She crossed the little humpbacked bridge outside the hotel and then nipped across the road to the harbor. She walked briskly, making her escape. Heritage Tours expected their travelers to participate in the evening entertainments. Not attending was a breach of package-tourist etiquette. Margo didn’t care. She did feel a twinge of regret. The Old Harbour Inn was swoon-worthy. She’d fallen in love the instant she’d stepped inside the centuries-old hotel. A onetime coaching inn and so atmospheric that it seemed scandalous for the dimly lit interior to be crammed with tourists in modern-day clothes. The public rooms were long, dark, and low, with black ceiling rafters and natural stone walls. The wooden floor was spotlessly clean, but creaked delightfully. A huge fireplace stood at the end of the bar and—Margo’s pulse quickened—an authentic peat fire glowed in the grate, filling the air with earthy-rich sweetness. The pub also smelled faintly of fish-and-chips and ale and, best of all, the heady elixir of age.
