When a Scot Ties the Knot (14 page)

This heat between them was real. This grappling kiss was the truth. And the hot ridge of his arousal pressed against her thigh was far too big to be any trick of her imagination.

He lifted his head and looked down at her.
“Maddie.”

When he whispered her name, the cold was forgotten. So was the mud, his teasing, the pain in her leg. The rain kept falling, pushing her further into the shelter of his embrace. Melting her will to resist.

She touched a hand to his cheek. Gone was the fierce Highland warrior. The rain plastered his hair to his brow and dotted his face, giving him a wet-­puppy look: lost and in need of love. Every bit as confused as she felt inside.

“Oh, Logan.”

And now, despite all her best attempts to avoid it, here it came.

Her heart started telling her a dangerous, dangerous tale. The story of a decent, loyal man who'd treasured her letters, dreamed of her nightly, survived battles and marched across continents to come home—­not to a castle or a glen but to her. And even now, when he held her in his arms, he lacked the words to explain all the emotion in his heart.

It was nothing but a silly fiction.

It had to be.

But she couldn't block it out any longer. She put her arms around his neck and wove her fingers into his hair, pulling him close.

 

Chapter Thirteen

L
ogan should have pulled away. They needed to seek shelter.

But he couldn't bring himself to let her go.

The rain had plastered her frock to her skin, leaving little to his imagination. He saw all of her, in perfect contour—­her pale skin, her puckered nipples, the blue tint to her quivering lips. She was vulnerable and trembling.

She needed warmth.

And he needed this.

To hold her. Guard her. Feel her pounding heart pressed close to his and know she was alive.

Because, though he would die before he'd admit it, he'd been frightened for a moment there, when she'd been caught in the mire.

He'd drawn her close to reassure himself. He'd kissed her because she'd seemed to want him to.

But now his shy, timid bride was kissing
him,
and he'd lost control of everything.

Her fingers sifted through his damp hair. Her sweet, tentative tongue stroked his. The longing pierced him to the core. He felt faint with it.

He tightened his grip in the back of her dress, pulling her body flush against his. She sighed into the kiss, wriggling closer still. Her belly brushed over the ridge of his cock. A tremor moved through his thigh muscle.

God, he wanted her.

This was madness. They were both caked with peat and mud below the waist. There was no way he could take her virtue here, on the ground in the rain and cold.

But he couldn't bear the growing tension anymore. His cock throbbed in vain, trapped beneath the wet woolen folds of his plaid. He was desperate for some kind of contact. Resistance. Touch. Heat.

He had to take control.

In a swift motion, he rolled her onto her back, wedging himself between her thighs. When his cock finally found the friction it craved, he groaned with pleasure.

She cried out in pain.

Logan pulled onto his elbows immediately. He searched her startled expression. “What's the matter? You're hurt.”

“It's just my leg. I . . . I wrenched it coming out of the mire.”

Jesus. She'd been wounded all this time? And here he'd been mauling her on the hillside as if she were a lamb and he were the last Highland wolf.

“Dinna be worried. I'll have you back to the castle at once.”

He loosened the extra folds of tartan draped over his shoulder. Tucking her close to his chest, he wrapped the plaid around Maddie's body to warm her.

Then he hefted her into his arms.

“I hope you know, you're ruining your chances in the bedroom,” she said. “It's impossible to despise you when you keep kissing me like that and sweeping me off my feet every day.”

He set his jaw grimly. “You can learn to hate me again tomorrow. You're not walking anywhere today.”

When they arrived back at the castle, wet and muddy and chilled through, Logan began barking orders before he'd even set Maddie down.

He directed Becky to bring blankets.

Cook was ordered to start heating water for a bath.

And he insisted that Munro, his field surgeon, have a look at Maddie's leg.

“It's nothing,” she assured the surgeon once she'd been wrapped in an old quilt and deposited on the chaise longue in her bedchamber. “I've only wrenched it. I was stupid enough to step in a bog.”

Munro wiped the mud from her limb and gingerly turned her foot this way and that, testing. “The swelling is mild. It doesna look serious.”

“That's what I tried to tell Logan. But he doesn't listen to me.”

“If you wanted to walk on it now, I wouldna stop you.”

She nodded. “I'm sure you sent soldiers back into the fray with far worse.”

“But you are no soldier.” His graying eyebrows rose. “If your injury is delicate yet, I could tell the captain you need some rest. And that he needs to keep the honeymoon waiting for a few days.”

Yes.

This was just the stroke of luck she needed. She'd take any excuse to hold Logan at bay for a few more days.

“Now that you mention it, my knee is quite tender. I do think the rest would do me good.”

Maddie smiled to herself as the surgeon packed up his examination bag. Logan was not going to be happy with her, but he was the one who'd insisted on a doctor's opinion. He couldn't ignore medical advice.

As the surgeon unrolled the cuff of his sleeve, she glimpsed a gnarled, misshapen scar on his right forearm.

She winced. “What happened there?”

“Oh, that? A bayonet. It's not as bad as it looks. It would have healed better, but you know what they say. The cobbler's children run barefooted, and the field surgeon goes without proper stitching.”

“I suppose from time to time even the doctor needs healing.”

He nodded. “And from time to time, even the commander needs to be told what to do. Sometimes the captain could do with a bit of being ordered around.” He gave her a sly wink. “You dinna need to be timid with him, lass.”

Maddie smiled. “Thank you for the advice.”

Once Munro left her, Becky came in with two ewers of steaming water, which she added to a deep tub for Maddie's bath.

Ah, a bath.

Here was one of Logan's commands she had no desire to countermand. After the mud and the chilly rain today, a hot bath was just what she needed.

She used old towels and rags to scrub as much of the peat from her body as possible so as not to muddy the bathwater. For once, she made use of one of Aunt Thea's purchases, adding a healthy dollop of a lavender-­scented liniment to the bath. Then she twisted her hair into a giant knot atop her head and lowered her body into the steaming tub.

An involuntary moan eased from her throat as the hot water enveloped her to her neck.

So lovely. It was almost as soothing as a warm hug.

The tension in her muscles began to unknot.

All her relaxation was ruined, however, when Logan flung open the door with a crash.

Maddie gasped and flinched, sinking lower in the bath and using her arms to cover her most secret bits. “Did you never hear of knocking?”

“Not in my own house, no.”

She cast a longing glance at the towel at the end of her bed. Too far away for her to reach for it without exposing herself.

“According to Munro,” he said testily, “I'm not to touch you. For days.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head at an innocent angle. “What a pity.”

“Stop playing as though you didna ask him to say it.”

“You are the one who insisted he examine me. You can't ignore his advice.” She ran the sponge down her arm, squeezing lather from it as she went. “Since we are forbidden from any strenuous activity, I think it would be best if you used the bedchamber Becky made up for you.”

“That will not be necessary. I'll be damned if I'll sleep down the corridor.” He exhaled gruffly. “I'm leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Dinna sound so hopeful. It's only temporary. I need to order timbers for the new cottages, so I'm traveling to Fort William. The journey should take me two or three days. When I return, I expect you'll be in perfect health.”

He gave her a pointed look, and his meaning was perfectly understood. Despite the warmth of the bathwater, gooseflesh rippled down her arms.

When he returned, his patience would be at an end. Maddie would have no further tactics for delay.

At the end of three days, she would either be free of him . . .

Or she would be his wife.

 

Chapter Fourteen

M
addie didn't suppose Logan had been foolish enough to leave them behind, but if those letters
were
anywhere in this castle, she was determined to find them before he returned.

She was coming to care for him too much, too foolishly. She couldn't repeat the same mistake she'd made when she was sixteen. Pitching those letters into the fire was her only hope if she didn't want to spend the rest of her life caught in a lie of her own making.

Unfortunately, after many dusty hours of searching, she hadn't found so much as a clue. Over the past two days, she'd opened every drawer in every piece of furniture—­checked behind and beneath them, too. Now she'd turned her gaze to the walls themselves.

This afternoon, she stood back and surveyed the Long Gallery, a room on the castle's top floor that stretched the full length of the tower. The oak paneling featured a molded ledge where the wall met the ceiling. From where Maddie stood, it didn't look deep enough to hide a packet of letters . . . but there was no way to be certain other than to check.

She pulled a straight-­backed chair to the edge of the room and climbed atop it, standing on tiptoe to reach her fingers into the cobwebby, linty crevice.

Nothing . . .

Nothing . . .

She stretched in an effort to reach the corner.

Noth—­

“What's all this, then?”

Maddie nearly fell off the chair. After regaining her hold on the paneling and securing her footing, she turned to face the intruder. “Oh. Good afternoon, Grant.”

“How do you know my name?” He searched the gallery, wary. “What's this place?”

His hand went to his hip, as though he were reaching for the weapon he expected to be there. Maddie was suddenly aware of how large he loomed, and how small she was in comparison.

And how alone they were right now.

Her heart began to beat a little faster. If she didn't manage to calm him, this situation could grow dangerous indeed.

Maddie stayed very still and held up both empty—­if dusty—­hands. She repeated the words she'd heard Logan and his comrades say so many times. “The war's over, Grant. You're back home in Scotland. This is Lannair Castle, and you've been staying here for almost a week. Callum, Rabbie, Munro, Fyfe . . . they're working just outside, collecting stone.”

His brow creased. “Who are you?”

“I'm Madeline. Captain MacKenzie's sweetheart who wrote him all those letters. We're married now.” She motioned toward her plaid sash and the luckenbooth.

“Are ye?”

She nodded.

The man's face relaxed. “He's a lucky bastard, then.”

“Thank you. And you're my favorite person.”

He grinned. “Then I'm a lucky bastard, too.”

Maddie couldn't help but smile. This man must have been quite the charmer once, when he'd been healthy of body and mind.

His gaze shifted about the room uneasily. “Do you know where my wee ones are? Have we been to Ross-­shire? I'm keen to see the bairns.”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I don't know.”

“I'll ask the captain if we can go tomorrow.”

Her heart broke for the poor man. Again and again, he woke from that fog obscuring his mind, looking for his children. And every time, Logan put him off.

Well, Maddie couldn't take him to Ross-­shire. But perhaps she could help him in some other way.

She climbed down from the stepstool and clapped the dust from her hands. The letters search would have to wait for another time. Logan had probably taken them with him in that black knapsack. She hadn't been able to find it, either.

She crossed the room and took Grant by the arm. “Do your children like shortbread?”

“O'course they do. Never seen the bairn what doesna like shortbread.”

“Let's go down to the kitchen. I think Cook has prepared some fresh this morning, and I could do with a cup of tea. And while we eat, I'd love for you to tell me all about them.”

It was hours past nightfall when Logan finally reached the glen. He hadn't intended to travel by night, but the moon was near full, and the prospect of camping on the damp heath didn't particularly appeal.

Not when there was a warm bed waiting for him at Lannair Castle.

He'd given her time. She'd had her opportunity to rest. He wasn't sleeping on the damned floor tonight.

A bleary-­eyed footman let him in the side stairway. Logan felt as weary as the manservant looked, but instead of going straight up to bed, he stopped on the first landing and peeked into the High Hall. There he did a silent count of the men as they slept. It was an old habit from his days of watching over cattle and sheep as a youth, and one he'd never abandoned as a commander of troops. He'd never lost a lamb or calf, and he'd never left a soldier behind, either.

One, two, three, four. . .

He counted twice and still came up one short.

Grant was missing.

Christ.

His weary heart kicked into a faster rhythm, and he crossed the length of the hall. When he found out who'd shirked his duty tonight, that someone's bollocks were getting a sharp twist.

But truly, Logan had no one to blame but himself. He never should have left them on their own. After tonight, he ought to start posting a man as sentry. This was a bloody castle, after all. A military fortress. Perhaps he ought to be running it that way.

As he searched the nearest rooms, he sent up a silent prayer. Grant couldn't have wandered far, could he? Hopefully he hadn't wandered out into the night. If he lost his way on the moors and his mental slate wiped clean . . .

A soft noise reached his ears.

A voice, murmuring.

No,
voices.

He followed the low, soft rumble of indistinct conversation down the corridor to where it ended with a flight of steep stairs. The voices were coming from the kitchen.

As he crept down the stairs, the murmuring grew more distinct, and the knot of worry in his chest began to loosen. He recognized Grant's voice.

“Squeal louder, lass. Squeal louder.”

And then a ripple of soft feminine laughter.

When he turned the corner, he saw them there. Grant and Maddie. Seated together at the table, huddled around two mugs and a single lamp.

Logan braced himself against the archway as the emotions pummeled him. He was relieved and incensed at the same time. He'd been worried that Grant could have harmed himself. Now he knew it was even worse—­he could have harmed Madeline.

“Good evening,” he said.

Her head whipped up. “Logan. You're home.”

God. The words set his world spinning. She almost sounded happy to see him. And those words.

Logan. You
're home.

He'd never expected to hear those words. Not in all his life.

And damn, she looked lovely. She was wearing only a dressing gown wrapped tight over her nightrail. Her hair was a loose plait draped over one shoulder. Soft, dark tendrils worked loose, framing her face with curls.

But something else drew his gaze and held it.

Her braid was tied not with a scrap of plain muslin but with a bit of plaid.

His
plaid.

It was all too much. His sense of relief at finding them both safe. The softness in her eyes, the welcome in her voice. That swatch of his tartan in her hair. He'd traveled long and hard to be here tonight, and it all just made him feel he might collapse.

And what was he going to do? Take her in his arms and tell her he'd missed her every moment he'd been gone? Tell her how jealous he was that Grant could make her laugh with that stupid joke, when Logan hadn't managed it once?

Of course not. Because those things would be reasonable, and he couldn't hold on to a shred of sense around her. Because when someone so blithely offered him the one thing he'd been denied all his life and had sworn to never crave, his first impulse had to be distrust. And anger.

Stupid, unreasoned anger.

“What's going on here?” he demanded.

“We're just talking,” Maddie said. “Are you hungry? I could get you some—­”

“No.”

“She's making me a sketch of the bairns.” Grant lifted the paper and showed it to him proudly. “Look at that. It's just like 'em the day I kissed ‘em good-­bye. I suppose they've got bigger now.”

Logan took the paper and examined it. He didn't have his spectacles on, but even without them he could see the skill in her drawing. Two fair-­haired children, one boy and one girl, holding hands beneath a rowan tree.

“Say, can we go to Ross-­shire tomorrow?” Grant asked. “I'm keen to see them for myself.”

“Aye,
mo charaid
. Tomorrow. For tonight, it's time to sleep. Go on, then. The others are just up the stairs.”

Grant nudged him with an elbow as he moved past. “Do you know you're married to her?” he asked, tilting his head toward Maddie.

Logan gave her a look. “Yes.”

The big man reached out and ruffled Logan's hair. “Lucky bastard.”

Once Grant had left, Maddie quietly rinsed the teacups and put them away. She moved the lamp to a hook, wiped the table clean, and hung the towel to dry. All in silence.

She was avoiding him.

Very well, then. Logan would wait. He had all night.

When she finally turned to him, he lifted the sketch of Grant's children. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I beg your pardon.” She frowned. “I gave that to Grant. It's his.”

“He'll forget in ten minutes. He's not going to miss it.”

“Perhaps not, but he's missing
them
. They're his children.”

Logan shook the paper as he advanced on her. “This is not the way to help. What good does it do? It's only going to upset him, wondering where they are.”

“Perhaps talking about the memories will help his mind to heal.”

“It's been over a year. He's not going to heal. He needs consistency. A safe, familiar place where he won't be agitated all the time.”

Maddie circled to his side of the table and leaned her weight on the edge. She crossed her arms over the front of her dressing gown and regarded him with that solemn, searching expression. Looking for his empty spaces.

“So this is why it's so important to you,” she said, “for the two of us to keep up appearances. To be properly married. It isn't only about the land. If Grant believes
you've
had your happy homecoming with the sweetheart who sent you letters, you can keep him believing that his own happiness is just around the corner. That you'll take him to Ross-­shire to see his nan and the wee ones. Always tomorrow. Never today.”

Logan didn't try to dispute it. He wasn't ashamed. “I just want him to be at peace. As much as he can be.”

“But you can't lie to him forever, Logan. What happens when he starts to get older? When he looks around to see that everyone's hair is gray, and his hands are spotted with age, and his friends have all married and had children—­even grandchildren—­of their own?”

Logan sighed heavily and pushed both hands through his hair. “We have years before that happens.”

“But it will happen. You're telling yourself you can keep him safe. You can't.” She took the sketch from his hand and set it aside. “I know what it is to live in a world built from lies, Logan. It's anything but comforting. It means living in constant fear. At any moment, the slightest thing could bring it all crashing down. It's not good for Grant, and it's not good for you, either.”

“It's not your place to make that decision.”

“It is my place. This is still my castle. And I've come to think of Grant as my friend. You can try to tell me what to wear and where to go and what to serve for dinner. But you can't forbid me from caring for him.”

The mere mention of caring gave Logan's heart a kick and sent it spinning to some uncharted place.

“I can, and I will.”

She huffed out her breath in silent disagreement.

He leaned in, bracing his hands on the table. “You shouldna be alone with him. He's a big man, with unpredictable moods and an addled memory. There's no telling what could happen. When I came around that corner and saw the two of you . . .”

She tipped her head to one side and looked up at him through that fringe of dark lashes. “You were worried for me. I know. It's sweet.”

He clenched his jaw. “It isna
sweet
. I saw a dangerous situation. I reacted.”

She dropped her eyes and touched the lapel of his coat. “I was worried about you, too. We expected you home yesterday, Logan. It's why I'm down here with Grant at all tonight. Passing the time.”

Holy God.

Her fingertips touched a button on his coat. “It would be natural to be frightened.”

“I wasna frightened. I'm angry.”

“I can see that.” Her eyes lifted to his. “But I don't understand why.”

Logan didn't understand it, either. Any more than he understood how much he'd thought of her in the past three days. He was losing control, and he hated losing control.

And since he didn't seem to have any hope of regaining it, he'd decided he'd settle for making her lose control, too.

He leaned forward, capturing that lush, pink mouth in a possessive kiss. She didn't need any coaxing to kiss him back. Her lips parted beneath his, and when he slid his tongue deep, her tongue moved forward to welcome his.

Yes.

God, he wanted her.

He put his arms around her and gathered her to him, running his hands over the quilted velvet of her dressing gown and tugging at the knotted belt.

“What are you doing?”

He didn't answer. He just kept on doing, expecting his intent would become perfectly clear.