Chapter 5
As far as Margaret could tell, Gretna Green was overrated.
The municipality was dingy and small. The first township over the border, you had to cross a little bridge over the Sark River, and thereafter, they were instructed to see the resident toll-keeper in the First House in order to arrange their marriage.
She was well over twenty-one, but that didn’t mean she was free to wed at will.
English law required that marriages take place in a church and that their bans be posted.
Scottish law was different. You could marry on the spot, in a marriage by declaration, with two witnesses and assurances from the couple that they were free to wed.
Margaret should have been elated to have the deal done, but she couldn’t stop thinking about their recent bargain, and by the time they arrived, her mood was pettish, her bottom numb from travel, and her companion too high-spirited for her liking.
As for Gretna Green, tales would have had the village be some great sanctuary for lovers, with parades to greet runaway sweethearts and loud huzzahs for their mad, courageous dash over the border.
As it was, the sleepy little village was no more than a handful of clay houses with carefully thatched roofs.
The streets were abandoned, except for a single barking dog, one stray mule wandering about, and a drunkard swilling his whiskey outside the town’s only hall.
It did not impress Margaret.
Then again, neither was she some starry-eyed bride. She was here to do business, and if a kiss was all her groom wished of her, she should count herself fortunate.
They arrived with little time to spare. Mr. Morgan—Gabriel—she wrinkled her nose at the awkwardness of using his given name, even in her thoughts—descended before her. Her legs numb from the jouncing ride, Margaret stumbled out from the carriage, into his arms.
“Oh!” she said in surprise and was helpless to do anything but allow him to steady her on her feet.
He grasped her at her waist, his fingers strong, lean and firm.
Margaret tried not to construe anything into the way they slid upward along the sides of her ribs.
.. and lingered an instant too long. There was nothing truly improper about his assistance, merely a fancy of her overwrought imagination, because she half expected that he would lift her into his arms, pull her close, and take that promised kiss right now.
But she refused to be caught up in the fantasy of this elopement, refused to consider it could be a lover’s clasp.
It was no more than a friendly assist, and the look in his eyes as she peered up to acknowledge his help was nothing more than a trick of her mind.
No. No. No. He wasn’t staring at her as though he were waiting for her to confess her undying gratitude and love.
Nor was he considering the prospect of that shocking kiss he’d finagled from her.
It was her own wicked mind that imagined he’d restrained himself from lowering his head to hers…
only but a fraction... to brush his lips ever so gently against her own.
A frisson raced down her spine over the thought.
What is wrong with you? Margaret admonished herself.
It wasn’t at all like her to be so fanciful.
It was simply that kiss she’d been contemplating for most of their journey.
But also, it was her wedding night—business arrangement though it was—so perhaps it was only natural she suffer a few soppy notions?
She was fatigued from the journey and ready to rest—but not in the same bed.
“We’ll have done with this soon enough,” he promised, as though he’d read her mind. “And then we’ll procure a room at the inn.”
A room at the inn? Why did that sound so scandalous?
The images that came to mind made her chasten herself for a fool.
And still her heartbeat quickened over the vision of the two of them ensconced in some private chamber, embracing for a kiss.
Heaven help her. He was an exquisite specimen of a man.
Would she dare to enjoy it? After all this time, he’d yet to release her, and Margaret could scarcely find her voice to ask him to do so.
“But, of course, we’ll have to have separate rooms,” she felt inclined to point out.
He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
“Of course,” he agreed amiably, and finally released her, then proceeded to give the driver further instruction, seemingly at ease with his new role as lord and master.
Once he was through, he placed his hand on her elbow and guided Margaret toward the single street occupant whom, Margaret presumed, might direct them to the marrying house.
“What if they refuse to perform a ceremony so late?” she worried, her legs feeling unsubstantial. “We should have departed Blackwood long before we did.” She wavered a little on her feet, feeling as though she might swoon.
It must be a consequence of the tedious journey, no more.
“He won’t refuse,” he said, and his easy manner reassured her.
“How can you be certain?”
Her husband to be peered down at her, his blue eyes veiled by the darkness, and yet the intensity there was more than apparent. “My lady, I dare say, no one could refuse you anything,” he said with certainty, and the declaration left Margaret feeling heady.
But then she perseverated. Was he suggesting that she held some sway over him? Margaret furrowed her brow, trying to read his expression.
Perchance he meant because she was too bold? But if he thought as much, she didn’t care. It was the only way Margaret knew to accomplish anything at all in this man’s world. And, nevertheless, his gaze didn’t seem so reproachful. He was, in fact, peering down at her strangely—even fondly...
“Money talks,” he pointed out, and her emotions dove into the pit of her stomach.
But why? Why did his answer make her feel so disheartened? He couldn’t possibly have intended the remark to be doting. “Perhaps,” Margaret agreed. “But what if we cannot get the laggards to stir from their beds?”
“They’ll smell your gold in their dreams,” he said, and gave her a sidelong glance and a disarming grin. “If not, you have my word: I will drag them from their beds. Have no fear.”
The wind tugged gently at her bonnet, and Margaret reached up to tuck the hat more securely upon her head, telling herself that it was the chill Scots wind that made her tremble.
It certainly wasn’t the prospect of having this man’s guardianship.
She didn’t need anyone to speak for her, and she had every intention of taking charge here herself.
Even as they approached the building, the man seated by the stoop didn’t stir from his seat beside the door, rather he watched them, looking mystified by their presence.
Margaret felt a surge of irritation, eager as she was to be done with this task.
It wasn’t fair that she should be forced to give her life into the hands of a man simply because she was a woman, but such was the case, and she was prepared to make the most of it.
“I will speak to him,” Gabriel suggested.
“No, I will do it,” Margaret said at once, her expression mutinous.
Gabriel knew better than to laugh at her ready defiance, endearing though it might be. “As you wish,” he said, but he couldn’t quite wipe the smirk from his face as she spun to address the drunkard.
“How do you do, sir?” she asked the man.
“Fine as a fiddle,” he said, lifting his flask of whiskey for her perusal. “Hoozyersel’ hinnie?”
“Well enough,” Margaret said, shaking her head. “Better yet if you could help me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to direct us to the marrying house?” she said, dispensing with idle chatter.
“The marryin’ h-house?” the man hiccupped.
“Yes, sir, the marrying house.”
The drunk took another swig of his sour-smelling whiskey before bothering to reply. “I dinna ken why everyone’s lookin’ for that damned m-marrying house. Ye’re better off keeping to yourself.”
“Well… I’m quite certain I don’t know why either, sir. Alas, we’re in a terrible rush. Do you know where it is?”
The man frowned. “Everyone ish in a hurry,” the man admonished, slurring his words. “Do y’ no’ see what rushin’ tae the altar did tae me? I’m a drinkin’ me whiskey in the cauld whilst the wife is snug in our bed.”
“I am terribly sorry, sir,” she relented. “Perhaps you might wish to join her... after you direct us to the parsonage?”
The man waved a hand, dismissing the notion.
“Och, nay,” he said. “Even if that lady’s tongue wadna lash me back out the door, I canna well walk through walls.
She’s locked me out.” He took another hearty swig from his flask, mumbling something to the effect that women were all born with tempers, and Gabriel sensed Margaret’s hackles rising over the disparaging remark.
He wanted to remind her she was conversing with a drunkard, but decided, instead, to keep his gob shut.
“I see,” she said. “So she’s locked you out?”
“Thass what I said, lass.” The drunk took another swig of his whiskey, and said, “Stubborn fashious wench!”
“Of course, I would never presume to know why she would do such a thing, but—”
“Margaret,” Gabriel interjected, placing a hand upon her shoulder, “perhaps I should handle this?”
Clearly frustrated, Margaret shrugged free of him, as though he were a pesky bug. “I believe I am perfectly capable, sirrah.” She turned again toward the drunkard. “The marrying house, sir... we are in need of directions, if you please... and then we’ll leave you to your... er...”