Her voice cracked.
Oh-oh. Better try and lighten the mood a bit…
”You know,” Malcolm said off-handedly, “there’s something you really ought to know before your next scouting trip.”
She blinked tears, sounding absolutely miserable. “what?”
”Mmm …” He glanced at Kit and winked. “There’s rather a large difference between Old Nick and Saint Nick.”
She stared at him, so nonplussed she forgot to keep crying. “Old Nick? Saint Nick? What are you talking about?”
Malcolm glanced at Kit. The scout’s lips quirked. Then his eyes crinkled and he couldn’t contain it any longer. He started to laugh. Malcolm grinned. Margo, clad in nothing but an Irish alley-cat glare and a too-loose sixteenth-century shirt, glared from one to the other as though they’d misplaced their collective wits.
”What’s so funny?” she demanded.
Kit lay back and roared.
Malcolm wiped his eyes. “You called down the wrath of Santa Claus…”
Margo opened her lips over air. Then she started to chuckle. “I did?”
”Oh, Margo,” Kit gasped, “you sure as hell did, honey.”
Malcolm was still wiping tears. “It was priceless I had visions of the heavens splitting open and a vengeful team of reindeer screaming down at Mach eight while the jolly old elf threw Christmas boxes like grenades … .”
That set Kit off again. Margo just grinned, taking the ribbing with surprisingly good humor. Then her laughter vanished.
Kit sat up hastily. “What’s wrong? Oh, hell …. You’re hurt and here we are laughing like idiots-”
”No … no, it’s Kynan.” She sank to her knees beside him. “Why did he do that? Throw himself in front of me that way?”