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?"