Gretna Greene

years?'

'Seven.'

'Now it's time to let him grow up and make his own decisions, right or wrong.'

'You yourself said no boy of eighteen knows his own mind.'

Angus swallowed a groan. There was nothing more detestable than being haunted by one's own words. 'I shouldn't want to see him marry at such an age. Good God, if he made a bad choice he'd have to live with it-her!-for rest of his life.'

'And if he made a bad choice by entering the military, how long a life will he have to regret it?' Margaret raised her face to his, and her eyes looked unbearably huge in her face. 'He could die, Angus. I don't care what people say, there is always a war. Somewhere, some stupid man will feel the need to fight with some other stupid man, and they're going to send my brother to settle it.'

'Margaret, any one of us could die tomorrow. I could walk out of this inn and be trampled by a mad cow. You could walk out of this inn and be struck by lightning. We can't live our lives in fear of that moment.'

'Yes, but we can try to minimize our risks.'

Angus lifted his hand to rake it through his crisp hair; it was an action he often repeated when he was tired or exasperated. But somehow his hand moved slightly to the left, and he felt himself touch Margaret's hair instead. It was fine, and straight, and silky smooth, and there seemed to be a lot more of it than he'd originally thought. It slid from its pins and cascaded over his hand, between his fingers.

And as he savored the feel of it, neither of them breathed.

Their eyes locked, green against the darkest, hottest black. Not a word was spoken, but as Angus leaned forward, slowly closing the distance between them, they both knew what was going to happen.

He was going to kiss her.

And she wasn't going to stop him.

Five

His lips brushed against hers slowly, in the barest of touches. If he'd crushed her against him or ground his mouth onto hers, she might have pulled away, but this feather-light caress captured her soul.

Her skin prickled with awareness, and she suddenly felt… different, as if this body she'd possessed for twenty-four years were no longer her own. Her skin felt too tight, and her heart felt too hungry, and her hands… oh, how her hands ached for the touch of his skin.

He'd be warm, she knew, and sculpted. His were not the muscles of a sedentary man. He could crush her with one blow of his fist… and somehow that knowledge was thrilling… probably because he was holding her now with such gentle reverence.

She pulled away for a moment, so that she could see his eyes. They burned with a need that was unfamiliar, and yet she knew exactly what he wanted.

'Angus,' she whispered, lifting her hand to rub the rough skin of his cheek. His dark beard was coming in, thick and coarse and entirely unlike her brother's whiskers on the few occasions she'd seen him unshaven.

He covered her hand with his, then turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss against her skin. She watched his eyes over the tips of her fingers. They never left hers, and they were asking a silent question, and waiting for her answer.

'How did this happen?' she whispered. 'I've never… I never even wanted-'

'But you do now,' he whispered. 'You want me now.'

She nodded, shocked by her admission, yet unable to lie to him. There was something about the way he was looking at her, the way his eyes swept over her as if he could see all the way to the very center of her heart. The moment was ter-rifyingly perfect, and she knew that lies had no place between them. Not in that room, not on that night.

She moistened her lips. 'I can't…'

Angus touched his finger to her mouth. 'Can't you?'

That brought forth a wobbly smile. His teasing tone melted her resistance, and she felt herself swaying toward him, leaning into his strength. More than anything, she wanted to throw aside all of her principles, every last ideal and moral to which she'd held true. She could forget who she was, and what she'd always held dear, and lie with this man. She could stop being Margaret Pennypacker, sister and guardian of Edward and Alicia Pennypacker, daughter of the departed Edmund and Katherine Pennypacker. She could stop being the woman who brought food to the poor, attended church every Sunday, and planted her garden every spring in neat and tidy rows.

She could stop being all of that, and finally be a woman.

It was so tempting.

Angus smoothed one of his callused fingers across her furrowed brow. 'You look so serious,' he murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips to her forehead. 'I want to kiss away these lines, brush away these worries.'

'Angus,' she said quickly, letting her words tumble out before she lost her ability to reason, 'there are things I can't do. Things I want to do, or I think I want to do. I'm not sure, because I've never done, but I can't- Why are you smiling?'

'Was I?'

He knew he was, the bounder.

He shrugged helplessly. 'It's only that I've never seen anyone quite so becomingly befuddled as you, Margaret Pennypacker.'

She opened her mouth to protest, since she wasn't sure if his words were complimentary, but he placed his finger over her lips.

'Ah, ah, ah,' he said. 'Hush now, and listen to me. I'm going to kiss you, and that's all.'

Her heart soared and fell in a single moment. 'Just a kiss?'

'Between us, it will never be just a kiss.'

His words sent a shiver through her veins, and she lifted her head, offering her lips to him.

Angus drew in a hoarse breath, staring at her mouth as if it held all the temptations of hell-and all the bliss of heaven. He kissed her again, but this time he held nothing back. His lips took hers in a hungry, possessive dance of desire and need.

She gasped, and he savored her breath, inhaling its warm, sweet essence, as if that might somehow enable her to touch him from the inside out.

He knew he ought to go slowly with her, and much as his body was crying with need, he knew that he would end this night unfulfilled, but he could not deny himself the pleasure of feeling her small body beneath his, and so he lowered her down onto the bed, never once taking his mouth off hers.

If he was just going to kiss her, if that was all he could do, then he was damned if this kiss didn't last the whole night through.

'Oh, Margaret,' he moaned, letting his hands roam down the side of her, past her waist, over her hip, until he cupped the smoothly rounded curve of her buttocks. 'My sweet Mar-'

He broke off and lifted his head, flashing her a boyishly lopsided grin. 'Can I call you Meggie? Margaret's a bloody mouthful.'

She stared up at him, breathing hard, unable to speak.

'Margaret,' he continued, trailing his fingers along the edge of her cheek, 'is just the sort of woman a man wants by his side. But Meggie… now, that's a woman a man wants underneath.'

It took her an eighth of a second to say, 'You can call me Meggie.'

His lips found her ear, as his arms snaked around her. 'Welcome to my embrace, Meggie.'

She sighed, and the movement sank her deeper into the mattress, and she gave herself up to the moment, to the flickering candle and the sweet scent of the cranachan, and to the strong and powerful man who was covering her body with his.

His lips moved to her neck, whispering along the lines that led down to the crook of her shoulder. He kissed the skin there, so pale against the black wool of his coat. He didn't know how he'd ever wear that garment again, now