Gretna Green by Julia Quinn

Author:Julia Quinn [Quinn, Julia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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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.

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