directly at him. One look followed another, and then she jerked her head up and down, twice, searching him over from head to toe.

      A lot of ladies fussed over Evan’s looks, but no one had ever done that to him, and he felt right peculiar because of it. She made him worry that he’d somehow forgotten some vital article of clothing or, worse, got his kilt hiked up over his belt so that he had his arse — or something more personal — exposed. Had he broken out in spots? Forgotten to shave a newly sprouted patch of whiskers off his jaw? “Is something wrong?”

      “What’s your name?” she demanded.

      Well, he almost lied and claimed to be a Campbell, because MacGregors had been doing that for ten generations, just so that their bloody heads remained securely attached to their shoulders. “Who is it that wants to know?”

      The pretty girl blinked in obvious surprise at his defensive reply, which certainly didn’t answer her question. A little indentation sharpened the lines of her eyebrows, and she pressed her very full lips down. It was a full minute before she said, “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Elizabeth... Murray. Aren’t you Evan...Evan MacGregor MacGregor?”

      Well, Evan didn’t say anything, because in all truth, she’d just knocked him speechless.

      “You can’t be Elizabeth Murray,” he said foolishly. “Why, Elizabeth Murray is only fifteen years old—just turned that, in fact.”

      “And so I did, April the nineteenth. And if you’re Evan MacGregor, you recently sent me a watercolor picture of a bluebird you bought from an art student in Paris by the name of James Audubon.” She flashed him a smile that revealed beautiful teeth and a deep dimple in her left cheek. “And I might add, Evan MacGregor, you’ve changed, too! You’re taller than Tullie, and ever so much more handsome. I didn’t recognize you at all. Oh, Evan, it’s been so long!”

      There he was, standing on High Street, and Izzy Murray was squealing like any chit of ten and five. Worse, she was throwing lovely, slender arms around his neck and kissing him on the mouth and pressing those sweet, full breasts of hers flush against his chest, afore God and all of Edinburgh!

      He thought he was going to die. Blessed Saint Cuthbert, he thought he was going to die. Else be hanged, drawn and quartered right there on High Street by the duke of Atholl’s henchmen because here was this tender young lass — not a sennight beyond her fifteenth birthday — throwing herself all over him.

      She turned what had only been mild arousal into the hardest bone he’d ever felt in his whole life, kissing him and squealing like a happy piglet, bringing the attention and the ire of half the Highlands down on the good-for-nothing heir apparent of the Gregarach — the Children of the Mist.

      Elizabeth Murray was a woman grown, at fifteen years old! He hadn’t seen her in ages. In his mind, his Izzy still had plaits, and ankle-high dresses covered by pinafores.

      But he’d written her hundreds and hundreds of letters, and she’d answered every one. Not one of which lately had hinted that the changes a lassie goes through to become a woman had already happened to her.

      Somehow, Evan got hold of her shoulders and set her back, at the full length of his arms, scowling at that beautiful woman’s face that he would never have recognized in a hundred years on his little Izzy.

      “I can’t believe it. You’re Izzy?” He shook his head in denial. “You should have written me that you’d grown up. Why, look at you. I’m shocked. You should have sent me a miniature, or at least given me a hint or two. You could have said, ‘Oh, by the way, Evan, did you know I’m five and a half feet tall and I weigh eight stone?’”

      “But you’ve changed, too. I hate to tell you this, but your face is all shaped just like all the MacGregors’. That’s what made me ask your name. When you didn’t say your name outright, I knew it. You had to be a MacGregor. Anyone else would have said his name right out.”

      “You didn’t need to remind me of that,” Evan grumbled, reminded of his not-so-respectable ancestors, who’d got the name MacGregor proscribed on pain of death. “So what are we going to do about this lost voucher of yours?”

      “We could just wait out here and talk until Amalia realizes I’m not inside.” There was definitely the light of flirtation sparking in her eyes... and something else, too. Evan hardly dared to guess what. “She’s bound to come looking for me sooner or later. Later, I hope.”

      More than just mischief was dancing in her bright eyes when she linked arms with him and tilted her pert face upward, smiled and started walking toward Saint Giles’s.

      “Aye, but you’ll still need a voucher to get past the dragon at the door.” Evan nervously attempted to disengage himself from her arm.

      “I suppose.” Elizabeth glanced up and down the crowded street again. “Let’s go look for Papa’s carriage.”

      She tightened her hold on Evan’s arm, and he had no choice except to escort her up High Street, searching for the duke of Atholl’s carriage, which was parked under an overhang at Luckenbooths, next to the cathedral.

      The coachman and footman took exception to the duke’s youngest daughter showing up arm in arm with a stranger. Izzy’s laughing explanation of who Evan was didn’t pacify a pair of henchmen old enough to have hunted Rob Roy himself before the proscription act against clan MacGregor was repealed by Parliament in 1774. Both looked inclined to unsheathe their claymores, part his head from his shoulders and then ask, after the fact, why they couldn’t get paid the usual bounty.

      “We’d best go back and wait on the steps outside Bell’s Wynd,” Evan said wisely. But Izzy insisted she search the carriage. The henchman and coachman grunted ominously as she did that.

      “It’s not here,” she said with a disappointed shrug of her shoulders that was followed by the brightest smile for Evan. “Well, no matter. Come along, we’ll go back and wait at the door. The aunts will miss me soon enough, even if Amalia doesn’t.”

      That said, she threaded her arm through Evan’s again, oblivious of the glares of her father’s tail.

      They returned the way they’d come, under escort this time, and remained under scrutiny the whole time they waited, until one of the Murrays inside Bell’s Wynd came out.

      As luck would have it, James Murray, who was three years older than Evan and also studying at Cambridge, came to fetch his sister. He recognized Evan at once, and clapped him on the back with a high regard that went a little ways in reducing the glares coming from the duke’s henchmen.

      As the crowd at the entrance had dwindled, the matter of Elizabeth’s missing ticket was easily covered. She wasn’t just a daughter of the highest-ranking Scottish noble attending the assembly. Miss Nicky Murray of Mansfield, the patroness of Bell’s Wynd, was Elizabeth’s great-aunt.

      Disaster was thus averted, and Elizabeth reluctantly released her hold upon Evan, to be escorted by James back to her plethora of chaperones.

      Cut loose and