Gretna Greene

Two

Their truce lasted all of two minutes. Margaret wasn't exactly certain how it came about, but before they were even halfway to The Canny Man, they were bickering like children.

He couldn't resist reminding her that she'd been beyond foolish in setting out for Scotland by herself.

She just had to call him an arrogant boor as he propelled her up the front steps and into the inn.

But none of that-not one single snippy word-could have prepared her for what happened when they stood before the innkeeper.

"My wife and I require rooms for the night," Angus said.

Wife?

By sheer force of will, Margaret managed to keep her jaw from dropping to her knees. Or maybe it was an act of God; she didn't much think her will was strong enough to keep her from smacking Angus Greene in the arm for his impertinence.

"We have only one room available," the innkeeper informed them.

"We'll take that, then," Angus replied.

This time she knew she was subject to divine intervention, because there could be no other explanation for her restraint in the face of her massive desire to box his ears.

The innkeeper nodded approvingly and said, "Follow me. I'll show you up. And if you would like a meal-"

"We would," Angus cut in. "Something warm and filling."

"I'm afraid all we have at this late hour is cold meat pie."

Angus pulled a coin from his coat and held it forward. "My wife is very cold, and given her delicate condition, I would like to see that she receives a good meal."

"My condition?" Margaret gasped.

Angus smiled down at her and winked. "Come now, darling, surely you didn't think you would be able to hide it forever."

"Congratulations to you both!" the innkeeper boomed. "Is this your first?"

Angus nodded. "So you see why I'm so protective." He snaked his arm around Margaret's shoulders. "She's such a delicate woman."

That "delicate" woman promptly bent her arm and jabbed her elbow into Angus's hip. Hard.

The innkeeper must not have heard the ensuing grunt of pain, because he just took the coin and rolled it around in his hand. "Of course, of course," he murmured. "I'll have to wake my wife, but I'm sure we can find something hot."

"Excellent."

The innkeeper moved forward, and Angus made to follow, but Margaret grabbed the hem of his coat and yanked. "Are you mad?" she whispered.

"I thought you had already questioned my sanity and found it acceptable."

"I have reconsidered," she ground out.

He patted her on the shoulder. "Try not to overset yourself. It's not good for the baby."

Margaret's arms were sticks at her sides as she tried to keep herself from pummeling him. "Stop talking about the baby," she hissed, "and I am not going to share a room with you."

"I really don't see what other choice you have."

"I would rather-"

He held up a hand. "Don't tell me you'd rather wait out in the rain. I simply won't believe you."

"You can wait out in the rain."

Angus ducked and peered out a window. Raindrops were beating loudly against the glass. "I think not."

"If you were a gentleman…"

He chuckled. "Ah, but I never said I was a gentleman."

"What was all that about protecting women, then?" Margaret demanded.

"I said I don't like to see women hurt and abused. I never said I was willing to sleep in the rain and give myself a raging case of lung disease for you."

The innkeeper, who had walked on ahead, stopped and turned around when he realized that his guests had not followed. "Are you coming?" he inquired.

"Yes, yes," Angus replied. "Just having a small discussion with my wife. It seems she is having a remarkable craving for haggis."

Margaret's mouth fell open, and it took several attempts at speech before she managed to say, "I don't like haggis."

Angus grinned. "I do."

"Och!" the innkeeper exclaimed with a broad smile. "Just like my wife. She ate haggis every day while she was expecting, and she gave me four fine boys."

"Brilliant," Angus said with a cocky smile. "I shall have to remember that. A man needs a son."

"Four," the innkeeper reminded him, his chest puffing out with pride. "I've got four."

Angus slapped Margaret on the back. "She'll give me five. Mark my words."

"Men," she spat out, stumbling from the force of his friendly pat. "A bunch of strutting roosters, the lot of you."

But the two men were too involved in their manly game of one-upmanship-Margaret fully expected them to start arguing about who could toss a caber farther any moment now-and clearly didn't hear her.

She stood there with her arms crossed for a full minute, trying not to listen to a thing they were saying, when Angus suddenly patted her on the back and said, "Haggis, then, for dinner, my love?"

"I'm going to kill you," she hissed. "And I'm going to do it slowly." Then Angus jabbed her in the ribs and glanced at the innkeeper. "I'd love some," she choked out. "My very favorite."

The innkeeper beamed. "A woman after my own heart. Nothing protects one from the spirits like a good haggis."

"The smell alone would scare off the devil," Margaret muttered.

Angus chuckled and gave her hand a squeeze.

"You must be a Scotswoman, then," the innkeeper said, "if you love the haggis."

"Actually," Margaret said primly, yanking her hand back. "I'm English."

"Pity." The innkeeper then turned to Angus and said, "But I suppose if you had to marry a Sassenach, at least you picked one with a taste for haggis."

"I refused to ask for her hand until she tasted it," Angus said solemnly. "And then I wouldn't go through with the ceremony until I was convinced that she liked it."

Margaret walloped him in the shoulder.

"And a temper, too!" the innkeeper chortled. "We'll make a good Scotswoman out of her yet."

"I'm hoping," Angus agreed, his accent suddenly growing stronger to Margaret's ear. "I'm thinking she ought to learn to throw a better punch, though."

"Didn't hurt, eh?" the innkeeper said with a knowing smile.

"Not a bit."

Margaret ground her teeth together. "Sir," she said as sweetly as she could muster, "could you please show me to my room? I'm a terrible mess, and I would so like to tidy myself before supper."

"Of course." The innkeeper resumed his trek up the stairs, Margaret right on his heels. Angus loitered a few steps behind, no doubt grinning at her expense.

"Here it is," the innkeeper said, opening the door to reveal a small but clean room with a washbasin, a chamber pot, and a single bed.

"Thank you, sir," she said with a polite nod. "I am most appreciative." Then she marched into the room and slammed the door.

Angus howled with laughter. He couldn't help himself.

"Och, you're in trouble now," the innkeeper said.

Angus's laughter settled down into a few choice chuckles. "What's your name, good sir?"

"McCallum. George McCallum."

"Well, George, I think you're right."

"Having a wife," George pontificated, "is a delicate balancing act."

"I never knew how much until this very day."

"Luckily for you," George said with a devious smile, "I still have the key."

Angus grinned and tossed another coin at him, then caught the key when George flipped it through the air. "You're a good man, George McCallum."

"Aye," George said as he walked off, "that's what I keep telling my wife."

Angus chuckled to himself and put the key in his pocket. He opened the door only a few inches, then called out, "Are you dressed?"

Her reply was a loud thump against the door. Probably her shoe.

"If you don't tell me otherwise, I'm coming in." He poked his head inside the room, then pulled it out just in time to avoid her other shoe, which came sailing at him with deadly aim.

He poked back in, ascertained that she had nothing else to throw at him, and then entered the room.

"Would you mind," she said with barely controlled fury, "telling me what the devil that was about?"

"Which bit of it?" he stalled.

She answered him with a glare. Angus thought she looked rather fetching with her cheeks all red with anger but wisely decided that now was not the time to compliment her on such things.

"I see," he said, unable to prevent the corners of his mouth from twitching with mirth. "Well, one would think it would be self-explanatory, but if I must explain-"

"You must."

He shrugged. "You wouldn't have a roof over your head right now if George didn't think you were my wife."

"That's not true, and who is George?"

"The innkeeper, and yes, it most certainly is true. He wouldn't have given this room to an unmarried couple."

"Of course not," she snapped. "He would have given it to me and tossed you out on your ear."

Angus scratched his head thoughtfully. "I'm not so sure about that, Miss Pennypacker. After all, I'm the one with the money."

She glared at him so hard, her eyes so wide and angry, that Angus finally noticed what color they were. Green. A rather lovely, grassy shade of green.

"Ah," he said at her silence. "Then you agree with me."

"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.