Scottish Brides (25 page)

“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.

Three

 

 

 

Margaret yelped in surprise as she slid through the
air. It wasn't a long slide; the floor practically jumped to meet her hip, which was (of course) already bruised from her ride in the farmer's cart. She was sitting there, somewhat stunned at her sudden change of position, when Angus's face appeared over the edge of the bed.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I, er, lost my balance,” she muttered.

“I see,” he said, so solemnly that she couldn't possibly believe him.

“I frequently lose my balance,” she lied, trying to make the incident seem as unremarkable as possible. It wasn't every day she fell off a bed while swaying into a kiss with a complete stranger. “Don't you?”

“Never.”

“That's not possible.”

“Well,” he mused, scratching his chin, “I suppose that's not entirely true. There are times . . .”

Margaret's eyes fixed on his fingers as they stroked the stubbled skin of his jaw. Something about the movement transfixed her. She could see each little whisker, and with a horrified gasp she realized that her hand had already crossed half the distance between them.

Good Lord, she wanted to touch the man.

“Margaret?” he asked, his eyes amused. “Are you listening to me?”

She blinked. “Of course. I'm just—” Her mind flailed for something to say. “Well, it's obvious that I'm sitting on the floor.”

“And this interferes with your auditory skills?”

“No! I—” She clamped her lips together in an irritated line. “What were you saying?”

“Are you certain you don't want to come back up on the bed so you can hear me better?”

“No, thank you. I'm perfectly comfortable, thank you.”

He reached down, clamped one of his large hands around her arm, and hauled her up onto the bed. “I might have believed you if you'd left it at one ‘thank you.' ”

She grimaced. If she had a fatal flaw, it was trying too hard, protesting too much, arguing too loud. She never knew when to stop. Her siblings had told her so for years, and deep in her heart, she knew she could be the worst sort of pest when she was single-mindedly fixed on a goal.

She wasn't about to inflate his ego any further by agreeing with him, though, so instead she sniffed and said, “Is there anything distasteful about good manners? Most people appreciate a word of thanks every now and then.”

He leaned forward, shocking her with his nearness. “Do you know how I know you weren't listening to me?”

She shook her head, her normally ready wit flying out the window—which was no inconsiderable feat, considering that the window was closed.

“You had asked me if I ever felt off-balance,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur, “and I said no, but then—” He lifted his powerful shoulders and let them fall in an oddly graceful shrug. “Then,” he added, “I reconsidered.”

“Be-because I told you that's not possible,” she just barely managed to say.

“Well, yes,” he mused, “but you see, sitting here with you, I had a sudden flash of memory.”

“You did?”

He nodded slowly, and when he spoke, he drew each word out with mesmerizing intensity. “I can't speak for other men . . .”

She found herself caught in his hot gaze, and she could no more look away than she could stop breathing. Her skin tingled and her lips parted, and then she swallowed convulsively, suddenly certain that she'd been better off on the floor.

He touched one finger to the corner of his mouth, stroking his skin as he continued his lazy speech. “ . . . but when I am overcome with desire, drunk on it—”

She shot off the bed like a Chinese firecracker. “Maybe,” she said, her voice sounding strangely thick, “we should see about getting that supper.”

“Right.” Angus stood so suddenly that the bed rocked. “Sustenance is what we need.” He grinned at her. “Don't you think?”

Margaret just stared at him, amazed by his shift in mien. He'd been attempting to seduce her—she was sure of it. Or if he wasn't, he was definitely trying to fluster her. He'd already as much as admitted that he enjoyed doing so.

And he'd succeeded. Her stomach was flipping about, her throat seemed to have grown three large lumps, and she kept having to grab hold of the furniture to keep her balance.

And yet here he was, completely composed—smiling, even! Either he hadn't been the least bit affected by their nearness, or the dratted man belonged on the Shakespearean stage.

“Margaret?”

“Food is good,” she blurted out.

“I'm glad you agree with me,” he said, looking utterly amused by her loss of composure. “But first you must take off that wet coat.”

She shook her head, hugging her arms to her chest. “I don't have anything else.”

He tossed a garment in her direction. “You can wear my spare.”