Gretna Greene

Angus felt himself fill with an age-old male terror-as if somehow his body knew what his mind refused to consider-that she might be The One, that somehow, no matter how hard he fought, she'd be pestering him for all eternity.

And worse, that if she ever took it upon herself to stop pestering him, he might have to track her down and chain her to his side until she started up again.

Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, it was a terrifying fate.

He tore off his shirt, furious with his reaction to her. It had started with just a hand on his arm, and the next thing he knew, he'd seen his entire life stretched out before him.

He finished dressing and stomped to the door. 'I'll wait in the hall until you're ready,' he said.

She was staring at him, her body trembling with tiny shivers.

'And take off all of those damned wet clothes,' he ordered.

'I can't just wear your coat with nothing under it,' she protested.

'You can and you will. I won't be responsible for your catching a lung fever.'

He saw her shoulders straighten and her eyes fill with steel. 'You can't order me about,' she retorted.

He raised a brow. 'You can take off your wet shirt, or I'll do it for you. It's your choice.'

She grumbled something under her breath. Angus didn't quite hear all of the words, but the ones he did catch weren't terribly ladylike.

He smiled. 'Someone ought to scold you for your language.'

'Someone ought to scold you for your arrogance.'

'You've been trying all night,' he pointed out.

She made an unintelligible sound, and Angus just barely managed to duck out the door before she threw another shoe at him.

* * *

When Margaret stuck her head out the bedroom door, Angus was nowhere to be seen. This surprised her. She hadn't known the huge Scotsman for more than a few hours, but she was fairly certain he wasn't the sort to leave a gently bred lady to fend for herself in a public inn.

She shut the door behind her quietly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, and tiptoed down the hall. She was probably safe from unwanted attention here at The Canny Man- Angus had loudly proclaimed her his wife, after all, and only a fool would provoke a man of his size. But the trials of the day had left her cautious.

In retrospect, it had probably been a foolish endeavor to trek all the way to Gretna Green by herself, but what other choice did she have? She couldn't let Edward marry one of those awful girls he'd been courting.

She reached the stairwell and peered down.

'Hungry?'

Margaret jumped about a foot and let out a short, yet quite remarkably loud, scream.

Angus grinned. 'Didn't mean to startle you.'

'Yes, you did.'

'Very well,' he admitted. 'I did. But you certainly had your revenge on my ears.'

'It serves you right,' she muttered. 'Hiding in the stairwell.'

'Actually,' he said, offering her his arm, 'I hadn't intended to hide. I would never have left the hall, except that I thought I heard my sister's voice.'

'You did? Did you find her? Was it she?'

Angus raised a bushy black brow. 'You sound rather excited about the prospect of finding someone you don't even know.'

'I know you,' she pointed out, dodging a lamp as they moved through The Canny Man's main room, 'and much as you vex me, I would like to see you locate your sister.'

His lips spread into an easy grin. 'Why, Miss Pennypacker, I think you might have just admitted that you like me.'

'I said,' she said pointedly, 'that you vex me.'

'Well, of course. I do it on purpose.'

That earned him a glare.

He leaned forward and chucked her chin. 'Vexing you is the most fun I've had in ages.'

'It isn't fun for me,' she muttered.

'Of course it is,' he said jovially, leading her into the small dining room. 'I'll wager I'm the only person you know who dares to contradict you.'

'You make me sound like a termagant.'

He pulled out a chair for her. 'Am I correct?'

'Yes,' she mumbled, 'but I'm not a termagant.'

'Of course not.' He sat down across from her. 'But you are used to having your own way.'

'So are you,' she retorted.

'Touche.'

'In fact,' she said, leaning forward with a knowing gleam in her green eyes, 'that's why your sister's disobedience is so galling. You cannot bear that she's gone against your wishes.'

Angus squirmed in his chair. It was all fun and well when he was analyzing Margaret's personality, but this was unacceptable. 'Anne has been going against my wishes since the day she was born.'

'I didn't say she was meek and mild and did everything you say-'

'Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce,' he said under his breath, 'I would that were true…'

She ignored his odd expletive. 'But Angus,' she said animatedly, using her hands to punctuate her words, 'has she ever before disobeyed you on such a grand scale? Done something that so completely disrupted your life?'

For a second, he didn't move; then he shook his head.

'See?' Margaret smiled, looking terribly pleased with herself. 'That's why you're in such a dither.'

His expression moved to the comical side of haughty. 'Men do not dither.'

Her expression moved to the ridiculous side of arch. 'I beg your pardon, but I am looking at a dithering male as we speak.'

They stared at each other across the table for several seconds, until Angus finally said, 'If you raise your eyebrows any farther, I'm going to have to physically retrieve them from your hairline.'

Margaret tried to respond in kind-he could see it in her eyes-but her humor got the best of her, and she burst out laughing.

Margaret Pennypacker consumed with laughter was a sight to behold, and Angus had never been so perfectly content to sit back and watch another person. Her mouth formed an enchanting, open-mouthed smile, and her eyes glowed with pure mirth. Her entire body shook, and she gasped for air, finally letting her brow drop down into one supporting hand.

'Oh, my goodness,' she said, pushing aside a lock of gently curving brown hair. 'Oh, my hair.'

Angus smiled. 'Does your coiffure always come undone when you laugh? Because I must say, it's a rather endearing quirk.'

She reached up and self-consciously patted her hair. 'It's mussed from the day, I'm sure. I didn't have time to re-pin it before we came down to supper and-'

'You don't need to reassure me. I have every confidence that on a normal day, every hair on your head is in place.'

Margaret frowned. She had always prided herself on a neat and tidy appearance, but Angus's words-which were surely meant as a compliment-somehow made her feel like the veriest stodge.

She was saved from further contemplation on this issue, however, by the arrival of George, the innkeeper.

'Och, there you are!' he boomed, slapping down a large earthenware dish on their table. 'All dried off, are you?'

'As best as can be expected,' Angus replied, with one of those nods that men shared when they thought they were commiserating over something.

Margaret rolled her eyes.