"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 comer 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."
"But then what will you wear?"
"I'll be fine in a shirt."
Impulsively, she reached out and touched his forearm, which was exposed by a rolled-up sleeve. "You're freezing. Is your other shirt made of linen? It won't be heavy enough." When he didn't reply, she added firmly, "You cannot give me your coat. I won't accept it."
Angus took one look down at her tiny hand on his arm and started imagining it traveling up to his shoulder, then across his chest…
He didn't feel cold.
"Sir Greene?" she asked softly. "Are you quite all right?"
He tore his eyes off her hand and then made the colossal mistake of looking at her eyes. Those grassy green orbs, which had, in the course of the evening, gazed upon him with fright, irritation, embarrassment, and, most recently, innocent desire, were now brimming with concern and compassion.
And it quite unmanned him.
Angus felt himself fill with an age-old male terror-as if somehow his body knew what his mind refused to consider-that she might be The One, that somehow, no matter how hard he fought, she'd be pestering him for all eternity.
And worse, that if she ever took it upon herself to stop pestering him, he might have to track her down and chain her to his side until she started up again.
Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce, it was a terrifying fate.
He tore off his shirt, furious with his reaction to her. It had started with just a hand on his arm, and the next thing he knew, he'd seen his entire life stretched out before him.
He finished dressing and stomped to the door. "I'll wait in the hall until you're ready," he said.
She was staring at him, her body trembling with tiny shivers.
"And take off all of those damned wet clothes," he ordered.
"I can't just wear your coat with nothing under it," she protested.
"You can and you will. I won't be responsible for your catching a lung fever."
He saw her shoulders straighten and her eyes fill with steel. "You can't order me about," she retorted.
He raised a brow. "You can take off your wet shirt, or I'll do it for you. It's your choice."
She grumbled something under her breath. Angus didn't quite hear all of the words, but the ones he did catch weren't terribly ladylike.
He smiled. "Someone ought to scold you for your language."
"Someone ought to scold you for your arrogance."
"You've been trying all night," he pointed out.
She made an unintelligible sound, and Angus just barely managed to duck out the door before she threw another shoe at him.
When Margaret stuck her head out the bedroom door, Angus was nowhere to be seen. This surprised her. She hadn't known the huge Scotsman for more than a few hours, but she was fairly certain he wasn't the sort to leave a gently bred lady to fend for herself in a public inn.
She shut the door behind her quietly, not wanting to draw attention to herself, and tiptoed down the hall. She was probably safe from unwanted attention here at The Canny Man- Angus had loudly proclaimed her his wife, after all, and only a fool would provoke a man of his size. But the trials of the day had left her cautious.
In retrospect, it had probably been a foolish endeavor to trek all the way to Gretna Green by herself, but what other choice did she have? She couldn't let Edward marry one of those awful girls he'd been courting.
She reached the stairwell and peered down.
"Hungry?"
Margaret jumped about a foot and let out a short, yet quite remarkably loud, scream.
Angus grinned. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"Yes, you did."
"Very well," he admitted. "I did. But you certainly had your revenge on my ears."
"It serves you right," she muttered. "Hiding in the stairwell."
"Actually," he said, offering her his arm, "I hadn't intended to hide. I would never have left the hall, except that I thought I heard my sister's voice."
"You did? Did you find her? Was it she?"
Angus raised a bushy black brow. "You sound rather excited about the prospect of finding someone you don't even know."
"I know you," she pointed out, dodging a lamp as they moved through The Canny Man's main room, "and much as you vex me, I would like to see you locate your sister."
His lips spread into an easy grin. "Why, Miss Pennypacker, I think you might have just admitted that you like me."
"I said," she said pointedly, "that you vex me."
"Well, of course. I do it on purpose."
That earned him a glare.
He leaned forward and chucked her chin. "Vexing you is the most fun I've had in ages."
"It isn't fun for me," she muttered.
"Of course it is," he said jovially, leading her into the small dining room. "I'll wager I'm the only person you know who dares to contradict you."
"You make me sound like a termagant."
He pulled out a chair for her. "Am I correct?"
"Yes," she mumbled, "but I'm not a termagant."
"Of course not." He sat down across from her. "But you are used to having your own way."
"So are you," she retorted.
"Touche."
"In fact," she said, leaning forward with a knowing gleam in her green eyes, "that's why your sister's disobedience is so galling. You cannot bear that she's gone against your wishes."
Angus squirmed in his chair. It was all fun and well when he was analyzing Margaret's personality, but this was unacceptable. "Anne has been going against my wishes since the day she was born."
"I didn't say she was meek and mild and did everything you say-"
"Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce," he said under his breath, "I would that were true…"
She ignored his odd expletive. "But Angus," she said animatedly, using her hands to punctuate her words, "has she ever before disobeyed you on such a grand scale? Done something that so completely disrupted your life?"
For a second, he didn't move; then he shook his head.