When a Scot Ties the Knot (13 page)

 

Chapter Twelve

O
h, no.

Maddie immediately rued her foolish words.

“Don't be absurd,” she said.

“I willna be absurd. I mean to be incendiary.”

Maddie wished she could think of a tart, sophisticated reply to set him in his place and get herself out of this. But the brisk wind whipping at her skirts seemed to have stolen her wits, as well.

So in lieu of a sophisticated reply, she made a juvenile one.

She stammered nonsense for a moment, then panicked and fled.

The winding path back to the castle was suddenly much too long. Maddie needed to be home at once. Home in her bed, inside a cozy tent of pillows and blankets.

With Logan safely on the other side of the bolted door.

Lifting her hem, she left the footpath and began a route straight overland, walking as fast as the muddy ground would allow her.

“Don't walk that way,” he called after her.

She ignored him.

I will walk where and how I please, thank you. I'm not one of your foot soldiers. You do not command me.

“Ack.”

Maddie nearly tripped over her own hem. She looked down. In her haste to prove her independence, she'd independently taken a grave misstep. The entirety of her half boot had disappeared into black, fibrous mud.

When she tried to pull it loose, her other leg immediately sank, too—­all the way up to her knee. What was this muck? It acted like quicksand, drawing her further and further down.

“Logan?” she called. “Logan, please come at once. I can't move my feet.”

He stood a few feet to the side and surveyed her situation. “You've stepped in a bog. Happens all the time.”

“So it's happened to you?”

“Och, no. I'm not that stupid.”

Of course not,
Maddie thought bitterly. Of course this would only happen to her.

“But I have unmired many a cow and sheep,” he continued.

“Wonderful. If you'd just be so kind as to unmire me. Quickly?”

A hint of amusement gleamed in his eyes. That look told her something terrible.

He was going to help her, but he was going to enjoy every minute of this first.

Maddie twisted and pried at her leg, to no avail. It was well and truly stuck, and her heart was rabbiting about her chest.

He clucked his tongue. “The first rule of bogs: dinna panic.”

“What's the second rule of bogs? I think we should just skip to that.”

“No thrashing about,” he said. “You'll fatigue yourself. Just be calm and wait for your body to reach its equilibrium.”

Easy for him to say.

She tried to reach for something, anything, to grab onto. Her hands caught only air and loose grass. The bog tightened its grip, swallowing her hips.

“Logan,” she cried. “Logan, it's getting worse.”

“That's because you're struggling.”

“Of course I'm struggling! I am being swallowed alive. And you're just standing there.”

He crouched to her eye level. “You'll be fine. Most bogs are no more than waist deep.”

“Most
bogs,” she repeated. “So some bogs are deeper.”

“Almost no one dies of miring.”

“Almost
no one? If you're trying to reassure me, you're going about it all wrong.”

“Relax,” he said. “The ones who do perish, they die of the exposure or thirst. Not because they're sucked under.”

“So you're saying . . .”

“You'll be fine. We'll build a little roof over your head and bring you bannocks twice a day. You can live here quite happily for years.”

Maddie clenched her jaw to keep from smiling or laughing. Every time she made up her mind to despise him, he showed a flare of that disarming humor. She refused to reward him for it.

“Not to worry,” he said. “It takes hours for the weight of the peat to cut off circulation to your limbs.”

She groaned in despair as she sank further still. The peat and mud sucked at her legs, pulling her waist-­deep in muck.

She was truly beginning to panic. Landing knee-­deep in a bog was a funny situation, even she would admit—­for a minute. Maybe two. But immobilized in freezing, waist-­deep mud with the distinct possibility of never working herself free?

This was not her idea of a pleasant afternoon. Especially when it seemed likely to become her final afternoon.

Logan, by contrast, seemed to be having the time of his life. He sat down on a bit of rock nearby. “Say, remember that time when you got mired in the bog?” He chuckled to himself. “What a memory. We were there all day. Made a picnic of it. We sang songs for an hour or two. Counted to five thousand, just for larks. Then you insisted I go for sandwiches, and . . .”

She cast him a beseeching look.

He looked at the mud. “If I pull you free, will you promise to bed me for my pains?”

“Here's what I'll promise, Logan MacKenzie. If you don't get me free, I will come back from the grave and haunt you. Relentlessly.”

“For a timid English bluestocking, you can be quite fierce when you choose to be. I rather like it.”

She hugged herself to keep her hands out of the creeping mud. “Logan, please. I beg you, stop teasing and get me out of this. I'm cold. And I'm frightened.”

“Look at me.”

She looked at him.

His gaze held hers, blue and unwavering. All teasing went out of his voice. “I'm not leaving you. Ten years in the British Army, and I've never left a man behind. I'm not leaving you. I'll have you out of this. Understand?”

She nodded. She was beginning to comprehend why his soldiers would follow him anywhere, and why the tenants trusted him on sight. When Logan MacKenzie took a soul under his protection, he would die before he let them suffer harm.

Maddie's wasn't a soul under his protection, not truly. He meant to use her for her lands, plain and simple. But at least she had the comfort of this knowledge: He couldn't leave her here.

So long as their marriage remained unconsummated, she was of no use to him dead.

“First, draw a good breath,” he told her. “In and then out. Slowly.”

“I don't want to waste time with breathing. Can't you just pull me out of this?”

“Breathe,” he repeated.

It would seem he wouldn't help her until she obeyed him. She closed her eyes, drew a breath, then released it.

“That's it, again. More slowly this time. And again, until you've calmed.”

Those half dozen slow, forced breaths were the most torturous moments of her life. But at the end of them, she did feel somewhat improved. Her rioting heartbeat had calmed to a slightly less deafening clamor.

“When you're ready,” he said, “you can begin to move back and forth.”

“How?”

“Just rock to and fro. As if you're dancing.”

“Oh, Lord. That's it. I'll die here. I don't know how to dance.”

He chuckled. “Lass, the bog doesna know that.”

She did as he directed, swaying back and forth. She felt like a clock's pendulum moving in treacle. At first, she could only move an inch or two to either side, but after a few minutes' effort, she could manage a reasonable sway.

“That's it. Can you feel water circulating about your legs?”

She nodded.

“Then you're doing it right. Keep it up. Perhaps even a bit faster. It would be best to have your legs free before . . .”

“Before what?” Maddie asked.

Heavy raindrops splattered her face and shoulders.

“Before that.”

Wonderful. Now she would be wet and chilled from both sides.

She rocked with renewed vigor and was rewarded with a bit more breathing room. “What do I do now?”

“Lean back a touch,” he directed. “As though you're going to float atop the bog.”

“But—­”

“Just do it.”

He lay on his stomach behind her, reaching forward with both hands. As she reclined, he caught her under the arms.

“I have you,” he whispered in her ear. “And I'm not letting go.”

She swallowed hard. “What next?”

“Whichever of your legs feels the loosest, keep wriggling it side to side. And pull it up.”

“I'm confused. Am I supposed to move it side to side, or up?”

“Both.”

Dear Lord. What was next? Do this all while juggling torches and smoking a pipe? She wasn't certain she had the coordination for this. London ballrooms, Highland bogs . . . was there no place in the world that was safe for an awkward English spinster?

She worked on her right leg first, shaking it beneath the surface of the mud as she slowly drew it upward. The incremental progress was agonizing, but at last her knee emerged from the muck.

“Good,” he said. “Now the other. This time, you wriggle. I'll pull.”

“I'm trying.”

And she
was
trying, but it wasn't enough. The mire was quickly closing on her again, drawing on her leg. She was suddenly, sharply aware of how fortunate she was to have Logan nearby. If Maddie had been on her own, she never could have worked herself free.

Even with him here, it didn't seem a certainty.

“One last time,” he said. “Move your leg back and forth, with as much vigor as you can manage. I'm going to pull on the count of three.”

She nodded.

“One . . . two . . .”

She gritted her teeth.

“Three.”

His arm muscles flexed. As he pulled, she felt a terrible wrench in her hip joint. Maddie knew she would pay for that later. She'd be sore for days.

But a full year of soreness would still be better than one more minute spent stuck in that bog.

At last, she was free.

Breathless and panting, she crawled a few feet up the slope and flopped onto a bit of damp turf. She was caked with mud below the waist and soaked with rain everywhere else.

Logan seemed winded, too. He collapsed beside her.

“Life is so strange,” she said, swiping a strand of hair from her rain-­spattered face. “When I invented a Scottish sweetheart, it was with the aim of
avoiding
humiliation. Look at me now. How do I get myself into these things?”

“By wishing for them,
mo chridhe.
” He rolled to face her, propping himself on his elbow. “It's everything you asked for. A remote castle in the Highlands and an officer in a kilt. Be glad you didna manage to kill me off, or you'd still be stuck in that bog alone.”

There he went again, accusing her of murderous intent. He couldn't seem to let go of that idea. And every time he brought it up, he spoke with an edge of resentment in his voice.

“Logan, I'm sorry if I hurt you.”

He made a dismissive noise. “You didna hurt me.”

Right. How could a little Englishwoman possibly hurt a hulking Scottish warrior? Naturally, he would never admit to
that
.

“For what it's worth,” she said, “my true fantasy was not a Highland castle and a man in a kilt. I just wanted to be understood, accepted. Loved.” Her gaze fell to her damp tartan sash and that heart-­shaped lie pinning it together. “Don't worry. I've learned my lesson.”

“I canna say much about love and acceptance, but I do understand you. I understand you just fine.”

“You really don't.”

“Oh, I do.” His eyes roamed her face. “You're deceitful, fanciful, clever, unbiddable, generous, talented with a drawing pencil . . .” He smeared his muddy thumb down the slope of her nose. “ . . . and dirty. Verra, verra dirty.”

“I'm no dirtier than you.”

She pressed her hand flat to his face. It left behind a starburst of five muddy fingerprints . . . and one unamused Scot. Added to his intense blue eyes and unshaven jaw, the markings gave him the look of an ancient Highland warrior, painted for battle.

Ready to strike.

His big, muddy hand went to her waist, tangling in the damp gray wool of her frock.

“If it's dirty you want . . . ?” He tugged her close, startling a gasp from her. “It's dirty you'll get.”

His mouth fell on hers, hot and masterful. His hands were everywhere, smearing even the cleaner parts of her frock with mud. All Maddie could do was cling to his coat while the forbidden sensations swamped her.

His tongue swept into her mouth. Seeking, demanding. She could taste the frustration in his kiss. Whether it was left over from last night, this morning, or the entirety of the past decade, she couldn't guess. Whatever the cause, he obviously meant to avenge it with this sensual onslaught.

And Maddie could not bring herself to object.

She loved the rough, possessive way he was touching her. His hands roamed her breasts, her hips, her backside. Her nipples came to tight points, as if they recalled last night's attentions and were ready to beg for more. When his thumb found one of the aching peaks and teased it, she moaned with helpless pleasure and relief.

She let her head fall back, and he lavished soft kisses on the vulnerable skin covering her pulse. His gentleness and thoroughness made her feel cherished. Precious.

Wanted.

She'd never dreamed she could feel this desired by anyone. It was almost . . .

Oh, how ironic. It was almost a dream come true.

No,
she told herself.
Don't be a ninny.
She couldn't let herself think that way.

She'd been struggling to keep her foolish heart out of this, keeping him at arm's length with conditions and rules. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. All too easily, she could create a story in her mind. Spin a tale of devotion that would be just another lie—­one she told herself. She didn't want to imagine that Logan could care for her.

He
didn't
care for her.

But he
wanted
her.