As far as Margaret could tell, Gretna Green was highly overrated, dingy and small. The first town 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.

Margaret 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 their bans be posted. Scottish law was different. You could marry right on the spot, in a marriage by declaration, with two witnesses and assurances from the couple that they were both 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 far 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, save for a single barking dog, a stray mule wandering about, and a drunkard swilling his whiskey outside the town’s only hall.

To say the least, Margaret wasn’t impressed.

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—alighted before her. Her legs numb from the jouncing ride, she stumbled out of 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 and 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, just a fancy of her overwrought mind, because she half imagined 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 delusion of this elopement, refused to consider it could be a lover’s clasp. It was naught 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 a fraction... and brushing his lips ever so gently against her own. A frisson raced down her spine merely over the thought.

What is wrong with you? Margaret admonished herself. It wasn’t at all like her to be so fanciful. It was merely that kiss she’d been contemplating for most of their journey.

Moreover, it was her wedding night, business arrangement though it was, so perhaps it was only natural she suffer a few soppy notions? She was weary 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 acquire a room at the inn.”

A room at the inn? Why did that sound so scandalous?

The images that came immediately 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 he proceeded to give the driver further instruction, seemingly ease with his new role as lord and master. Once he was through, he put his hand on her elbow and guided her toward the single street occupant who, 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 shuttered 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 very reproachful. He was, in truth, peering down at her rather strangely—even fondly...

“Money talks,” he pointed out, and her emotions dove into the pit of her stomach.

But why—why did that 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 personally 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 simply 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 the damned m-marrying house. Ye’re better off keeping to yourself.”

“I’m 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 such 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 me 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 very well walk through the 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 unprecedented tempers and Gabriel sensed Margaret’s hackles rising over the disparaging remark. He wanted to remind her that she was conversing with a drunkard, but decided, instead, to keep his mouth shut.

“I see,” she said. “So she has 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, sir, but—”

“Margaret,” Gabriel interjected, placing a hand upon her shoulder, “perhaps I should handle this?”

She shrugged free of him, as though he were a pesky bug. “I believe I’m capable, sirrah.” She turned again toward the drunkard. “The marrying house, sir... we are sorely in need of directions, if you please... and then we will leave you to your... er...”

The drunkard waved his flask, shutting one eye as he settled his gaze on Gabriel. “Now, laddie,” he said, having watched the exchange between them with keen interest. He waved a finger at Gabriel, dismissing Margaret’s presence as he presumed to lecture him. “Are ye certain ye wish to wed this la-dy?” He gave another hiccup. “Seems tae me ye go’ yersel’ a pawky one, son. ‘Tis no’ too late to change your mind?”

“He’s already had quite enough changing his mind,” said Margaret, and Gabriel realized it was time to step in. She wasn’t going to get anywhere with this man, and her temper was piqued. He placed a hand firmly on her shoulder, drawing her back. “I’m certain, old man,” he said, “I can handle this particular lassie just fine.” He winked at the drunkard.

“I beg pardon!” Margaret exclaimed, her hands going to her hips in indignation.

Still ignoring her, the drunkard crooked a finger at Gabriel. “Aye, well... thass what I thought,” he said, and sighed loudly. “So, ye’re lookin’ for the parson, are ye?”

“Yes.” Margaret said, casting a warning glare up at Gabriel. “And we’re in a—”

“Rush,” the drunk finished for her. “Yes, o’ course.” he said. He cocked his head up at Gabriel. “And ye’re certain ye dinna wish tae be waitin’ on the morrow, son? Mebbe gi’ yoursel’ time to think it over?”

“No,” Margaret answered for him, sounding quite furious now.

Once again, Gabriel squeezed her shoulder, gently. She shrugged away. “No,” Gabriel said, and Margaret peered up him, still frowning, her eyes casting daggers. He smiled down at her, lifting his brows. “I said no,” he pointed out.

“Verra well,” the drunk relented, at last lifting himself out of his seat. He began at once to pound on the door beside him.

“Open up, Constance,” he said. “We’ve got customers.” He hiccupped. “O-pen this instant.” He banged on the wooden door, shaking it, never budging it.

After the longest interval, a pink-faced woman finally answered. She pushed open the door, glaring at the drunk as though she might actually murder him where he stood. In her hand, she held, of all things, a horsewhip. “We’ve got customers,” the man told her matter-of-factly, unfazed by the strap she wielded.

Gabriel, for his part, couldn’t help but wince. The woman said nothing. She cast her door wider, glaring at the three of them, each in turn. “They’re wantin’ tae be wed here t’night,” the drunk told his wife.

“Now?”

“O’ course, now!” her husband said. “Why d’ ye think we’re standing here, woman?”

“Verra well,” she relented, but she snatched the flask out of the man’s hand. “For now, ye’d best be putting this away.”

Margaret sounded nonplussed. “You are the parson?”

“Aye,” said the wife with disgust. “He’s the bluidy parson whenever he’s no’ otherwise occupied with this jug.” She lifted the flask and turned to address her husband. “I thought I tol’ ye tae sleep wi’ yer fellows at the tavern,” she railed. “If ye wadna done so, we’d be fast asleep in our bed, and no pompous city lady and her stupid gent would be darkening our door step.”

All the while she yelled at him, she left the door wide for Margaret and Gabriel to follow. If they dared…

Margaret peered up at Gabriel in chagrin, lifting her brows. Gabriel offered a shrug. “Marital bliss,” he said with a smile.

She made no move to enter the house, and Gabriel had the sudden urge to shove her inside. Surely, she must realize it was too late to change her mind; he had his heart set on the arrangement and not even a woman with a horsewhip could think to dissuade him. He lifted his brows. “It warms the cockles,” he said with a grin.

Margaret blinked up at him, bemused, her green eyes wide and her expression achingly familiar. He suddenly felt like that thirteen-year-old boy with sweaty palms, hoping to show her the pasteboard he’d left at the crest of the hill.

“He’s the pastor,” Margaret said, again, evidently in shock.

Gabriel nodded and shrugged, leaning closer to capture the elusive scent of her—a subtle mingling of jasmine and woman. The brisk air and encounter had pinkened her cheeks as well as the tip of her nose, and he wanted to kiss the bridge of it... work his way down to her lips. God, but he craved that kiss with a desperation he could taste.

“Capital.” she said, and narrowed her eyes. “You don’t happen to share the pastor’s proclivity to imbibe, do you, Mr. Morgan? I forgot to put that on my list.”

Of course she wouldn’t think of it. One thing her father was not was a drunkard. In so many ways, she was an innocent to the world, and he counted it his good fortune that the stars had aligned to allow him to protect her. He forced a light-hearted smile and winked down at her. “Would you toss me out of bed if I do?”

She averted her gaze. “No, sir, since we won’t be sharing a bed.”

Gabriel’s brows collided. Had he realized that? He was no longer quite certain that he had. Perhaps his brain had read that particular “concern,” but his heart had wished to believe it could be otherwise. Perhaps not tonight, or tomorrow... but someday he would share Maggie’s bed.

“A kiss does not a lover make,” she hissed.

Gabriel begged to differ... perchance it was but the beginning, but it was certainly a beginning. He’d never kissed any woman he hadn’t meant to bed, and he while he was never so confident in Margaret’s presence, he had never had cause to doubt his mastery in such matters as law, or discussion, or seduction … or kissing…

A slow smile turned his lips as he heard his father’s voice: A man must do what he must do, son. Perhaps he’d not entered this bargain with the intent of seducing Margaret—or perhaps he had—but he suddenly resolved to do precisely that. He couldn’t have justified it had he tried, but he suddenly felt unreasonably giddy over the prospect, and more than a bit reckless as he smiled down at her with great promise. “True enough, Margaret,” he said with a wink. “A kiss does not a lover make.”

She seemed to cow over the silent promise in his eyes, and he swept a hand in a friendly gesture urging her to enter. He arched a brow, when she still didn’t stir, and offered a challenge. “Unless you’re afraid of a simple kiss?”

“Afraid! Bosh! What should I have to fear?” she said, and brushed past him, marching after the pastor and his wife.

Gabriel smiled as he followed, heartily glad that she’d reacted so defiantly to his challenge. It would make his seduction go all the easier. And God save his rotten soul, he intended to seduce his bride, and was going to relish every bloody minute.