Page 201 of Dukes for Dessert

“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...”

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 of changing his mind,” said Margaret, and Gabriel realized it was time to step in. She would get nowhere with this man, and it piqued her temper.

Gabriel placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her back. “I’m certain, old man,” he said, “I can handle this 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, too,” he said, and sighed loudly. “So, ye’re lookin’ for the parson, are ye?”

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

“Rush,” the drunk finished for her. “Yes, yes, o’ course,” he said, and he cocked his head up at Gabriel. “And ye’re certain ye dinna wish tae be waitin’ for 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 very gently. Once again, she shrugged away. “No,” Gabriel said, and Margaret peered up at him, still frowning, her eyes casting daggers. He shrugged, then smiled down at her, lifting his brows. “I said no,” he pointed out.

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

“Open up, Constance,” he said. “We got customers.” He hiccupped. “O-pen this door.” 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 murder him where he stood. In her hand, she held, of all things, a horsewhip. “We got customers,” the man told her again matter-of-factly, unfazed by the strap she wielded.

Gabriel, for his part, couldn’t help but wince. The woman said nothing. She cast the door wider, glaring at the three of them, each in turn. “They’re wantin’ tae be wed 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,” the woman relented, but she snatched the flask out of the man’s hand. “For now, ye’d best be putting this away.”

Margaret sounded nonplussed. “Are you… the parson?”

“Aye,” said the wife with disgust. “He’s the bluidy parson when he’s no’ otherwise occupied with this jug.” She lifted the flask, then 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 on our doorstep.”

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 with 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 this 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 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, once more, evidently in shock.

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

“Capital.” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You don’t 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 Gabriel 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. “Will you toss me out of bed if I do?”

She whispered fiercely. “No, sir, since we won’t be sharing a bed.”

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