by Julia Quinn
* * *
When Angus stumbled back into The Canny Man several hours later, he was cold, wet, and feeling like he ought to be drunk. The rain, of course, had resumed, as had the wind, and his fingers resembled nothing so much as thick icicles attached to the flat snowballs that had used to be his hands.
His feet didn't feel quite his own, and it took him several attempts and many stubbed toes before he made it up the steps to the top floor of the inn. He leaned against the door to his room as he fumbled for the key, then remembered he hadn't brought a key, then turned the doorknob, then let out an irritated grunt when the door didn't budge.
Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, why the hell had he told her to lock the door? Had he truly been that worried about his self-control? There was no way he could ravish her in this state. His nether regions were so cold, he probably couldn't muster up a reaction if she opened the door without a stitch of clothing on her body.
His muscles made a pathetic attempt at tightening. All right, maybe if she were completely naked…
Angus sighed happily, trying to picture it.
The doorknob turned. He was still sighing.
The door swung open. He fell in.
He looked up. Margaret was blinking rapidly as she regarded him. "Were you leaning against the door?" she asked.
"Apparently so."
"You did tell me to lock it."
"Yer a good woman, Margaret Pennypacker. Dutiful 'n' loyal."
Margaret narrowed her eyes. "Are you drunk?"
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 something-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 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:
Gone for breakfast. Will return shortly.
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.
* * *
Angus had been feeling reasonably cheerful, whistling to himself as he'd set about finding the perfect Scottish breakfast to bring back to Margaret. Porridge, of course, and a true Scottish scone were necessities, but Angus wanted to give her a taste of his country's delectable smoked fish as well.
George had told him that he'd have to go across the street to the fishmonger in order to get some wild salmon, and so he'd told the innkeeper that he'd be back in a few minutes for the porridge and scones, and pushed open the front door.
He hadn't even taken a step into the street when he spied it. His carriage. Sitting innocently across the street with two of his best horses hitched up to it.
Which could only mean one thing.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnne!"
His sister's head poked out from around the side of the carriage. Her lips parted with horror, and he saw her mouth his name.
"Anne Greene," he roared, "don't you take another step!"
She froze. He barreled across the street.
"Angus Greene!" came the shout from behind him. "Don't you take another step!"
Margaret?
Anne stretched out a little farther from behind the carriage, the stark terror in her eyes giving way to curiosity.
Angus turned around. Margaret was racing toward him with all the grace and delicacy of an ox. She was, as always, completely focused on a single subject. Unfortunately, this time that subject was him.
"Angus," she said in that matter-of-fact tone of hers that made him almost think she knew what she was talking about, "you don't want to do anything rash."
"I wasn't planning on doing anything rash," he said with what he would deem saintly patience. "I was just going to strangle her."
Anne gasped.
"He doesn't mean it," Margaret hastened to add. "He's been very worried about you."
"Who are you?" Anne asked.
"I do mean it!" Angus shouted. He jabbed his finger at his sister. "You, young lady, are in very big trouble."
"She has to grow up sometime," Margaret said. "Remember what you said to me last night about Edward."
Anne turned to her brother. "Who is she?"
"Edward was running off to join the navy," Angus growled, "not following a fool's dream to London."
"Oh, and I suppose London is worse than the navy," Margaret scoffed. "At least she isn't going to have her arm shot off by some Portuguese sniper. Besides, a season in London isn't a fool's dream. Not for a girl her age."
Anne's face brightened visibly.
"Look at her," Angus protested, waving his arm at his sister while he stared at Margaret. "Look how beautiful she is. Every rakehell in London will be after her. I'm going to have to beat them off with a stick."
Margaret turned to Angus's sister. Anne was quite pretty, with the same thick black hair and dark eyes that her brother possessed. But she was no one's idea of a classic beauty. No one's but Angus's.
Margaret's heart swelled. She hadn't, until that very minute, realized just how well Angus loved his sister. She laid a hand on his arm. "Maybe it's time to let her grow up," she said softly. "Didn't you say you had a great-aunt in London? She won't be alone."
"Aunt Gertrude has already written that I might stay with her," Anne said. "She said she would like the company. I think she might be lonely."
Angus's chin jutted forward like an angry bull. "Don't try to make this about Aunt Gertrude. You want to go to London because you want to go to London, not because you're worried about Gertrude."
