'Apparently so.'
'You did tell me to lock it.'
'Yer a good woman, Margaret Pennypacker. Dutiful 'n' loyal.'
Margaret narrowed her eyes. 'Are you drunk?'
He shook his head, which had the unfortunate effect of banging his cheekbone against the floor. 'Just cold.'
'Have you been outside this entire-' She leaned down and touched her hand to his cheek. 'Good God, you're freezing!'
He shrugged. 'Started to rain again.'
She jammed her hands under his arms and tried to heave him to his feet. 'Get up. Get up. We have to get you out of these clothes.'
His head lolled to the side as he shot her a disarmingly lopsided grin. 'At another time-at another temperature- I'd delight in those words.'
Margaret tugged at him again and groaned. She hadn't managed to budge him an inch. 'Angus, please. You must make an effort to stand. You must be double my weight.'
His eyes wandered up and down her frame. 'What are you, seven stone?'
'Hardly,' she scoffed. 'Do I look that insubstantial? Now, please, if you can just get your feet flat on the floor, I can get you to bed.'
He sighed. 'Another one of those sentences I'd dearly like to misinterpret.'
'Angus!'
He wobbled into an upright position, with not-inconsiderable aid from Margaret. 'Why is it,' he mused, 'that I so enjoy being scolded by you?'
'Probably,' she retorted, 'because you so enjoy vexing me.'
He scratched his chin, which was now quite darkened by a day's growth of beard. 'Think you might be right.'
Margaret ignored him, trying instead to concentrate on the task at hand. If she dumped him onto the bed as he was, he'd soak through the sheets in a matter of minutes. 'Angus,' she said, 'you need to put on some dry clothing. I'll wait outside while you-'
He shook his head. 'Don't have any more dry clothes.'
'What happened to them?'
'You're'-he jabbed her shoulder with his forefinger- 'wearing them.'
Margaret uttered a very unladylike word.
'You know, you're right,' he said, sounding as if he'd just made a very important discovery. 'I
'Angus!'
'Ah, very well. I shall be serious.' He made a great show of forcing his features into a frown. 'What is it you need?'
'I need you to take off your clothing and get into bed.'
His face lit up. 'Right now?'
'Of course not,' she snapped. 'I'll leave the room for a moment, and when I return, I expect you in that bed, with the covers pulled up to your chin.'
'Where will you sleep?'
'I won't. I'm going to dry your clothes.'
He twisted his neck this way and neck. 'At what fireplace?'
'I'll go downstairs.'
He straightened to the point where Margaret no longer had to support him. 'You are not going down there by yourself in the middle of the night.'
'I can't very well dry your clothing over a candle.'
'I'll go with you.'
'Angus, you'll be naked.'
Whatever he'd been about to say-and Margaret was certain, from the indignant thrust of his chin and the fact that he had his mouth open and ready to contradict her, that he'd been about to say something-was abandoned in favor of a loud and extremely creative string of curses.
Finally, after running through every profane word she'd ever heard, and a good deal more that were new to her, he grunted, 'Wait right here,' and stomped out of the room.
Three minutes later, he reappeared. Margaret watched with nothing short of amazement as he kicked open the door and dumped about three dozen candles on the floor. One, she noticed, was still smoking.
She cleared her throat, waiting for his scowl to soften before saying anything. After a few moments, though, it became apparent that his grumpy mood was not going to change in the near future, so she asked, 'Where did you get all of these?'
'Let's just say that The Canny Man is going to wake to a very dark morning on the morrow.'
Margaret declined to point out that, at well past midnight, it was
'I left one or two in the kitchen,' Angus grumbled. And then, without a word of warning, he started to peel off his shirt.
Margaret yelped and dashed out into the hall. Blast that man, he knew he was supposed to wait until she was out of the room before stripping to his skin. She waited a full minute, then gave him another thirty seconds on account of the cold. Numb fingers didn't do well with buttons.
Taking a deep breath, she turned around and knocked on the door. 'Angus?' she called out. 'Are you in bed?' Then, before he could answer, she narrowed her eyes and added, 'With the covers pulled up!'
His reply was muffled, but it was definitely in the affirmative, so she twisted the doorknob and pushed.
The door didn't budge.
Her stomach began a dance of panic. The door couldn't be locked. He would never have locked it, and doors didn't lock themselves.
She banged the side of her fist lightly against the wood. 'Angus! Angus! I can't open the door!'
Footsteps followed, and when she next heard his voice, it was clearly coming from just on the other side of the door.
'What's wrong?'
'The door won't open.'
'I didn't lock it.'
'I know. I think it's stuck.'
She heard him laugh, which produced an overwhelming desire to stamp her foot-preferably onto
'Now this,' he said, 'is interesting.'
The urge to do him bodily harm was growing more intense.
'Margaret?' he called out. 'Are you still there?'
She closed her eyes for a moment as she exhaled through her teeth. 'You're going to have to help me open the door.'
'I am, of course, naked.'
She blushed. It was dark; he couldn't possibly see her reaction, and still she blushed.
'Margaret?'
'The mere sight of you shall probably blind me, anyway,' she snapped. 'Are you going to help me, or will I have to break the door down myself?'
'It would certainly be a sight to behold. I'd pay good money to-'
'Angus!'
He chuckled again, a warm, rich sound that melted through the door and straight into her bones. 'Very well,' he said. 'On my count of three, push against the door with all of your weight.'
Margaret nodded, then remembered that he couldn't see her and said, 'I will.'
