Scottish Brides

by Christina Dodd

  “I have money,” she muttered.

  “How much?”

  “Enough!”

  “Didn’t you say you’d been robbed?”

  “Yes,” she said, so grudgingly that Angus thought it a wonder she didn’t choke on the word, “but I still have a few coins.”

  “Enough for a hot meal? Hot water? A private dining room?”

  “That’s really not the point,” she argued, “and the worst part of it is, you were acting as if you were having fun.”

  Angus grinned. “I was having fun.”

  “Why would you do this?” she said, shaking her hands at him. “We could have gone to another inn.”

  A loud clap of thunder shook the room. God, Angus decided, was on his side. “In this weather?” he asked. “Forgive me if I lack the inclination to venture back outside.”

  “Even if we had to masquerade as husband and wife,” she conceded, “did you have to poke so much fun at my expense?”

  His dark eyes grew tender. “I never meant to insult you. Surely you know that.”

  Margaret found her resolve weakening under his warm and concerned gaze. “You didn’t have to tell the innkeeper that I was pregnant,” she said, her cheeks growing furiously red as she uttered that last word.

  He let out a sigh. “All I can do is apologize. My only explanation is that I was merely getting into the spirit of the ruse. I have spent the last two days riding the length of Scotland. I’m cold, wet, and hungry, and this little masquerade is the first amusing thing I’ve done in days. Forgive me if I over-enjoyed myself.”

  Margaret just stared at him, her hands fisted at her sides. She knew she ought to accept his apology, but the truth was, she needed a few more minutes to calm down.

  Angus raised his hands in an overture of conciliation. “You may keep your stony silence all you want,” he said with an amused smile, “but it won’t wash. You, my dear Miss Pennypacker, are a better sport than you think you are.”

  The look she gave him was doubtful at best and sarcastic at worst. “Why, because I didn’t strangle you right there in the hall?”

  “Well, there’s that, but I was actually referring to your unwillingness to hurt the innkeeper’s feelings by disparaging his cooking.”

  “I did disparage his cooking,” she pointed out.

  “Yes, but you didn’t do it loudly.” He saw her open her mouth and held up his hand. “Ah, ah, ah, no more protests. You’re determined to make me dislike you, but I’m afraid it won’t work.”

  “You’re insane,” she breathed.

  Angus peeled off his sodden coat. “That particular refrain is growing tedious.”

  “It’s difficult to argue with the truth,” she muttered. Then she looked up and saw what he was doing. “And don’t remove your coat!”

  “The alternative is death by pneumonia,” he said mildly. “I suggest you remove yours as well.”

  “Only if you leave the room.”

  “And stand naked in the hall? I don’t think so.”

  Margaret starting pacing and searching the room, opening the wardrobe and pulling out drawers. “There has to be a dressing screen here somewhere. There has to be.”

  “You’re not likely to find one in the bureau,” he said helpfully.

  She stood stock-still for several moments, desperately trying not to let go of her anger. All her life she’d had to be responsible, to set a good example, and temper tantrums were not acceptable behavior. But this time . . . She looked over her shoulder and saw him grinning at her. This time was different.

  She slammed the drawer shut, which should have given her some measure of satisfaction had she not caught the tip of her middle finger. “Yoooooowwwww!” she howled, immediately stuffing her throbbing finger into her mouth.

  “Are you all right?” Angus asked, moving quickly to her side.

  She nodded. “Go away,” she mumbled around her finger.

  “Are you certain? You might have broken a bone.”

  “I didn’t. Go away.”

  He took her hand and gently pulled her finger out of her mouth. “It looks fine,” he said in a concerned voice, “but truly, I’m no expert on these matters.”

  “Why?” she moaned. “Why?”

  “Why am I no expert?” he echoed, blinking in a rather confused manner. “I wasn’t under the impression you thought I’d received medical training, but the truth is, I’m more of a farmer than anything else. A gentleman farmer, to be sure—”

  “Why are you torturing me?” she yelled.

  “Why, Miss Pennypacker, is that what you think I’m doing?”

  She snatched her hand out of his grasp. “I swear to God above, I don’t know why I am being punished in this way. I cannot imagine what sin I have committed to warrant such—”

  “Margaret,” he said loudly, halting her speech with his use of her given name, “perhaps you are making a wee bit too much out of this matter.”

  She stood there, barely moving, next to the bureau, for a full minute. Her breath was uneven, and she was swallowing more than normal, and then she started blinking.

  “Oh, no,” Angus said, closing his eyes in agony. “Don’t cry.”

  —Sniff—“I’m not going to cry.”

  He opened his eyes. “Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce,” he muttered. She certainly looked as if she were going to cry. He cleared his throat. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, once, but firmly. “I never cry.”

  He breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. “Good, because I never know what to do when—oh, blast, you’re crying.”

  “No. I’m. Not.” Each word came out like its own little sentence, punctuated by loud gasps for air.

  “Stop,” he begged, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Nothing made him feel more like an incompetent, awkward clod than a woman’s tears. Worse, he was fairly certain this woman hadn’t cried in over a decade. And even worse, he was the cause.

  “All I wanted to do—” she gasped. “All I wanted to do—”

  “Was . . . ?” he prompted, desperate to keep her talking—anything to keep her from crying.

  “Stop my brother.” She took a deep, shuddering sigh and flopped onto the bed. “I know what’s best for him. I know that sounds condescending, but I really do. I’ve been caring for him since I was seventeen.”

  Angus crossed the room and sat down next to her, but not so close as to make her nervous. “Have you?” he asked softly. He’d known from the moment she’d kneed that man in the groin that she was no ordinary woman, but he was coming to realize that she was more than a stubborn temper and a quick wit. Margaret Pennypacker cared deeply, was loyal to a fault, and would lay down her own life for those she loved without even a second’s hesitation.

  The realization made him smile wryly—and at the same time terrified him to the core. Because in terms of loyalty, caring, and devotion to family, Margaret Pennypacker might have been a female version of himself. And Angus had never before met a woman who matched those standards he held for himself

  And now that he had—well, what was he to do with her?

  She interrupted his thoughts with a very loud sniffle. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Your brother,” he prompted.

  She nodded and took a deep breath. Then she suddenly looked up from her lap and turned her gaze on him. “I’m not going to cry.”

  He patted her shoulder. “Of course not.”

  “If he marries one of those awful girls, his life will be ruined forever.”

  “Are you certain?” Angus asked gently. Sisters had a way of thinking they knew best.

  “One of them doesn’t even know the entire alphabet!”

  He made a sound that came out rather like “Eeee,” and his head recoiled slightly in commiseration. “That is bad.”

  She nodded again, this time with more vigor. “Do you see? Do you see what I mean?”

  “How old is your brother?”

  “He’s only eighteen.”
>
  Angus let out a whoosh of air. “You’re right, then. He has no idea what he’s doing. No boy of eighteen does. Come to think of it, no girl of eighteen does, either.”

  Margaret nodded her agreement. “Is that how old your sister is? What’s her name? Anne?”

  “Yes, on both counts.”

  “Why are you chasing after her? What did she do?”

  “Ran off to London.”

  “By herself?” Margaret asked, clearly aghast with horror.

  Angus looked over at her with a bemused expression. “Might I remind you that you ran off to Scotland by yourself?”

  “Well, yes,” she sputtered, “but it’s entirely different. London is . . . London.”

  “As it happens, she’s not entirely by herself. She stole my carriage and three of my best servants, one of whom is a former pugilist, which is the only reason I’m not terrified out of my skull right now.”

  “But what does she plan to do?”

  “Throw herself upon the mercy of my great-aunt.” He shrugged. “Anne wants a Season.”

  “And is there a reason she cannot have one?”

  Angus’s expression grew stern. “I told her she could have one next year. We have been renovating our home, and I’m far too busy to drop everything and head to London.”

  “Ah.”

  His hands went to his hips. “What do you mean, ah?”

  She moved her hands in a gesture that was somehow self-deprecating and all-knowing, all at once. “Just that it seems to me that you are putting your needs before hers.”

  “I am doing no such thing! There is no reason she cannot wait a year. You, yourself, agreed that eighteen-year-olds know nothing.”

  “You’re probably right,” she concurred, “but it’s different for men and for women.”

  His face moved a fraction of an inch closer to hers. “Would you care to explain how?”

  “I suppose it’s true that eighteen-year-old girls know nothing. But eighteen-year-old boys know less than nothing.”

  To her great surprise, Angus started to laugh, falling back upon the bed and shaking the mattress with his chuckles. “Oh, I should be insulted,” he gasped, “but I fear you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right!” she retorted, a smile sneaking across her face.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” he sighed. “What a night. What a sorry, miserable, wonderful night.”

  Margaret’s head snapped up at his words. What did he mean by that? “Yes, I know,” she said—just a touch hesitantly, since she wasn’t quite sure what she was agreeing with. “It’s a muck. What are we to do?”

  “Join forces, I suppose, and look for both of our errant siblings at once. And as for tonight, I can sleep on the floor.”

  A tension that Margaret hadn’t even realized she was carrying slid right out of her. “Thank you,” she said with great feeling. “I appreciate your generosity.”

  He sat up. “And you, my dear Margaret, are going to have to enjoy the life of an actress. At least for a day.”

  An actress? Didn’t they run about half-dressed and take lovers? Margaret caught her breath, feeling her cheeks—and a rather lot of other bits—grow warm. “What do you mean?” she asked, horrified by how breathy she sounded.

  “Merely that if you want to eat tonight—and I’m fairly certain there will be more than haggis on the menu, so you may breathe easier in that respect—then you will have to pretend to be Lady Angus Greene.”

  She frowned.

  “And,” he added with a roll of his eyes, “you’re going to have to pretend that the position is not quite so disagreeable. After all, we did manage to get you with child. We can’t dislike each other so very much.”

  Margaret blushed. “If you don’t stop talking about that infernal nonexistent baby, I swear I shall close the drawer on your fingers.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and grinned. “I am quaking with terror.”

  She shot him an irritated look, then blinked. “Did you say Lady Greene?”

  “Does it matter?” Angus quipped.

  “Well, yes!”

  For a moment Angus just stared at her, disappointment spreading in his chest. His was a minor title—just a baronetcy with a small but lovely piece of land—but still women viewed him as a prize to be won. Marriage seemed to be some sort of contest to the ladies he knew. She who catches the title and money, wins.

  Margaret placed her hand over her heart. “I place great stock in good manners.”

  Angus found his interest renewed. “Yes?”

  “I shouldn’t have called you Mr. Greene if you’re truly Lord Greene.”

  “It’s actually Sir Greene,” he said, his lips twitching back into a smile, “but I can assure you that I am not offended.”

  “My mother must be turning over in her grave.” She shook her head and sighed. “I’ve tried to teach Edward and 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 corner 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.