Gretna Greene

Five

His lips brushed against hers slowly, in the barest of touches. If he'd crushed her against him or ground his mouth onto hers, she might have pulled away, but this feather-light caress captured her soul.

Her skin prickled with awareness, and she suddenly felt… different, as if this body she'd possessed for twenty-four years were no longer her own. Her skin felt too tight, and her heart felt too hungry, and her hands… oh, how her hands ached for the touch of his skin.

He'd be warm, she knew, and sculpted. His were not the muscles of a sedentary man. He could crush her with one blow of his fist… and somehow that knowledge was thrilling… probably because he was holding her now with such gentle reverence.

She pulled away for a moment, so that she could see his eyes. They burned with a need that was unfamiliar, and yet she knew exactly what he wanted.

"Angus," she whispered, lifting her hand to rub the rough skin of his cheek. His dark beard was coming in, thick and coarse and entirely unlike her brother's whiskers on the few occasions she'd seen him unshaven.

He covered her hand with his, then turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss against her skin. She watched his eyes over the tips of her fingers. They never left hers, and they were asking a silent question, and waiting for her answer.

"How did this happen?" she whispered. "I've never… I never even wanted-"

"But you do now," he whispered. "You want me now."

She nodded, shocked by her admission, yet unable to lie to him. There was something about the way he was looking at her, the way his eyes swept over her as if he could see all the way to the very center of her heart. The moment was ter-rifyingly perfect, and she knew that lies had no place between them. Not in that room, not on that night.

She moistened her lips. "I can't…"

Angus touched his finger to her mouth. "Can't you?"

That brought forth a wobbly smile. His teasing tone melted her resistance, and she felt herself swaying toward him, leaning into his strength. More than anything, she wanted to throw aside all of her principles, every last ideal and moral to which she'd held true. She could forget who she was, and what she'd always held dear, and lie with this man. She could stop being Margaret Pennypacker, sister and guardian of Edward and Alicia Pennypacker, daughter of the departed Edmund and Katherine Pennypacker. She could stop being the woman who brought food to the poor, attended church every Sunday, and planted her garden every spring in neat and tidy rows.

She could stop being all of that, and finally be a woman.

It was so tempting.

Angus smoothed one of his callused fingers across her furrowed brow. "You look so serious," he murmured, leaning forward to brush his lips to her forehead. "I want to kiss away these lines, brush away these worries."

"Angus," she said quickly, letting her words tumble out before she lost her ability to reason, "there are things I can't do. Things I want to do, or I think I want to do. I'm not sure, because I've never done, but I can't- Why are you smiling?"

"Was I?"

He knew he was, the bounder.

He shrugged helplessly. "It's only that I've never seen anyone quite so becomingly befuddled as you, Margaret Pennypacker."

She opened her mouth to protest, since she wasn't sure if his words were complimentary, but he placed his finger over her lips.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said. "Hush now, and listen to me. I'm going to kiss you, and that's all."

Her heart soared and fell in a single moment. "Just a kiss?"

"Between us, it will never be just a kiss."

His words sent a shiver through her veins, and she lifted her head, offering her lips to him.

Angus drew in a hoarse breath, staring at her mouth as if it held all the temptations of hell-and all the bliss of heaven. He kissed her again, but this time he held nothing back. His lips took hers in a hungry, possessive dance of desire and need.

She gasped, and he savored her breath, inhaling its warm, sweet essence, as if that might somehow enable her to touch him from the inside out.

He knew he ought to go slowly with her, and much as his body was crying with need, he knew that he would end this night unfulfilled, but he could not deny himself the pleasure of feeling her small body beneath his, and so he lowered her down onto the bed, never once taking his mouth off hers.

If he was just going to kiss her, if that was all he could do, then he was damned if this kiss didn't last the whole night through.

"Oh, Margaret," he moaned, letting his hands roam down the side of her, past her waist, over her hip, until he cupped the smoothly rounded curve of her buttocks. "My sweet Mar-"

He broke off and lifted his head, flashing her a boyishly lopsided grin. "Can I call you Meggie? Margaret's a bloody mouthful."

She stared up at him, breathing hard, unable to speak.

"Margaret," he continued, trailing his fingers along the edge of her cheek, "is just the sort of woman a man wants by his side. But Meggie… now, that's a woman a man wants underneath."

It took her an eighth of a second to say, "You can call me Meggie."

His lips found her ear, as his arms snaked around her. "Welcome to my embrace, Meggie."

She sighed, and the movement sank her deeper into the mattress, and she gave herself up to the moment, to the flickering candle and the sweet scent of the cranachan, and to the strong and powerful man who was covering her body with his.

His lips moved to her neck, whispering along the lines that led down to the crook of her shoulder. He kissed the skin there, so pale against the black wool of his coat. He didn't know how he'd ever wear that garment again, now that it had spent an entire evening brushing against her bare skin. It would smell like her for days, and then, after the scent drifted away, the memory of this moment would still be enough to set his body on fire.

His nimble fingers undid just enough buttons to reveal the barest hint of her cleavage. It was nothing more than a shadow, really, a vague darkening that hinted at the wonders below, but even that was enough to send fire through his veins, tightening a body that he had thought couldn't possibly get any harder.

Two more buttons found their way free, and Angus trailed his mouth down along each new inch of bared skin, whispering the whole time, "It's still a kiss. Just a kiss."

"Just a kiss," Margaret echoed, her voice strange and breathy.

"Just a kiss," he agreed, slipping yet another button through its loophole so that he could fully kiss the deep hollow between her breasts. "I'm still kissing you."

"Yes," she moaned. "Oh, yes. Keep kissing me."

He spread open his coat, baring her small, yet gently rounded breasts. He sucked in his breath. "Good Christ, Meggie, this coat never looked half so good on me."

Margaret stiffened slightly under the intense heat of his gaze. He was staring at her as if she were some strange and wondrous creature, as if she possessed something he'd never seen before. If he touched her, caressed her, or even kissed her, she could melt right back into his embrace and lose herself in the passion of the moment. But with him just staring at her-she was made uncomfortably aware that she was doing something she'd never even dreamed of doing.

She'd known this man only a few short hours, and yet-

Her breath catching, she reached up to cover herself. "What have I done?" she whispered.

Angus leaned down and kissed her forehead. "No regrets, my sweet Meggie. Whatever you feel, don't let regret be a part of it."

Meggie. Meggie didn't adhere to the strictures of society simply because that was the way she was raised. Meggie sought her own fortune and her own pleasure.

Margaret's lips hinted at a smile as she let her hands fall away. Meggie might not lie with a man before marriage, but she would certainly allow herself this moment of passion.

"You're so beautiful," Angus growled, and the last syllable was lost as his mouth closed around the peak of her breast. He made love to her with his lips, worshipping her in every way a man could show his devotion.

And then, just as Margaret felt her last shreds of resistance slipping away, he took a shuddering, deep breath and, with obvious reluctance, closed the folds of his coat around her.

He held the lapels together for a full minute, breathing hard as his eyes fixed on some blank spot on the wall. His face looked almost haggard, and to Margaret's untrained eye, he looked almost as if he were in pain.

"Angus?" she asked hesitantly. She wasn't certain what she was supposed to ask him, so she settled for just his name.

"In a minute." His voice was a touch harsh, but somehow Margaret knew that he bore her no anger. She held silent, waiting until he turned his head back toward her and said, "I need to leave the room."

Her lips parted in surprise. "You do?"

He nodded curtly and tore himself away from her, crossing the distance to the door in two long strokes. He grabbed the doorknob, and Margaret saw the muscles in his forearm flex, but before he pulled the door open, he turned around, his lips starting to form words…… that quickly died on his lips.

Margaret followed his gaze back to herself… Good God above, the coat had fallen open when he'd let go of it. She snatched the lapels together, thankful that the dim candlelight hid her mortified blush.

"Lock the door behind me," he instructed.

"Yes, of course," she said, rising to her feet. "Here, you do it, and then take the key." She fumbled toward the table with her left hand, clutching the coat together with her right.

He shook his head. "Keep it."

She took a few steps toward him. "Keep the- Are you mad? How will you get back in?"

"I won't. That's the point."

Margaret's mouth opened and closed a few times before she managed to say, "Where will you sleep?"

He leaned toward her, his nearness heating the air. "I won't sleep. That's the problem."

"Oh. I…" She wasn't such an innocent that she didn't recognize what he was talking about, but she certainly wasn't experienced enough to know how to respond. "I-"

"Has it started to rain again?" he asked curtly.

Margaret blinked at the rapid change of subject. She cocked her head, listening for the gentle patter of rain against the roof. "I… yes, I believe it has."

"Good. It had better be cold."

And with that, he stalked out of the room.

After a second of paralyzing surprise, Margaret ran to the door and poked her head into the hall, just in time to see Angus's large form disappear around the corner. She hung onto the doorframe for a full ten seconds, half in and half out of the room, not precisely certain why she felt so completely stunned. Was it the fact that he'd left so abruptly? Or that she'd allowed him liberties she'd never dreamed of allowing any man who wasn't her husband?

If truth had to be told, she'd never even dreamed that such liberties existed.

Or maybe, she thought wildly, maybe what really stunned her was that she'd lain on the bed, looking up at him as he'd stormed across the room, and he'd been so completely… well, delicious to watch that she hadn't even realized that the coat had fallen open and her breasts were peeking out for all the world to see.

Or at least for Angus to see, and the way he looked at her…

Margaret gave herself a little shake and shut the door. After a moment's pause, she locked it as well. Not that she worried about Angus. He might be in a bear of a mood, but he'd never lift a finger against her, and, more importantly, he'd never take advantage of her.

She didn't know how she knew this. She just did.

But one never knew what manner of cutthroats and idiots one might find in a country inn, especially in Gretna Green, which she imagined saw more than its fair share of idiots, what with everyone eloping here all the time.

Margaret sighed and tapped her foot. What to do, what to do. Her stomach let out a loud and vigorous rumble, and it was then that she remembered the cranachan sitting on the table.

Why not? It smelled delicious.

She sat down and ate.

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.