MM03 - Saturday Mornings by Peggy Webb Page B

her zipper. “You're no match for a man, Margaret Leigh. You're not strong enough.”
    He smoothed her skirt over her legs, ignoring the way she fought against him.
    “I'm not going to let you destroy yourself with some fool notion about climbing into bed with the first man who comes along.”
    She drew her fist back and took a swing at him. He caught her wrist. She glared at him, panting.
    “Who made you my keeper?”
    “Don't think I wanted to be your knight in shining armor. Slaying the dragons you create is not my idea of a fun-filled evening.”
    “Nobody asked you to slay dragons.”
    “I guess it's my great nobility of character. I can't stand to see you throw yourself away on the likes of Hooter.”
    “I’ll find somebody else who is willing.”
    “Not tonight, you won't.”
    He plucked her out of the hay with embarrassing ease. She was not a small woman, but Andrew McGill had a knack for handling her as if she were a hundred-pound weakling. She guessed it must be all that fresh country air that made him so strong.
    She studied him as she took the time to regroup. Hay clung to his clothes and his hair. He looked good enough to eat, like something picked fresh from a country garden.
    It was a new experience for Margaret Leigh, looking at a man and feeling warm inside. And if she thought about his kisses.... She wouldn't think about his kisses. She'd concentrate on ways to get away from him.
    She was no match for his strength; that was a fact. And he was far too clever to outwit. She'd just have to make him so mad, he'd be glad to see her go.
    “I suppose you're planning to tie me to your bed.”
    His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. Instead, he scooped her coat out of the hay and stood up. She'd be darned if she'd ask where he was taking her. He stalked out of the barn, bearing her like a sacrifice. The cold wind slapped her in the face, but she refused to shiver.
    “It's too bad you can't keep a woman in your bed without tying her up.”
    “It depends on the woman.”
    This time she was the one who retreated into icy silence. She lay stoically in his arms, taking pleasure only from the knowledge that he was as disturbed as she. His muscles were rigid, and the usual fluid grace of his walk was replaced by the tight choppy gait of a man walking around land mines.
    The dogs created a ruckus when they passed the kennel, but Andrew didn't speak to them this time. He marched silently on until he reached the back door of his cabin.
    Balancing her in his arms, he opened his screen door and let them in.
    “Welcome home.” His voice was clipped and icy as he put her down.
    “I've had warmer welcomes in funeral parlors.” She angrily brushed the hay from her skirt.
    “It's a warm welcome you're looking for, is it?”
    Too late, she saw the gleam in his eye. He had her back in his arms before she could even think about running. She decided her best ploy would be to endure. She tipped her face up and waited for his kiss.
    His laughter was quick in coming, but it wasn't a sound of mirth. It was the hollow laughter of a man wrestling with demons.
    “Do you think I'm going to kiss you again, Margaret Leigh?”
    “When you manhandle me, that's usually your intention.”
    “Not this time, my sweet. What I'd love to do is paddle that pretty bottom of yours.”
    She still had the grace to blush over the fact that a man had actually seen her bottom. To cover her discomfiture, she jutted out her chin and glared at him.
    “It's mighty tempting, my pet, but I'm not in the mood for more games,” Andrew told her.
    “You're the one playing games.”
    “If that wasn't a game with Hooter, what was it?”
    “Maybe it was love.”
    “And maybe I'm the king of England.”
    He picked her up again and carried her through his kitchen, through his den, and down the hallway to his bedrooms.
    “No, my feisty little minx, the warm welcome I have in mind for you is a good hot bath and big hot toddy.”
    A bath sounded like