Gretna Greene

Four

The rain had subsided, but the damp night air was a slap in the face as Margaret dashed through the front door of The Canny Man. She looked wildly about, twisting her neck to the left and the right. She'd seen Edward through the window. She was sure of it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a couple moving quickly across the street. Edward. The man's golden blond hair was a dead giveaway.

"Edward!" she called, scurrying in his direction. "Edward Pennypacker!"

He made no indication of having heard her, so she picked up her skirts and ran into the street, yelling his name as she closed the distance between them.

"Edward!"

He turned around.

And she did not know him.

"I-I-I'm so sorry," she stuttered, stumbling back a step. "I mistook you for my brother."

The handsome blond man inclined his head graciously. "It's quite all right."

"It's a foggy night," Margaret explained, "and I was looking out the window…"

"There is no harm done, I assure you. But if you will excuse me"-the young man put his arm around the shoulder of the woman at his side and drew her near-"my wife and I must be on our way."

Margaret nodded and watched them disappear around the corner. They were newlyweds. From the way his voice had warmed over the word "wife," she knew it had to be so.

They were newlyweds, and like everyone else here at Gretna Green, they'd probably eloped, and their families were probably furious with them. But they looked so very happy, and Margaret suddenly felt unbearably tired, and forlorn, and old, and all those sad, lonely things she'd never thought she'd be.

"Did you have to leave right before the pudding?"

She blinked and turned around. Angus-how the devil did such a large man move so quietly?-was looming over her, arms akimbo, eyes glowering. Margaret didn't say anything. She didn't have the energy to say anything.

"I assume that wasn't your brother you saw."

She shook her head.

"Then for the love of God, woman, can we finish our meal?"

An unwilling smile danced across her lips. No recriminations, no "You stupid woman, why did you go running off into the night?" Just "Can we finish our meal?"

What a man.

"That would be a fine idea," she replied, taking his arm when he offered it. "And I might even taste the haggis. Just a taste, mind you. I'm sure I won't like it, but as you said, it's only polite to try."

He raised a brow, and something about his face, with those big, bushy eyebrows, dark eyes, and slightly crooked nose, made Margaret's heart skip two beats.

"Och," he granted, stepping toward the inn. "Will wonders never cease? Are you telling me that you were actually listening to me?"

"I listen to almost everything you say!"

"You're only offering to try the haggis because you know I ate your portion."

Margaret's blush gave her away.

"A-ha." His smile was positively wolfish. "Just for that, I'm going to make you eat hugga-muggie tomorrow."

"Can't I just try that cranopoly that you were talking about? The one with the cream and the sugar?"

"It's called cranachan, and if you endeavor not to nag me the entire way back to the inn, I might be inclined to ask Mr. McCallum to serve you some."

"Och, you're ever gracious," she said sarcastically.

Angus stopped in his tracks. "Did you just say 'och?'"

Margaret blinked in surprise. "I don't know. I might have done."

"Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, you're beginning to sound like a Scotswoman."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

It was his turn to blink in surprise. "I'm quite certain I've never mistaken you for a Scot until this very moment."

"Don't be obtuse. I meant the bit about the son of God, heathen spirits, and your Scottish hero."

He shrugged and pushed open the door to The Canny Man. "It's my own little prayer."

"Somehow, I doubt your vicar would find that particularly sacrosanct."

"We call them ministers up here, and who the devil do you think taught it to me?"

Margaret nearly tripped over his foot as they reentered the small dining room. "You're joking."

"If you plan to spend any time in Scotland, you're going to have to learn that we're a more pragmatic people than ye of warmer climes."

"I've never heard 'warmer climes' used as an insult," Margaret muttered, "but I believe you've just managed it."

Angus pulled her chair out for her, seated himself, and then continued with his pontification. "Any man worth his salt quickly learns that in times of great need, he must turn to the things he can trust best, things he can depend upon."

Margaret stared at him with a mix of incredulity and disgust. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"When I feel the need to summon a higher power, I say, 'Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce.' It makes perfect sense."

"You're a stark, raving lunatic."

"If I were a less easygoing man," he said, signaling to the innkeeper to bring them some cheese, "I might take offense at that."

"You can't pray to Robert the Bruce," she persisted.

"Och, and why not? I'm sure he's more time to watch over me than Jesus. After all, Jesus has the whole bleeding world to look after, even Sassenachs like you."

"It's wrong," Margaret said firmly, her head shaking with her words. "It's just wrong."

Angus looked at her, scratched his temple, and said, "Have some cheese."

Margaret's eyes widened in surprise, but she took the cheese and put some in her mouth. "Tasty."

"I'd comment on the superiority of Scottish cheese, but I'm sure you'll already be feeling a wee bit insecure about your nation's cuisine."

"After the haggis?"

"There's a reason we Scots are bigger and stronger than the English."

She let out a ladylike snort. "You're insufferable."

Angus sat back, resting his head in his hands, with his arms bent out at the elbows. He looked like a well-sated man, a well-confident man, one who knew who he was and what he meant to do with his life.

Margaret couldn't take her eyes off of him.

"Perhaps," he allowed, "but everyone loves me so well."

She threw a piece of cheese at him.

He caught it and popped it into his mouth, grinning wolfishly as he chewed. "You do like to throw things, don't you?"

"Funny that I never felt the inclination to do so until I met you."

"And here everyone told me I brought out the best in them."

Margaret started to say something and then just sighed.

"What now?" Angus asked, clearly amused.

"I was about to insult you."

"Not that I'm surprised, but why did you think the better of it?"

She shrugged. "I don't even know you. And here we are, bickering like an old married couple. It's quite incomprehensible."

Angus eyed her thoughtfully. She looked tired and weary, and just a little bit baffled, as if she had finally slowed down enough for her brain to realize that she was in Scotland, dining with a stranger who had very nearly kissed her not an hour earlier.

The subject of his perusal broke into his thoughts with a persistent, "Don't you think?"

Angus smiled guilelessly. "Was I supposed to make a comment?"

That earned him a rather fierce scowl.

"Very well," he said, "here is what I think. I think that friendship blossoms most quickly under extreme circumstances. Given the events that have unfolded this evening and, indeed, the common purpose that unites us, it's not surprising that we are sitting here enjoying out meal as if we have known each other for years."

"Yes, but-"

Angus briefly considered how splendid his life would be with the removal of the words, "yes" and "but" from the English language, then interrupted with, "Ask me anything."

She blinked several times before replying, "I beg your pardon?"

"You wanted to know more about me? Here is your chance. Ask me anything."

Margaret grew thoughtful. Twice she parted her lips, a question on the tip of her tongue, only to close them again. Finally she leaned forward and said, "Very well. Why are you so protective of women?"

Tiny white lines appeared around his mouth. It was a small reaction, and well controlled, but Margaret had been watching him closely. Her question had unnerved him.

His hand tightened around his mug of ale, and he said, "Any gentleman would come to a lady's aid."

Margaret shook her head, recalling the wild, almost feral look of him when he'd dispatched the men who'd attacked her. "There is more to it than that, and we both know it. Something happened to you." Her voice grew softer, more soothing. "Or perhaps to someone you love."

There was an achingly long silence, and then Angus said, "I had a cousin."

Margaret said nothing, unnerved by the flatness of his voice.

"She was older," he continued, staring at the swirling liquid in his mug of ale. "Seventeen to my nine. But we were very close."

"It sounds as if you were fortunate to have her in your life."

He nodded. "My parents were frequently in Edinburgh. They rarely took me with them."

"I'm sorry," Margaret murmured. She knew what it was like to miss one's parents.

"Don't be. I was never lonely. I had Catriona." He took a sip of his ale. "She took me fishing, she let me tag along on her errands, she taught me my multiplication tables when my tutors threw up their arms in despair." Angus looked up sharply; then a wistful smile crossed his face. "She wove them into songs. Funny how the only way I could remember that six by seven was forty-two was to sing it."

A lump formed in Margaret's throat because she knew this story did not have a happy ending. "What did she look like?" she whispered, not entirely certain why she wanted to know.

A nostalgic chuckle escaped Angus's lips. "Her eyes were much the same color as yours, maybe a touch bluer, and her hair was the richest red you've ever seen. She used to lament that it turned pink at sunset."

He fell silent, and finally Margaret had to voice the question that hung in the air. "What happened to her?"

"One day she didn't come to the house. She always came on Tuesdays. Other days I didn't know if she'd visit or not, but Tuesdays she always came to help me practice my numbers before my tutor arrived. I thought she must be ill, so I went to her house to bring her flowers." He looked up with an oddly regretful expression. "I think I must have been half in love with her. Who ever heard of a nine-year-old boy bringing his cousin flowers?"

"I think it's sweet," Margaret said gently.

"When I arrived, my aunt was in a panic. She wouldn't let me see her. Said I was right, that Catriona was ill. But I went around back and climbed through her window. She was lying in her bed, curled up in the tightest ball you've ever seen. I've never seen anything so-" His voice broke. "I dropped the flowers."

Angus cleared his throat, then took a sip of ale. Margaret noticed that his hands were shaking. "I called her name," he said, "but she didn't respond. I called it again and reached out to touch her, but she flinched and pulled away. And then her eyes cleared, and for a moment she looked like the girl I knew so well, and she said, 'Grow strong, Angus. Grow strong for me.' "

"Two days later, she was dead." He looked up, his eyes bleak. "By her own hand."

"Oh, no…" Margaret heard herself say.

"No one told me why," Angus continued. "I suppose they thought me too young for the truth. I knew she'd killed herself, of course. Everyone knew-the church refused to bury her in consecrated ground. It was only years later that I heard the whole story."

Margaret reached across the table and took his hand. She gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Angus looked up, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded brisker, more… normal. "I don't know how much you know of Scottish politics, but we've a good many British soldiers roaming our land. We're told they're here to keep the peace."

Margaret felt something queasy growing in the pit of her stomach. "Did one of them… was she…?"

He nodded curtly. "All she did was walk from her house to the village. That was her only crime."

"I'm so sorry, Angus."

"It was a path she'd traveled all her life. Except this time, someone saw her, decided he wanted her, and took her."

"Oh, Angus. You do know that this wasn't your fault, don't you?"

He nodded again. "I was nine. What could I have done? And I didn't even learn the truth until I'd reached seventeen-the same age Catriona was when she died. But I promised myself-" His eyes burned dark and fierce. "I promised God that I'd not let another woman be hurt the same way."

He smiled lopsidedly. "And so I've found myself the subject of more brawls than I'd care to remember. And I've fought several strangers I'd rather forget. And I don't receive many thanks for my intervention, but I think that she-" His eyes flitted heavenward. "I think that she thanks me."

"Oh, Angus," Margaret said, her heart in her voice, "I know she does. And I know I do." She realized she was still holding his hand, and she squeezed it again. "I don't believe I've thanked you properly, but I do appreciate what you did for me this evening. If you hadn't come along, I- I don't even want to think about what I'd be feeling right now."

He shrugged uncomfortably. "It was nothing. You can thank Catriona."

Margaret gave his hand one last squeeze before she pulled hers back to her own side of the table. "I'll thank Catriona for being such a good friend to you when you were small, but I'll thank you for saving me this eve."

He pushed some food about on his plate and grunted, "I was happy to do it."

She laughed at his less-than-gracious reply. "You aren't used to being thanked, are you? But enough of that; I believe I owe you a question."

He looked up. "I beg your pardon?"

"I got to ask you anything. It's only fair I return the favor."

He waved his hand dismissively. "You don't have to-"

"No, I insist. It wouldn't be sporting of me, otherwise."

"Very well." He thought for a moment. "Are you upset that your younger sister is getting married before you?"

Margaret let out a little cough of surprise. "I… how did you know she is getting married?"

"Earlier this evening," Angus replied, "you mentioned it."

She cleared her throat again. "So I did. I… well… you must know that I love my sister dearly."

"Your devotion to your family is clear in everything you do," Angus said quietly.

She picked up her napkin and twisted it. "I'm thrilled for Alicia. I wish her every happiness in the world."

Angus watched her closely. She wasn't lying, but neither was she telling the truth. "I know you're happy for your sister," he said softly. "You don't have it in you to feel anything else for her. But what do you feel for yourself?"

"I feel… I feel…" She let out a long, tired breath. "No one has ever asked me this before."

"Maybe it's time."

Margaret nodded. "I feel left behind. I spent so much time raising her. I've devoted my life to this moment, to this end, and somewhere along the way, I forgot about myself. And now it's too late."

Angus raised a dark brow. "You're hardly a toothless crone."

"I know, but to the men in Lancashire, I am firmly on the shelf. When they start thinking of potential brides, they don't think of me."

'Then they're stupid, and you shouldn't want anything to do with them."

She smiled sadly. "You are sweet, Angus Greene, no matter how hard you try to hide it. But the truth is, people see what they expect to see, and I've spent so much time chaperoning Alicia that I have been cast in an authoritative role. I sit with the mothers at country dances, and that, I fear, is where I'll stay."

She sighed. "Is it possible to be so happy for one person and at the same time be so sad for oneself?"

"Only the most generous in spirit can manage it. The rest of us don't know how to be happy for another when our own dreams have gone astray."

A single tear pricked Margaret's eye. "Thank you," she said.

"You're a fine woman, Margaret Pennypacker, and-"

"Pennypacker?" The innkeeper came scurrying over. "Did you just call her Margaret Pennypacker?"

Margaret felt her throat close up. She knew she'd get caught in this bloody lie. She'd never been good at fabrication, or even at playacting, for that matter…

But Angus just looked George calmly in the eye and said, "It's her maiden name. I use it as an endearment from time to time."

"Well, then, you must be recently married, because there's a messenger traveling from inn to inn, asking after her."

Margaret sat up very straight. "Is he still here? Do you know where he went?"

"He said he was going to try The Mad Rabbit." George jerked his head to the right before turning to walk away. "It's just down the street."

Margaret stood so quickly that she overturned her chair. "Let's go," she said to Angus. "We have to catch up with him. If he checks all the inns and doesn't find me, he might leave the village. And then I'll never get the message, and-"

Angus laid a heavy, comforting hand on her arm. "Who knows you're here?"

"Just my family," she whispered. "Oh, no, what if something dreadful has happened to one of them? I will never forgive myself. Angus, you don't understand. I'm responsible for them, and I could never forgive myself if-"

He squeezed her arm, and somehow the motion helped to settle her racing heart. "Why don't we see what this messenger has to say before we panic?"

Margaret couldn't believe how reassured she was by his use of the word "we." She nodded hurriedly. "Right. Let's be off, then."

He shook his head. "I want you to remain here."

"No. I couldn't possibly. I-"

"Margaret, you're a woman traveling alone, and-" He saw her open her mouth to protest and continued with, "No, don't tell me how capable you are. I've never met a more capable woman in my life, but that doesn't mean that men aren't going to try to take advantage of you. Who knows if this messenger really is a messenger?"

"But if he is a messenger, then he won't release the message into your hands. It's addressed to me."

Angus shrugged. "I'll bring him back here, then."

"No, I can't. I can't bear to feel useless. If I stay here-"

"It would make me feel better," he interrupted.

Margaret swallowed convulsively, trying not to pay attention to the warm concern in his voice. Why did the dratted man have to be so bloody nice? And why did she even care if her actions could make him "feel better"?

But she did, bugger her eyes.

"All right," she said slowly. "But if you don't return in five minutes, I'm coming after you."

He sighed. "Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, do you think you might be able to grant me ten?"

Her lips wobbled into a smile. "Ten, then."

He pointed at her mouth with the jauntiest of fingers. "Caught you grinning. You can't be that angry with me."

"Just get me that message, and I'll love you forever."

"Och, good." He saluted her and walked out the door, pausing only to say, "Don't let George give my cranachan to anyone else."

Margaret blinked, then gasped. Good Lord, had she just told him she'd love him forever?

Angus reentered The Canny Man eight minutes later, message in hand. It hadn't been that difficult to convince the messenger to relinquish the envelope; Angus had merely said-with a certain level of firmness-that he was serving as Miss Pennypacker's protector, and he would see to it that she received the message.

It also didn't hurt that Angus towered over six feet by a good four inches-which gave him nearly a foot over the messenger.

Margaret was sitting where he had left her, tapping her fingers against the table and ignoring the two big bowls of cranachan that George must have set before her.

"Here you are, my lady," he said jovially, handing her the missive.

She must have been in a daze, because she jerked to attention and gave her head a little shake before taking it.

The message was indeed from her family. Angus had managed to obtain that information from the messenger. He wasn't worried about there being an emergency; the messenger-when asked, once again firmly-had told him the message was very important but that the woman who had given it to him hadn't seemed overly panicked.

He watched Margaret carefully as her shaking hands broke the seal. Her green eyes scanned the lines quickly, and when she reached the end, she blinked several times in rapid succession. A strangled, choking sort of sound emerged from her throat, followed by a gasp of "I can't believe he did this."

Angus decided he'd better tread carefully. From her reaction, he couldn't tell whether she was about to start screaming or crying. Men and horses were easy to predict, but God alone understood the workings of the female mind.

He said her name, and she thrust two sheets of paper toward him in reply.

"I'm going to kill him," she bit out. "If he isn't dead yet, I'm going to bloody well kill him."

Angus looked down at the papers in his hand.

"Read the bottom one first," Margaret said bitterly.

He switched the sheets and began to read.

Rutherford House Pendle, Lancashire

My dearest sister-

This note was delivered to us by Hugo Thrumpton. He said he was under strict orders not to bring it by until you had been departed a full day.

Please do not hate Edward.

Godspeed.

yr. loving sister, Alicia Pennypacker

Angus looked up with questioning eyes. "Who is Hugo Thrumpton?"

"My brother's best friend."

"Ah." He pulled out the second letter, which was written in a decidedly more masculine hand.

Thrumpton Hall

nr. Clitheroe, Lancashire

My dear Margaret-

It is with a heavy heart that I write these words. By now you have received my note advising you of my flight to Gretna Green. If you react as I know you will, you will be in Scotland as you read this.

But I am not in Scotland, and I never had any intention of eloping. Rather, I leave tomorrow for Liverpool to join the Royal Navy. I shall use my portion to purchase my commission.

I know you never wanted this life for me, but I am a man now, and as a man I must choose my own fortune.

I have always known that I must be destined for the military life; ever since I played with my pewter soldiers as a young boy have I longed to serve my country.

I pray you will forgive my duplicity, but I knew that you would come after me to Liverpool if you were aware of my true intentions. Such a farewell would pain me for the rest of my days.

It is better this way.

yr. loving brother, Edward Pennypacker

Angus looked up into Margaret's eyes, which were suspiciously bright. "Did you have any idea?" he asked quietly.

"None," she said, her voice quavering on the word. "Do you think I would have undertaken this mad journey if I'd dreamed he'd gone to Liverpool?"

"What do you plan to do next?"

"Return home, I imagine. What else can I do? He's probably halfway to America by now."

She was exaggerating, but Angus figured she'd earned that right. There wasn't a lot one could say in such a situation, though, so he leaned over and pushed her bowl of pudding a little closer to her. "Have some cranachan."

Margaret looked down at her food. "You want me to eat?"

"I can't think of anything better to do. You didn't touch your haggis."

She picked up her spoon. "Am I a terrible sister? Am I such a terrible person?"

"Of course not."

"What kind of person am I that he would feel the need to send me all the way to Gretna Green just so he could make a clean escape?"

"A well-loved sister, I imagine," Angus replied, spooning some cranachan into his mouth. "Damn, this is good. You should try some."

Margaret dipped her spoon, but she didn't raise it to her mouth. "What do you mean?"

"Obviously he loves you too well to endure a painful farewell. And it sounds as if you would have put up quite a fight to his joining the navy had you known his true intentions."

Margaret had been about to retort, "Of course I would!" but instead she just sighed. What was the use defending her position or explaining her feelings? What was done was done, and there was nothing she could do about it.

She sighed again, louder, and lifted her spoon. If there was one thing she hated, it was situations about which she could do nothing.

"Are you going to eat that pudding, or is this some sort of experiment in the science of spoon-balancing?"

Margaret blinked her way out of her daze, but before she could reply, George McCallum appeared at their table.

"We'll be needing to clean up for the night," he said. "I don't mean to toss you out, but my wife is insisting." He grinned at Angus. "You know how it is."

Angus motioned to Margaret. "She hasn't finished her cranachan."

"Take the bowl up to your room. Pity to waste the food."

Angus nodded and stood. "Good idea. Are you ready, my sweet?"

Margaret's spoon slipped out of her hand, landing in her bowl of cranachan with a dull splat. Had he just called her his sweet? "I… I… I…"

"She loves me so much," Angus said to George, "sometimes she loses her power of speech."

While Margaret was gaping at him, he lifted his powerful shoulders in a huge, satisfied shrug, and said, "What can I say? I overwhelm her."

George chuckled while Margaret sputtered. "You'd best watch your back," the innkeeper advised Angus, "or you'll be finding yourself washing your hair with my wife's best cranachan."

"A fine idea," Margaret bit out.

Angus laughed as he stood and held out his hand to her. Somehow he'd known that the best way to distract her from her sorrows was to raise her hackles with another joke about her being his devoted wife. If he'd mentioned the baby, she would probably forget her brother altogether.

He started to open his mouth, then caught sight of the furious gleam in her eyes and thought the better of it. A man had to think of his own safety, after all, and Margaret looked ready to do some serious physical harm-or at least fling a bowl of cranachan at him.

Still, he'd gladly take the pudding shot if it meant she could stop thinking about her brother, even for a few moments. "Come along, darling," he said smoothly, "we need to let this good man close up for the night."

Margaret nodded and stood, her lips still clamped tightly together. Angus had a feeling she didn't trust herself to speak.

"Don't forget your cranachan," he said, motioning to the bowl on the table while he picked up his own.

"You might be wanting to carry hers, too," George chortled. "I dinna trust that look in her eye."

Angus took his advice and scooped up the other bowl. "An excellent idea, my good man. My wife will have to walk without the benefit of my arm, but I think she'll manage, don't you?"

"Och, yes. That one doesn't need a man to tell her where to go." George elbowed Margaret in the arm and smiled con-spiratorially. "But it's nice nonetheless, eh?"

Angus nudged Margaret out of the room before she killed the innkeeper.

"Why must you persist in teasing me like that?" she growled.

Angus turned the comer and waited for her to start up the stairs before following. "It took your mind off your brother, didn't it?"

"I…" Her lips parted in stunned amazement, and she stared at him as if she'd never before seen another human being. "Yes, it did."

He smiled and handed her one of the bowls of pudding while he fished in his pocket for the key to their room. "Surprised?"

"That you would do such a thing for me?" She shook her head. "No."

Angus turned slowly around, the key still sitting in the lock. "I meant, were you surprised you'd forgotten about your brother, but I think I like your answer better."

Margaret smiled wistfully and touched her hand to his arm. "You're a good man, Sir Angus Greene. Insufferable at times…" She almost grinned at his mock scowl. "Well, insufferable most of the time, if one wants to put a fine point on it, but still a good man."

He pushed the door open, then set his bowl of cranachan on a table inside the room. "Should I not have mentioned your brother just now? Perhaps I should have left you spitting mad and ready to slit my throat?"

"No." She let out a long, tired exhale and sat on the bed, another lock of her long brown hair spilling from her coiffure onto her shoulder. Angus watched her with an aching heart. She looked so small and defenseless, and so damned melancholy. He couldn't bear it.

"Margaret," he said, sitting beside her, "you have done your best to raise your brother for what, how many years?"

"Seven."

"Now it's time to let him grow up and make his own decisions, right or wrong."

"You yourself said no boy of eighteen knows his own mind."

Angus swallowed a groan. There was nothing more detestable than being haunted by one's own words. "I shouldn't want to see him marry at such an age. Good God, if he made a bad choice he'd have to live with it-her!-for rest of his life."

"And if he made a bad choice by entering the military, how long a life will he have to regret it?" Margaret raised her face to his, and her eyes looked unbearably huge in her face. "He could die, Angus. I don't care what people say, there is always a war. Somewhere, some stupid man will feel the need to fight with some other stupid man, and they're going to send my brother to settle it."

"Margaret, any one of us could die tomorrow. I could walk out of this inn and be trampled by a mad cow. You could walk out of this inn and be struck by lightning. We can't live our lives in fear of that moment."

"Yes, but we can try to minimize our risks."

Angus lifted his hand to rake it through his crisp hair; it was an action he often repeated when he was tired or exasperated. But somehow his hand moved slightly to the left, and he felt himself touch Margaret's hair instead. It was fine, and straight, and silky smooth, and there seemed to be a lot more of it than he'd originally thought. It slid from its pins and cascaded over his hand, between his fingers.

And as he savored the feel of it, neither of them breathed.

Their eyes locked, green against the darkest, hottest black. Not a word was spoken, but as Angus leaned forward, slowly closing the distance between them, they both knew what was going to happen.

He was going to kiss her.

And she wasn't going to stop him.