Page 74 of The Virtues of Christmas

Harry’s gaze slewed from Patience to Dougal.

“Harry, get out,” Dougal said. “This is a private discussion.”

“Wait for me, Harry,” Patience said, tossing Dougal’s columns at him and retrieving her cloak and scarf from the next room. “I’m leaving, and I doubt I’ll be back. I cannot abide a liar, Mr. MacHugh, much less a man who lies for his own self-interest.”

She nearly ran out the door, leaving Dougal standing alone, his lovely penmanship scattered at his feet. Harry—bless the boy—snatched up the parcels of food and came after her. The streets were a mess, with only narrow paths shoveled clear, but few people were abroad to hamper her progress.

“Harry, you needn’t accompany me. In my present mood, nobody will accost me and live to tell of his folly.”

“If I don’t accompany you, what do you think my chances of surviving Dougal’s temper are, miss?”

“Dougal cannot blame you for a mess of his own creation. He lied, Harry. I know he’s your cousin, but he was not honest with me. This whole exercise, day after day of writing and revising, his lectures about how competition would pique the readers’ interest, all that blather about increasing the print runs—I doubt he increased them, he just wanted me to think… I feel like an idiot.”

Patience felt like a naïve, gullible, gormless dupe, her future in tatters—again.

“You’re not an idiot,” Harry said, nearly losing his balance on a slippery spot. “But I’m seeing you home, and I thought we might fortify ourselves with a bite of warm toast along the way.”

“Touch that toast, Harry MacHugh, and you’ll return to Perthshire in a pine box.”

He passed her one of the parcels. “Yes, miss.”

Patience tolerated his escort as far as her own street, then took the second parcel from him and sent him on his way. Only when Harry had disappeared around the corner did she let herself begin to cry.