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had taken all his earnings and every penny of her mother’s inheritance.
    I could have helped them if I’d sold Aunt Jean’s house
.
    She pushed aside the nagging thought. “Our cottage has only two windows facing the street,” she told him, “but the villas on Victoria Square will have a glittering array of candles.”
    Though he merely nodded, she saw something flicker in his brown eyes, as if he’d formed one opinion and now was discarding it for another.
    “I imagine your family will be surprised to see you,” he said.
    Her throat tightened.
Surprised
wasn’t the word that came to mind. Alan would gloat over her being forced to return. Her parents would be relieved yet upset with her for leaving. “They certainly are not expecting me,” she admitted.
    He said nothing for a moment, as if he were listening to his boots crunch the snow. “Will your family be home this evening?”
    An odd question, Meg thought. Was he concerned about her returning to an empty house?
    “Aye, they’ll be there,” she said, imagining the Campbells at their oblong dining table—her father at the head, her mother at the foot, and Alan seated on his usual side of the table with an extra cushion on his chair, meant to make him more comfortable. Even with the gas chandelier overhead, beeswax candles would be flickering on the mantelpiece.
    “Our family dines at eight. My mother prides herself on serving a fine meal on Christmas Eve,” Meg told him as vivid recollections of past holidays swept over her. “Roasted pork with apples. Carrots, potatoes, and turnips. Fresh bread tied in a thick braid and drenched in butter …” Her voice trailed off into a melancholy silence. Her place at the table would be empty tonight.
    The gentleman beside her said, “No wonder you return home each Christmas.”
    “But I
don’t
.” The words poured out before she could stop them. “At least, I haven’t, not in years.” Was she proud of that fact? Or ashamed? “My home is in Edinburgh now. My work is there. My dearest friends are there. But my family …” She fought to regain her composure. “My family is …”
    “I understand, Miss Campbell. More than you know.” His shoulder lightly brushed against hers as they quietly walked in tandem. “Tell me why you’ve stopped coming home.”
    Could she do so? The temptation overwhelmed her. To speak honestly without the fear of hurting anyone. To open her heart to a stranger who knew nothing of her family and would leave town in the morning, carrying her secrets with him.
    Meg drew a long, steadying breath and looked straight ahead, convinced if she gazed into those warm, chestnut-colored eyes, she would feel exposed and stop at once. Whatevershe found the courage to tell him, it would be easier if she saw nothing but the steady snowfall and the backs of two passengers, now several yards ahead.
    She shivered, suddenly more aware of the cold, and tugged her hat firmly on her head. “I have a brother named Alan.” That seemed the place to begin. He was at the heart of the issue, wasn’t he? “I was four when he was born.” Even as she sought the right words, she wondered if this gentleman could possibly grasp how a single event had the power to alter a family forever.
    For most of her young life, Meg had been her father’s favorite, though she’d tried not to notice. But Alan had. As he grew, so did his resentment. Then everything changed on that January afternoon.
    In the end Meg simply said, “When my brother was ten years of age, he was badly injured.”
    The gentleman frowned. “What happened?”
    “An accident. My parents weren’t there, but I was.”
    As Meg described the scene at the curling pond, her walking companion leaned closer, his expression strangely intent. “An inebriated young man began swinging his curling stone,” she explained. “When it slipped from his grasp, the stone struck my brother in the back.” She could still recall the awful thud as the stone