Scottish Brides (24 page)

“My condition?” Margaret gasped.

Angus smiled down at her and winked. “Come now, darling, surely you didn't think you would be able to hide it forever.”

“Congratulations to you both!” the innkeeper boomed. “Is this your first?”

Angus nodded. “So you see why I'm so protective.” He snaked his arm around Margaret's shoulders. “She's such a delicate woman.”

That “delicate” woman promptly bent her arm and jabbed her elbow into Angus's hip. Hard.

The innkeeper must not have heard the ensuing grunt of pain, because he just took the coin and rolled it around in his
hand. “Of course, of course,” he murmured. “I'll have to wake my wife, but I'm sure we can find something hot.”

“Excellent.”

The innkeeper moved forward, and Angus made to follow
,
but Margaret grabbed the hem of his coat and yanked. “Are you mad?” she whispered.

“I thought you had already questioned my sanity and found it acceptable.”

“I have reconsidered,” she ground out.

He patted her on the shoulder. “Try not to overset yourself. It's not good for the baby.”

Margaret's arms were sticks at her sides as she tried to keep herself from pummeling him. “Stop talking about the baby,” she hissed, “and I am not going to share a room with you.”

“I really don't see what other choice you have.”

“I would rather—”

He held up a hand. ”Don't tell me you'd rather wait out in the rain. I simply won't believe you.”

“You
can wait out in the rain.”

Angus ducked and peered out a window. Raindrops were beating loudly against the glass. “I think not.”

“If you were a gentleman . . .”

He chuckled. “Ah, but I never said I was a gentleman.”

“What was all that about protecting women, then?” Margaret demanded.

“I said I don't like to see women hurt and abused. I never said I was willing to sleep in the rain and give myself a raging case of lung disease for you.”

The innkeeper, who had walked on ahead, stopped and turned around when he realized that his guests had not followed. “Are you coming?” he inquired.

“Yes, yes,” Angus replied. “Just having a small discussion with my wife. It seems she is having a remarkable craving for haggis.”

Margaret's mouth fell open, and it took several attempts at speech before she managed to say, “I don't like haggis.”

Angus grinned. “I do.”

“Och!” the innkeeper exclaimed with a broad smile. “Just like my wife. She ate haggis every day while she was expecting, and she gave me four fine boys.”

“Brilliant,” Angus said with a cocky smile. “I shall have to remember that. A man needs a son.”

“Four,” the innkeeper reminded him, his chest puffing out with pride. “I've got four.”

Angus slapped Margaret on the back. “She'll give me five. Mark my words.”

“Men,” she spat out, stumbling from the force of his friendly pat. “A bunch of strutting roosters, the lot of you.”

But the two men were too involved in their manly game of one-upmanship—Margaret fully expected them to start arguing about who could toss a caber farther any moment now—and clearly didn't hear her.

She stood there with her arms crossed for a full minute, trying not to listen to a thing they were saying, when Angus suddenly patted her on the back and said, “Haggis, then, for dinner, my love?”

“I'm going to kill you,” she hissed. “And I'm going to do it slowly.” Then Angus jabbed her in the ribs and glanced at the innkeeper. “I'd love some,” she choked out. “My very favorite.”

The innkeeper beamed. “A woman after my own heart. Nothing protects one from the spirits like a good haggis.”

“The smell alone would scare off the devil,” Margaret muttered.

Angus chuckled and gave her hand a squeeze.

“You must be a Scotswoman, then,” the innkeeper said, “if you love the haggis.”

“Actually,” Margaret said primly, yanking her hand back. “I'm English.”

“Pity.” The innkeeper then turned to Angus and said, “But I suppose if you had to marry a Sassenach, at least you picked one with a taste for haggis.”

“I refused to ask for her hand until she tasted it,” Angus said solemnly. “And then I wouldn't go through with the ceremony until I was convinced that she liked it.”

Margaret walloped him in the shoulder.

“And a temper, too!” the innkeeper chortled. “We'll make a good Scotswoman out of her yet.”

“I'm hoping,” Angus agreed, his accent suddenly growing stronger to Margaret's ear. “I'm thinking she ought to learn to throw a better punch, though.”

“Didn't hurt, eh?” the innkeeper said with a knowing smile.

“Not a bit.”

Margaret ground her teeth together. “Sir” she said as sweetly as she could muster, “could you please show me to my room? I'm a terrible mess, and I would so like to tidy myself before supper.”

“Of course.” The innkeeper resumed his trek up the stairs, Margaret right on his heels. Angus loitered a few steps behind, no doubt grinning at her expense.

“Here it is,” the innkeeper said, opening the door to reveal a small but clean room with a washbasin, a chamber pot, and a single bed.

“Thank you, sir,” she said with a polite nod. “I am most appreciative.” Then she marched into the room and slammed the door.

Angus howled with laughter. He couldn't help himself.

“Och, you're in trouble now,” the innkeeper said.

Angus's laughter settled down into a few choice chuckles. “What's your name, good sir?”

“McCallum. George McCallum.”

“Well, George, I think you're right.”

“Having a wife,” George pontificated, “is a delicate balancing act.”

“I never knew how much until this very day.”

“Luckily for you,” George said with a devious smile, “I still have the key.”

Angus grinned and tossed another coin at him, then caught the key when George flipped it through the air. “You're a good man, George McCallum.”

“Aye,” George said as he walked off, “that's what I keep telling my wife.”

Angus chuckled to himself and put the key in his pocket. He opened the door only a few inches, then called out, “Are you dressed?”

Her reply was a loud thump against the door. Probably her shoe.

“If you don't tell me otherwise, I'm coming in.” He poked his head inside the room, then pulled it out just in time to avoid her other shoe, which came sailing at him with deadly aim.

He poked back in, ascertained that she had nothing else to throw at him, and then entered the room.

“Would you mind,” she said with barely controlled fury, “telling me what the devil that was about?”

“Which bit of it?” he stalled.

She answered him with a glare. Angus thought she looked rather fetching with her cheeks all red with anger but wisely decided that now was not the time to compliment her on such things.

“I see,” he said, unable to prevent the corners of his mouth from twitching with mirth. “Well, one would think it would be self-explanatory, but if I must explain—”

“You must.”

He shrugged. “You wouldn't have a roof over your head right now if George didn't think you were my wife.”

“That's not true, and who is George?”

“The innkeeper, and yes, it most certainly is true. He wouldn't have given this room to an unmarried couple.”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “He would have given it to me and tossed you out on your ear.”

Angus scratched his head thoughtfully. “I'm not so sure about that, Miss Pennypacker. After all, I'm the one with the money.”

She glared at him so hard, her eyes so wide and angry, that Angus finally noticed what color they were. Green. A rather lovely, grassy shade of green.

“Ah,” he said at her silence. “Then you agree with me.”

“I have money,” she muttered.

“How much?”

“Enough!”

“Didn't you say you'd been robbed?”

“Yes,” she said, so grudgingly that Angus thought it a wonder she didn't choke on the word, “but I still have a few coins.”

“Enough for a hot meal? Hot water? A private dining room?”

“That's really not the point,” she argued, “and the worst part of it is, you were acting as if you were having fun.”

Angus grinned. “I
was
having fun.”

“Why would you do this?” she said, shaking her hands at him. “We could have gone to another inn.”

A loud clap of thunder shook the room. God, Angus decided, was on his side. “In this weather?” he asked. “Forgive me if I lack the inclination to venture back outside.”

“Even if we had to masquerade as husband and wife,” she conceded, “did you have to poke so much fun at my expense?”

His dark eyes grew tender. “I never meant to insult you. Surely you know that.”

Margaret found her resolve weakening under his warm and concerned gaze. “You didn't have to tell the innkeeper that I was pregnant,” she said, her cheeks growing furiously red as she uttered that last word.

He let out a sigh. “All I can do is apologize. My only explanation is that I was merely getting into the spirit of the ruse. I have spent the last two days riding the length of Scotland. I'm cold, wet, and hungry, and this little masquerade is the first amusing thing I've done in days. Forgive me if I over-enjoyed myself.”

Margaret just stared at him, her hands fisted at her sides. She knew she ought to accept his apology, but the truth was, she needed a few more minutes to calm down.

Angus raised his hands in an overture of conciliation. “You may keep your stony silence all you want,” he said with an amused smile, “but it won't wash. You, my dear Miss Pennypacker, are a better sport than you think you are.”

The look she gave him was doubtful at best and sarcastic at worst. “Why, because I didn't strangle you right there in the hall?”

“Well, there's that, but I was actually referring to your unwillingness to hurt the innkeeper's feelings by disparaging his cooking.”

“I did disparage his cooking,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but you didn't do it loudly.” He saw her open her mouth and held up his hand. “Ah, ah, ah, no more protests. You're determined to make me dislike you, but I'm afraid it won't work.”

“You're insane,” she breathed.

Angus peeled off his sodden coat. “That particular refrain is growing tedious.”

“It's difficult to argue with the truth,” she muttered. Then she looked up and saw what he was doing. “And don't remove your coat!”

“The alternative is death by pneumonia,” he said mildly. “I suggest you remove yours as well.”

“Only if you leave the room.”

“And stand naked in the hall? I don't think so.”

Margaret starting pacing and searching the room, opening the wardrobe and pulling out drawers. “There has to be a dressing screen here somewhere. There has to be.”

“You're not likely to find one in the bureau,” he said helpfully.

She stood stock-still for several moments, desperately trying not to let go of her anger. All her life she'd had to be responsible, to set a good example, and temper tantrums were not acceptable behavior. But this time . . . She looked over her shoulder and saw him grinning at her. This time was different.

She slammed the drawer shut, which should have given her some measure of satisfaction had she not caught the tip of her middle finger. “Yoooooowwwww!” she howled, immediately stuffing her throbbing finger into her mouth.

“Are you all right?” Angus asked, moving quickly to her side.

She nodded. “Go away,” she mumbled around her finger.

“Are you certain? You might have broken a bone.”

“I didn't. Go away.”

He took her hand and gently pulled her finger out of her mouth. “It looks fine,” he said in a concerned voice, “but truly, I'm no expert on these matters.”

“Why?” she moaned. “Why?”

“Why am I no expert?” he echoed, blinking in a rather confused manner. “I wasn't under the impression you thought I'd received medical training, but the truth is, I'm more of a farmer than anything else. A gentleman farmer, to be sure—”

“Why are you torturing me?” she yelled.

“Why, Miss Pennypacker, is that what you think I'm doing?”

She snatched her hand out of his grasp. “I swear to God above, I don't know why I am being punished in this way. I cannot imagine what sin I have committed to warrant such—”

“Margaret,” he said loudly, halting her speech with his use of her given name, “perhaps you are making a wee bit too much out of this matter.”

She stood there, barely moving, next to the bureau, for a full minute. Her breath was uneven, and she was swallowing more than normal, and then she started blinking.

“Oh, no,” Angus said, closing his eyes in agony. “Don't cry.”

—Sniff—
“I'm not going to cry.”

He opened his eyes. “Jesus, whiskey, and Robert the Bruce,” he muttered. She certainly
looked
as if she were going to cry. He cleared his throat. “Are you certain?”

She nodded, once, but firmly. “I never cry.”

He breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. “Good, because I never know what to do when—oh, blast, you're crying.”

“No. I'm. Not.” Each word came out like its own little sentence, punctuated by loud gasps for air.

“Stop,” he begged, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Nothing made him feel more like an incompetent, awkward clod than a woman's tears. Worse, he was fairly certain this woman hadn't cried in over a decade. And even
worse,
he was the cause.