Scottish Brides

by Christina Dodd

  “Who’s side are you on?” Angus growled.

  “I’m not on anybody’s side. I’m just trying to be reasonable.” Margaret pulled on his forearm, drew him aside, and said in a low voice, “Angus, this is exactly the same situation about which you counseled me last night.”

  “It’s not at all the same thing.”

  “And why not?”

  “Your brother is a man. My sister is just a girl.”

  Margaret glowered at him. “And what is that supposed to mean? Am I ‘just a girl’ as well?”

  “Of course not. You’re . . . you’re—” He fished the air for words, and his face grew rather agitated. “You’re Margaret.”

  “Why,” she drawled, “does that sound like an insult?”

  “Of course it isn’t an insult,” he snapped. “I just complimented your intelligence. You’re not the same as other females. You’re . . . you’re—”

  “Then I think you just insulted your sister.”

  “Yes,” Anne piped up, “you just insulted me.”

  Angus whirled around. “Don’t eavesdrop.”

  “Oh, please,” Anne scoffed, “you’re talking loud enough to be heard in Glasgow.”

  “Angus,” Margaret said, crossing her arms, “do you think your sister is an intelligent young woman?”

  “I did, before she ran off.”

  “Then kindly offer her some respect and trust. She isn’t running blindly away. She has already contacted your aunt and has a place to stay and a chaperone who desires her presence.”

  “She can’t choose a husband,” he grumbled.

  Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “And I suppose you could do a better job of it?”

  “I’m certainly not going to allow her to marry without my approval of her choice.”

  “Then go with her,” Margaret urged.

  Angus let out a long breath. “I can’t. Not yet. I told her we could go next year. I can’t be away from Greene House during the renovations, and then there is the new irrigation system to oversee . . .”

  Anne looked to Margaret pleadingly. “I don’t want to wait until next year.”

  Margaret looked from Greene to Greene, trying to work out a solution. It was probably rather odd that she was here, in the middle of a family squabble. After all, she hadn’t even known they existed the previous morning.

  But somehow this all seemed very natural, and so she turned to Angus with steady eyes and said, “May I make a suggestion?”

  He was still glaring at his sister as he said, “Please do.”

  Margaret cleared her throat, but he didn’t turn around to look at her. She decided to go ahead and speak, anyway. “Why don’t you let her go to London now, and you can join her in a month or two? That way, if she’s found a man she fancies, you can meet him before things grow serious. And you’ll have time to finish your work at home.”

  Angus frowned.

  Margaret persevered. “I know that Anne would never marry without your approval.” She turned to Anne with urgent eyes. “Isn’t that correct, Anne?”

  Anne was taking a little too long to ponder the question, so Margaret elbowed her in the stomach and said again, “Anne? Isn’t that correct?”

  “Of course,” Anne grunted, rubbing her midsection.

  Margaret beamed. “You see? It’s a perfect solution. Angus? Anne?”

  Angus rubbed a weary hand against his brow, grasping his temples as if the pressure would somehow make the entire day go away. It had started out as the perfect morning, gazing upon Margaret as she slept. Breakfast awaited, the sky was blue, and he was certain he would soon find his sister and bring her back home where she belonged.

  And now Margaret and Anne were ganging up upon him, trying to convince him that they—not he—knew best. As a united front, they were a mighty powerful force.

  And Angus feared that as an object, he might not be completely immovable.

  He felt his face softening, felt his will weakening, and he knew the women sensed their victory.

  “If it makes you feel more comfortable,” Margaret said, “I shall accompany Anne. I can’t go all the way to London, but I can see her at least to Lancashire.”

  “NO!”

  Margaret started at the forcefulness of his reply. “I beg your pardon?”

  Angus planted his hands on his hips and glowered down at her. “You’re not going to Lancashire.”

  “I’m not?”

  “She isn’t?” Anne queried, then turned to Margaret and asked, “If you don’t mind, what is your name?”

  “Miss Pennypacker, although I should think we may use our given names, don’t you? Mine is Margaret.”

  Anne nodded. “I’d be ever so grateful for your company on the journey to—”

  “She’s not going,” Angus said firmly.

  Two pairs of feminine eyes swung around to face him.

  Angus felt ill.

  “And what,” Margaret said, not unkindly, “do you suppose I do instead?”

  Angus had no idea where the words came from, no idea even that the thought had formed, but as he looked at Margaret, he suddenly remembered every last moment in her company. He felt her kisses and he heard her laughter. He saw her smile and he touched her soul. She was too bossy, too stubborn, and too short for a man of his proportions, but somehow his heart skipped over all of that, because when she looked up at him with those gorgeously intelligent green eyes, all he could do was blurt out, “Marry me.”

  Margaret had thought she knew what it felt like to be speechless. It wasn’t a condition she often experienced, but she thought she was reasonably familiar with it.

  She was wrong.

  Her heart pounded, her head grew light, and she started choking on air. Her mouth grew dry, her eyes grew wet, and her ears began to ring. If there’d been a chair in the vicinity, she would have tried to sit in it, but she’d probably have missed the seat entirely.

  Anne leaned forward. “Miss Pennypacker? Margaret? Are you unwell?”

  Angus didn’t say anything.

  Anne turned to her brother. “I think she’s going to faint.”

  “She’s not going to faint,” he said grimly. “She never faints.”

  Margaret began to tap the flat of her chest with the flat of her hand, as if that might possibly dislodge the ball of shock that had settled in her throat.

  “How long have you known her?” Anne asked suspiciously.

  Angus shrugged. “Since last night.”

  “Then how can you possibly know if she faints or not?”

  “I just know.”

  Anne’s mouth settled into a firm line. “Then how—Wait just one second! You want to marry her after one day’s acquaintance?!”

  “It’s a moot question,” he bit out, “since it doesn’t appear that she’s going to say yes.”

  “Yes!” It was all Margaret could do to choke the word out, but she couldn’t bear to see the disappointed look on his face any longer.

  Angus’s eyes filled hope—and with the most endearing touch of disbelief. “Yes?”

  She nodded furiously. “Yes, I’ll marry you. You’re too bossy, too stubborn, and too tall for a woman of my stature, but I’ll marry you, anyway.”

  “Well, isn’t this romantic,” Anne muttered. “You should have made him ask on bended knee, at the very least.”

  Angus ignored her, smiling instead down at Margaret as he touched her cheek with the gentlest of hands. “You do realize,” he murmured, “that this is the craziest, most impulsive thing you have ever done in your entire life?”

  Margaret nodded. “But also the most perfect.”

  “ ‘In her life?’ ” Anne echoed dubiously. “ ‘In her life?’ How can you know that? You’ve only known her since yesterday!”

  “You,” Angus said, spearing his sister with a stare, “are superfluous.”

  Anne beamed. “Really? Does that mean, then, that I may go to London?”

  Six hours later, Anne was well on her way to London.
She’d been given a stern lecture from Angus, heaps of sisterly advice from Margaret, and a promise from both that they would come and visit in a month’s time.

  She’d stayed in Gretna Green, of course, for the wedding. Margaret and Angus were married less than an hour after he’d proposed. Margaret had originally balked, saying that she ought to be married at home, with her family present, but Angus had just raised one of those dark eyebrows and said, “Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, you’re in Gretna Green, woman. You have to get married.”

  Margaret had agreed, but only after Angus had leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I’ll be bedding you this eve whether or not we’ve the minister’s blessing.”

  There were benefits, she quickly decided, to a hasty marriage.

  And so the happy couple found themselves back in their room at The Canny Man.

  “I might have to buy this inn,” Angus growled as he carried her over the threshold, “just to make certain this room is never used by anyone else.”

  “You’re that attached to it?” Margaret teased.

  “You’ll know why by morning.”

  She blushed.

  “Pink cheeks still?” he laughed. “And you, an old married woman.”

  “I’ve been married for two hours! I think I still have the right to blush.”

  He dumped her on the bed and looked down at her as if she were a treat in the bakery window. “Yes,” he murmured, “you do.”

  “My family isn’t going to believe this,” she said.

  Angus slid onto the bed and covered her body with his. “You can worry about them later.”

  “I still can’t believe it.”

  His mouth found her ear, and his breath was hot as he said, “You will. I’ll make sure you will.” His hands stole around her backside, cupping her and pressing her firmly against his arousal.

  Margaret let out a surprised, “Oh!”

  “Do you believe it now?”

  Where she got her daring, she never knew, but she smiled seductively and murmured, “Not quite.”

  “Really?” His lips spread into a slow smile. “This isn’t enough proof?”

  She shook her head.

  “Hmmm. It must be all of these clothes.”

  “Do you think?”

  He nodded and went to work on the buttons of his coat, which she was still wearing. “There are far, far too many layers of fabric in this room.”

  The coat melted away, as did her skirt, and then, before Margaret even had time to feel shy, Angus had doffed his own garments, and all that was left was skin against skin.

  It was the strangest sensation. He was touching her everywhere. He was above her and around her, and soon, she realised with breathless wonder, he would be within her.

  His mouth moved to the delicate skin of her earlobe, nibbling and nipping as he whispered naughty suggestions that caused her to blush right down to her toes. And then, before she could form any sort of response, he moved away and moved down, and then before she knew it, his tongue was circling her navel, and she knew—absolutely knew—that he was going to perform every one of those naughty acts that very night.

  His fingers tickled their way to her womanhood, and Margaret gasped as he slid inside. It should have felt like an invasion, but instead it was more like a completion, and yet it still wasn’t enough.

  “Do you like that?” he murmured, looking up.

  She nodded, her breath coming in shallow, needy gasps.

  “Good,” he said, looking very male and very pleased with himself. “You’ll like this even more.”

  His mouth slid down to meet his fingers, and Margaret nearly bucked off the bed. “You can’t do that!” she exclaimed.

  He didn’t look up, but she could feel him smiling against the tender skin of her inner thighs. “Yes, I can.”

  “No, you really—”

  “Yes.” He raised his head, and his slow, lazy smile melted her bones. “I can.”

  He made love to her with his mouth, teased her with his fingers, and all the while a low, rumbling pressure built up within her. The need grew until it almost hurt, and yet it felt wickedly delicious.

  And then something within her exploded. Some deep, secret place she hadn’t even known existed burst into light and pleasure, and her world was reduced to this one bed, with this one man.

  It was absolute perfection.

  Angus slid his body up the length of hers, wrapping his arms around her as she slowly drifted back to earth. He was still hard, his body tightly coiled with need, and yet somehow he felt strangely fulfilled. It was her, he realized. Margaret. There was nothing in life that couldn’t be made better with one of her smiles, and bringing her first woman’s pleasure had touched his very soul.

  “Happy?” he murmured.

  She nodded, looking drowsy and sated and very, very well-loved.

  He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “There’s more.”

  “Anything more would surely kill me.”

  “Oh, I think we’ll manage.” Angus chuckled as he rolled over her, using his powerful arms to hold his body a few inches away from hers.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled up at him. She lifted one of her hands to touch his cheek. “You’re such a strong man,” she whispered. “Such a good man.”

  He turned his face until his lips found the curve of her palm. “I love you, you know.”

  Margaret’s heart skipped a beat—or maybe it pounded double-time. “You do?”

  “It’s the strangest damned thing,” he said, his smile a touch bewildered and a touch proud. “But it’s true.”

  She stared up at him for several seconds, memorizing his face. She wanted to remember everything about this moment, from the glint in his dark eyes to the way his thick, black hair was falling over his forehead. And then there was the way the light hit his face, and the strong slope of his shoulders, and . . .

  Her heart grew warm. She was going to have a lifetime to memorize these things. “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  Angus leaned down and kissed her. And then he made her his.

  Several hours later, they were sitting in bed, enthusiastically partaking of the meal the innkeeper had left outside their door.

  “I think,” Angus said quite suddenly, “that we made a baby tonight.”

  Margaret dropped her chicken leg. “Why on earth would you think that?”

  He shrugged. “I certainly worked hard enough.”

  “Oh, and you think that one time—”

  “Three.” He grinned. “Three times.”

  Margaret blushed and mumbled, “Four.”

  “You’re right! I forgot all about—”

  She swatted him on the shoulder. “That’s enough, if you please.”

  “It will never be enough.” He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on her nose. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “God help me.”

  “Seeing as how we are Greenes, and this is Gretna Green, and we ought never to forget how we met . . .”

  Margaret groaned. “Stop there, Angus.”

  “Gretel!” he said with a flourish. “We could name her Gretel. Gretel Greene.”

  “Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, please tell me he’s joking.”

  “Gertrude? Gertrude Greene? It doesn’t have quite the same flair, but my aunt will be honored.”

  Margaret sank into the bed. Resistance was useless.

  “Grover? Gregory. You cannot complain about Gregory. Galahad? Giselle . . .”

  JULIA QUINN

  JULIA QUINN learned to read before she learned to talk, and her family is still trying to figure out if that explains A) why she reads so fast B) why she talks so much or C) both. In addition to writing romances, she practices yoga, grows terrifyingly huge zucchinis, and tries to think up really good reasons why housework is dangerous to her health.

  The author of thirteen novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives in the Pacific Northwest wit
h her husband Paul and two pet rabbits.

  Julia also spends way too much time online and can be reached via email at www.juliaquinn.com. Regular mail can be sent to the following address:

  c/o Avon Books Publicity Department

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, New York 10022-5299

  The Glenlyon Bride

  Karen Ranney

  One

  Glenlyon Castle

  Scotland, 1772

  “I’ll not marry the witch,” Lachlan said.

  No one paid any attention to his words. Instead, his entire clan seemed entranced by Coinneach MacAuley. The old man considered himself a prophet, a seer, and every man, woman, and child in the hall obliged by being his willing audience.

  “I see into the far future,” the old man intoned. He stood in the middle of the room, both hands in the air as if his palms pressed against an invisible wall. His full white beard ended in a point at mid-chest. Beneath shaggy white brows were bright blue eyes, too young for the aged face. At the moment, they were fixed on the high ceiling of the hall as if he saw the future written there. “I read the doom of the Sinclairs. I see the chief, the last of his line. He will be no father.” His voice rose, carried like an echo through the large room. People might have whispered among themselves, but no one thought to interrupt the prophet. “His sons, all the brave ones, are never born. All the honors they would have brought to the clan Sinclair—only dust in the wind. No future chief will ever rule again. Only barrenness and disaster will be the Sinclairs’ future.” He turned and pointed one long, wrinkled finger at Lachlan. “Because you ignored the Legend.”

  Lachlan eyed the old man. It was better to simply wait until the seer was finished with his pronouncements than to interrupt. That would only guarantee a longer harangue.

  The finger dropped; the seer bowed his head. “No Sinclair will ever rule Glenlyon again,” Coinneach continued. “The castle will lie like a crypt, devoid of life.”

  One eyebrow rose; then, by force of will, Lachlan smoothed his face of all expression. “Give it up, old man,” he said now, his voice carrying as easily as the seer’s. “I’ll not marry the witch.”