As Luke drove them through the village of Wester Duddingston, he slowed the horses. When Emma glanced over at him, she saw that he was gazing at a middle-aged woman who was emerging from behind the church, staggering under the weight of what appeared to be two very heavy baskets slung over her forearms. “Here we go.” Luke halted the horses and handed Emma the ribbons. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Bemused, she held the horses and watched him saunter up to the woman. Emma was too far away to hear anything more than snippets of their conversation, but she could tell by the woman’s quick speech and fretful motions that she was overcome by Luke’s handsome bearing. And perhaps also by the fact that he was English and very clearly of the aristocracy. “Do ye mean Colin Macmillan? Oh, aye,” the woman said, and went on chattering in a lower voice, her tone conspiring. She was probably telling Luke everything she knew about the man.
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