Gretna Greene

Alicia-my sister-what my parents would have wanted. I've tried to live my life the same way. But sometimes I think I'm just not good enough.'

'Don't say that,' Angus said with great feeling. 'If you're not good enough, then I have serious fears for my own soul.'

Margaret offered him a wobbly smile. 'You may have the ability to make me so furious that I can't even see straight, but I shouldn't worry about your soul, Angus Greene.'

He leaned toward her, his black eyes dancing with humor, mischief, and just a touch of desire. 'Are you trying to compliment me, Miss Pennypacker?'

Margaret caught her breath, her entire body growing oddly warm. He was so close, his lips mere inches away, and she had the sudden, bizarre thought that she might like to be a brazen woman for once in her life. If she just leaned forward, swayed toward him for only a second, would he take the initiative and kiss her? Would he sweep her into his arms, pull the pins from her hair, and make her feel as if she were the star of a Shakespearean sonnet?

Margaret leaned.

She swayed.

She fell right off the bed.

Three

Margaret yelped in surprise as she slid through the air. It wasn't a long slide; the floor practically jumped to meet her hip, which was (of course) already bruised from her ride in the farmer's cart. She was sitting there, somewhat stunned at her sudden change of position, when Angus's face appeared over the edge of the bed.

'Are you all right?' he asked.

'I, er, lost my balance,' she muttered.

'I see,' he said, so solemnly that she couldn't possibly believe him.

'I frequently lose my balance,' she lied, trying to make the incident seem as unremarkable as possible. It wasn't every day she fell off a bed while swaying into a kiss with a complete stranger. 'Don't you?'

'Never.'

'That's not possible.'

'Well,' he mused, scratching his chin, 'I suppose that's not entirely true. There are times…'

Margaret's eyes fixed on his fingers as they stroked the stubbled skin of his jaw. Something about the movement transfixed her. She could see each little whisker, and with a horrified gasp she realized that her hand had already crossed half the distance between them.

Good Lord, she wanted to touch the man.

'Margaret?' he asked, his eyes amused. 'Are you listening to me?'

She blinked. 'Of course. I'm just-' Her mind flailed for something to say. 'Well, it's obvious that I'm sitting on the floor.'

'And this interferes with your auditory skills?'

'No! I-' She clamped her lips together in an irritated line. 'What were you saying?'

'Are you certain you don't want to come back up on the bed so you can hear me better?'

'No, thank you. I'm perfectly comfortable, thank you.'

He reached down, clamped one of his large hands around her arm, and hauled her up onto the bed. 'I might have believed you if you'd left it at one 'thank you.' '

She grimaced. If she had a fatal flaw, it was trying too hard, protesting too much, arguing too loud. She never knew when to stop. Her siblings had told her so for years, and deep in her heart, she knew she could be the worst sort of pest when she was single-mindedly fixed on a goal.

She wasn't about to inflate his ego any further by agreeing with him, though, so instead she sniffed and said, 'Is there anything distasteful about good manners? Most people appreciate a word of thanks every now and then.'

He leaned forward, shocking her with his nearness. 'Do you know how I know you weren't listening to me?'

She shook her head, her normally ready wit flying out the window-which was no inconsiderable feat, considering that the window was closed.

'You had asked me if I ever felt off-balance,' he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, 'and I said no, but then-' He lifted his powerful shoulders and let them fall in an oddly graceful shrug. 'Then,' he added, 'I reconsidered.'

'Be-because I told you that's not possible,' she just barely managed to say.

'Well, yes,' he mused, 'but you see, sitting here with you, I had a sudden flash of memory.'

'You did?'

He nodded slowly, and when he spoke, he drew each word out with mesmerizing intensity. 'I can't speak for other men…'

She found herself caught in his hot gaze, and she could no more look away than she could stop breathing. Her skin tingled and her lips parted, and then she swallowed convulsively, suddenly certain that she'd been better off on the floor.

He touched one finger to the comer of his mouth, stroking his skin as he continued his lazy speech. '… but when I am overcome with desire, drunk on it-'

She shot off the bed like a Chinese firecracker. 'Maybe,' she said, her voice sounding strangely thick, 'we should see about getting that supper.'

'Right.' Angus stood so suddenly that the bed rocked. 'Sustenance is what we need.' He grinned at her. 'Don't you think?'

Margaret just stared at him, amazed by his shift in mien. He'd been attempting to seduce her-she was sure of it. Or if he wasn't, he was definitely trying to fluster her. He'd already as much as admitted that he enjoyed doing so.

And he'd succeeded. Her stomach was flipping about, her throat seemed to have grown three large lumps, and she kept having to grab hold of the furniture to keep her balance.

And yet here he was, completely composed-smiling, even! Either he hadn't been the least bit affected by their nearness, or the dratted man belonged on the Shakespearean stage.

'Margaret?'

'Food is good,' she blurted out.

'I'm glad you agree with me,' he said, looking utterly amused by her loss of composure. 'But first you must take off that wet coat.'

She shook her head, hugging her arms to her chest. 'I don't have anything else.'

He tossed a garment in her direction. 'You can wear my spare.'

'But then what will you wear?'

'I'll be fine in a shirt.'

Impulsively, she reached out and touched his forearm, which was exposed by a rolled-up sleeve. 'You're freezing. Is your other shirt made of linen? It won't be heavy enough.' When he didn't reply, she added firmly, 'You cannot give me your coat. I won't accept it.'

Angus took one look down at her tiny hand on his arm and started imagining it traveling up to his shoulder, then across his chest…

He didn't feel cold.

'Sir Greene?' she asked softly. 'Are you quite all right?'

He tore his eyes off her hand and then made the colossal mistake of looking at her eyes. Those grassy green orbs, which had, in the course of the evening, gazed upon him with fright, irritation, embarrassment, and, most recently, innocent desire, were now brimming with concern and compassion.

And it quite unmanned him.