Scottish Brides (30 page)

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
do
enjoy vexing you.”

“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
some
thing—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
already
the morrow, but her conscience did require her to say, “It's
dark
in the morning this time of year.”

“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
his
foot.

“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.”

“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

 

 

 

 

Margaret came awake the following morning just the
way she always did: completely and in an instant.

She sat upright, blinked the sleep from her eyes, and realized 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:

 

Gone for breakfast. Will return shortly.

 

He hadn't bothered to sign it. Not that that mattered, Margaret 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.