'One… two…'
She squeezed her eyes shut.
'Three!'
She slammed all her weight against the door, but he must have yanked before she slammed, because her shoulder had barely met the wood before she fell into the room and hit the floor. Hard.
Miraculously, she managed to keep her eyes shut the entire time.
She heard the door click shut, then sensed him bending over her as he inquired, 'Are you all right?'
She slapped her hand over her eyes. 'Get into bed!'
'Don't worry, I've covered myself.'
'I don't believe you.'
'I swear. I wrapped the bedsheets around me.'
Margaret separated her fore and middle fingers just enough to let in the narrowest strip of vision. Sure enough, there seemed to be something white wrapped around him. She got up and pointedly turned her back on him.
'You are a hard woman, Margaret Pennypacker,' he said, but she heard his footsteps taking him back across the room.
'Are you in bed?'
'Yes.'
'Do you have the covers pulled up?'
'To my chin.'
She heard the smile in his voice, and as exasperated as she was with him, it was still infectious. The corners of her lips wiggled, and it was an effort to keep her voice stern as she said, 'I'm turning around now.'
'Please do.'
'I shall never forgive you if you've been lying to me.'
'Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, just turn around, woman.'
She did. He had the covers pulled up-not quite to the promised level of his chin, but far enough.
'Do I meet with your approval?'
She nodded. 'Where are your wet clothes?'
'On the chair.'
She followed his line of vision to a soggy pile of fabric, then set about lighting the multitude of candles. 'This has to be the most ridiculous endeavor,' she muttered to herself. What she needed was some kind of massive toasting fork upon which to spear the garment. As it was, she was likely to burn the shirt, or maybe her hands, or-
A drop of hot wax on her skin cut off her line of thinking, and she quickly stuck the injured finger into her mouth. She used her other hand to keep the flame moving from candle to candle, shaking her head as she watched the room grow brighter and brighter.
He was never going to be able to sleep with so many candles burning. It was bright as day.
She turned around, prepared to point out this lack of foresight in their plans, but her words never made it past her lips.
He was asleep.
Margaret stared for one more minute, taking in the way his unruly hair fell over his forehead and his lashes rested against his cheek. The sheet had slipped slightly, allowing her to watch his muscular chest as it gently rose and fell with each breath.
She'd never known a man like this, never seen a human who was quite so magnificent in repose.
It was a long, long time before she turned back to her candles.
By morning, Margaret had dried all of the clothing, blown out all of the candles, and fallen asleep. When Angus woke up, he found her curled up next to the bed, his coat wadded into a pillow beneath her head.
With gentle hands, he picked her up and laid her down on the bed, pulling the covers to her chin and tucking them around her slender shoulders. Then he settled into the chair next to the bed and watched her sleep.
It was, he decided, the most perfect morning of his recollection.
Six
She sat upright, blinked the sleep from her eyes, and real-ized three things. One, she was in the bed. Two, Angus was not. And three, he wasn't even in the room.
She hopped to her feet, grimacing at the irreparably wrinkled state of her skirts, and made her way to the small table. The empty cranachan bowls were still there, as were the sturdy pewter spoons, but they had been joined by a folded piece of paper. It was wrinkled and smudged, and looked as if it had been torn from a larger piece of paper. Margaret imagined that Angus had had to search the inn fairly thoroughly just to find this little scrap.
She smoothed it open and read:
He hadn't bothered to sign it. Not that that mattered, Mar-garet thought as she searched the room for something with which she might brush her hair. As if the note could have come from anyone but Angus.
She smiled as she looked down at the bold, confident handwriting. Even if someone else had had the opportunity to slip the note into her room, she would have known it was from him. His personality was right there in the lines of his letters.
There was nothing to use as a brush, so she settled for her fingers as she moved to the window. She pushed the curtains aside and peeked out. The sun had made an appearance, and the cerulean sky was gently dotted with clouds. A perfect day.
Margaret shook her head and sighed as she heaved the window open for some fresh air. Here she was in Scotland- with, as it turned out, no reason to be in Scotland-she had no money, her clothing was stained beyond redemption, and her reputation would probably be in shreds by the time she returned home.
But at least it was a perfect day.
The village had already come awake. Margaret watched a young family cross the street and enter a small shop, then shifted her gaze onto yet one more couple who had clearly just eloped. Then she took to counting all the young couples moving from street to inn and back to street.
She didn't know whether to smile or frown. All this eloping couldn't be a good thing, and yet some romantic corner of her soul had been stirred the previous night. Maybe some of these new brides and grooms weren't the complete idiots she'd called them the night before. It wasn't entirely unreasonable to suppose that some of them actually had good reasons for running off to Scotland to elope.
With an uncharacteristically sentimental sigh, she leaned a little farther out the window and started making up stories for all the couples. That young lady had an overbearing father, and this young man wanted to wed his true love before he joined the army.
She was trying to decide which young lady had the wicked stepmother, when a thunderous cry shook the building. Margaret looked down just in time to see Angus tearing out into the street.
'Aaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnne!'
Margaret gasped. His sister!
Sure enough, a tall, black-haired miss was standing on the other side of the street, looking extremely panicked as she tried to hide behind an obviously well-maintained carriage.
'Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce,' Margaret whispered. If she didn't get down there soon, Angus was going to kill his sister. Or at least frighten her into temporary insanity.
Picking up her skirts to well above her ankles, Margaret dashed out of the room.
