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irritated David—perhaps more so because he knew that the accusation was not without justification.
    “You’re worse than a bloody mother hen at times!” he snapped. “I am capable of taking care of myself, you know.”
    Murdo looked up at that, and his eyes flashed black fire. “Oh yes, you demonstrated that amply on Monday. You could hardly walk up the three steps to the front door when you got back from McNally’s!”
    “This is ridiculous,” David muttered. He rose abruptly from his chair and stalked to the sideboard, suppressing an urge to curse at the twinge in his knee that accompanied the sudden movement. Lifting the whisky decanter, he sloshed a large measure of amber spirit into a glass and raised it to his lips. But before the glass could touch his mouth, Murdo was at his side, seizing his wrist. The whisky spilled on the back of his hand, immediately evaporating in the air, leaving nothing behind but coolness on his skin and the smell of alcohol in the air.
    “Whisky again?” Murdo bit out. “Whenever you’re confronted with something you don’t like, this is your answer, isn’t it?”
    David stared at Murdo, stricken by the venom in his voice. The bite of Murdo’s fingers on his wrist wasn’t painful, but it demanded his attention.
    “Other drunks talk too much,” Murdo went on. “But not you. You clam up. As soon as I see you reach for the whisky, I know I’ll not get another word out of you.”
    “I’m not a drunk,” David said, hurt. He’d reduced his drinking substantially since coming to Perthshire. He thought Murdo knew that.
    Wasn’t Murdo right, though, a sly little voice whispered in his head, that the times he did partake were when he was upset or worried about something, just as Murdo had said? David swallowed painfully over the sudden blockage that appeared in his throat at that thought.
    Murdo sighed. The anger in his gaze faded, and he let go of David’s wrist. Turning away, he crossed the floor to the fireplace, where he took hold of the poker and nudged at the burnt-down logs.
    After a long pause, David said quietly, “I’m not the only one who clams up about things. Every time I mention going back to Edinburgh, you shut down the conversation.”
    “If you’re so eager to go—” Murdo began to mutter.
    “I’m not,” David interrupted, his voice thick with frustration. “These last few months have been the best I’ve—” He stopped when his voice threatened to break, and took a deep breath before continuing more calmly. “Look, we both know I have to return, sooner or later. I have to earn a living, Murdo! All those years of building up my practice… If I’m to have any kind of a chance of saving it, I have to get back to work. And you—well, you have your own plans.”
    Plans like marriage. Murdo had always been clear about that. He wanted what he had with David, but he wanted the trappings of respectability too.
    Murdo turned to face David again and his handsome face was grim and unhappy.
    “I know we have to talk about this at some point. But you don’t have to make any decisions right now, do you? The fact is, your leg’s not right yet—you’ve admitted as much yourself—and I have to go to London in the next day or two to take care of some things. Can we just get that out of the way first? Please?”
    Murdo had been mentioning this London trip on and off for weeks now. There was business he had to take care of in the capital, he’d said, business he’d been putting off that couldn’t wait much longer, though he was always vague about what that business was.
    “Why is this London trip so important?”
    As he expected, Murdo looked away. “It’s difficult. I can’t explain—not yet. Please try to understand.”
    David stared at him, disappointed. He said nothing, lips pressed firmly together to stop himself wheedling, and Murdo’s unhappy look grew unhappier.
    “Please, David, I just need you to”—he broke off with a sigh of