When a Scot Ties the Knot (20 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-two

M
addie found unexpected enjoyment in being a hostess. She found it far easier than being a guest. She was so busy keeping the ale flowing and monitoring the progress of dishes in and out of the kitchen that she could keep to the borders of the hall and duck out for a moment whenever the crowd became too much for her.

Most convenient of all, she scarcely had time to think about Logan. She saw him once or twice in passing. He greeted her with a brusque nod, but she didn't pause to chat.

It seemed entirely likely that she might not speak to him again before she left in the morning.

Just as well. There just didn't seem to be anything left to say.

When afternoon was waning, everyone pushed back from the tables lining the High Hall and walked, full bellies and all, up to the highest peak overlooking the loch.

As the day faded into twilight, a small group of villagers gathered to make a bonfire. Instead of bringing coal from someone's hearth, they fashioned a crude machine of sort with sticks—­almost like a drill. After nearly an hour of the biggest and strongest taking turns with it, a curl of smoke rose from the rubbing wood. A woman hurried forward with a handful of dried moss and wood shavings.

With a bit of patient blowing—­and perhaps some cursing and prayer—­the small glow became a flame. And with many hands bringing more fuel, the flame became a bonfire.

Whisky was passed around, along with wedges of fruited oatcake. Maddie politely declined the former but happily accepted the latter.

“Be sure it's not the marked one,” Rabbie said.

“What do you mean?”

“ 'Tis tradition. One of the cakes is marked with charcoal. Whoever draws that one, we toss them into the bonfire.” He winked.

“What a charming tradition.” She inspected her oatcake. “No charcoal.”

“Ye'll live to see the next Beltane, then.”

A bright, merry fiddling struck up, and when she looked, its source was a shock to her.

“I didn't know Grant played the fiddle.”

“Oh, aye,” Rabbie said. “He had one that he brought with him on campaign. Hauled it over the Pyrenees and back, but it was ruined in a river crossing. The captain just brought him that one from Inverness the other day.”

Maddie nibbled at her oatcake and played a game of peek-­a-­boo with a little fair-­haired girl hiding behind her mother's skirt. After a few rounds of dodge-­and-­hide, she offered the girl the remainder of her oatcake and received a shy, gap-­toothed smile in return. Maddie thought it an excellent trade.

Every once in a while, she saw Logan out of the corner of her eye—­usually talking with a farmer or one of his men, or passing another round of whisky. They never made eye contact.

Once she thought she felt the heat of his stare. But when she turned to look, he was nowhere to be found. She supposed she was imagining things. It wouldn't be the first time.

Maddie stood close to the bonfire, hugging her shawl tight about her shoulders and watching ­couples dance to the music Grant supplied. Judging by the way the men and ladies queued up, the reel didn't seem too different from a traditional English country dance.

As the dancers queued up for a new dance, Callum appeared at her side. “Would you like to join in?”

“Oh, no,” she said without thinking.

“Ah. I see. Very well, then.”

Something in his disappointed demeanor sparked a realization. She'd been so caught in worrying about herself, she'd misunderstood. Callum hadn't been asking whether or not she enjoyed dancing. He'd been asking her
to
dance.

With him.

And she'd refused him with one word and a shudder.

Really, Maddie.

“Callum, wait!” She reached out to catch him before he could disappear. “I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you were asking me to dance.”

“No matter. You dinna need to explain.”

“No, I want to explain. The truth is, I'm honored to be invited to dance. It means a great deal to me. More than you could know.” She squeezed his arm. “Thank you.”

His eyes warmed with a smile, and the knot in her stomach began to loosen up. As difficult as it was going to be to walk away from Logan, leaving Lannair Castle was going to break what remained of her heart. She would miss her new friends here. So very much.

“The problem is,” she told him, “I don't know how to dance.”

“ 'Tis nothing. The steps are not difficult.”

“Perhaps not for most, but I've never danced. I'm afraid I'll be terrible at it.”

He held up his pinned, shortened sleeve. “I'm at a disadvantage myself. So if you are terrible, at least we'll be equally matched. Shall we have a go at it anyway? 'Tis only for laughs.”

Perhaps it was the heat of the bonfire. Or maybe she just couldn't bear to disappoint the enthusiastic look in Callum's eyes. It was possible a small part of her hoped Logan might see them and be jealous.

But most likely . . . it was just time to stop standing in the cold. Rabbie had said she'd live to see the next Beltane. But she wouldn't be here in the Highlands. She might only have this one chance to dance a Scottish reel, and it would be a pity to waste the night on nerves and fretting.

Perhaps this was a moment to be seized.

A moment to simply
be
.

For whatever reason, Maddie found herself saying yes. To dancing. For the first time in her life.

And it made her immediately wonder why she hadn't done the same years ago.

Which is not to say that it went especially
well
.

The dance itself was rather a disaster—­but an amusing one. The particular reel they'd joined involved a great deal of twirling, and once Maddie started spinning, she had a hard time ceasing. Add in the fact that Callum wasn't in the best position to reach out and catch her, they resembled nothing so much as two billiard balls colliding and spinning away from each other, repeatedly.

Before long Maddie was laughing so hard that she could scarcely catch her breath. At the end of the reel, they were supposed to grab hands—­but they missed one another entirely.

She lost her balance and careened away, still twirling and laughing.

Until she collided with someone. Someone helpfully big and solid and impossible to knock over.

“Oh, goodness. I'm so sorry, truly. I—­” She looked up. Her stomach sank. “Oh. It's you.”

Logan.

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am, quite. Thank you for asking.”

Suddenly she was every bit as nervous with him as she would have been at sixteen. Who could help it?

Tonight he carried with him a new air of . . . not swagger. Swagger was nothing more than bluster arranged to mask uncertainty. Tonight, he looked confident. Protective. Ready to lead.

Lairdly, in the truest sense of the word.

Dressed in his full great kilt and a crisp ivory shirt, he also looked ready to pose for an illustration in Sir Walter Scott's next novel.

The dance ended, and Callum came to find her. He gave Maddie a grin. “Sorry to have stolen you from her, Captain.”

“No need to apologize,” Logan replied. “Madeline belongs to herself.”

“We were just dancing,” she said.

“I saw.”

“Not very well.”

His mouth quirked. “I saw that, too.”

“Yes. Well. I'm sorry to have collided with you. It's just so dark.”

She looked around, desperate to avoid the confusing look in his eyes. There were no other lights, anywhere. Not at the castle, not at the
baile
on the riverbank.

The world had collapsed to the orange-­red glow of the bonfire and the vast, starry sky above.

“ 'Tis the tradition,” Callum said helpfully. “On Beltane, we douse all the fires in every home. At the end of the night, each family will take coals or a torch and relight their hearth from this bonfire. 'Tis a fresh start.”

“A fresh start. What a lovely thought.”

It helped her understand why Logan had been so determined to have the land in his ownership before Beltane—­he wanted his men and the tenants to know this was a fresh start.

It also made her wonder what she and Logan could be to each other if only they could make a fresh start of their own.

He was a good man. Caring, protective, intelligent, loyal.

And on a shallow level, so attractive.

Maddie was going to forever regret not having made love to him. At least Aunt Thea had been properly ruined by the Comte de Montclair. Feathers and all.

But it was no use pining after what couldn't be.

Logan didn't love her. He
couldn't
love her. Some other woman had gotten to him first and left him ruined for all others.

She hoped this A.D., whoever and wherever she was, properly appreciated what she'd missed. Maddie hoped the woman rued her mistake daily. Maddie was also not above wishing her to be a frequent sufferer of boils.

“What was that?” Logan asked.

Had she spoken aloud? “Oh. Nothing.”

A woman cloaked in a traditional arisaid approached them. She began speaking to Logan in fervent Gaelic, and before Maddie knew what was happening, the woman had placed an infant in her arms.

Wonderful. This was exactly what her heart didn't need right now.

She started hoping that the infant would squall or soil its clout or vomit up soured milk. Something, anything to stop her womb from turning these frantic
use-­me
cartwheels.

But the babe refused to be anything less than entirely adorable. He was an angelic little bundle in Maddie's arms, swaddled in a length of cozy flannel.

Meanwhile, the babe's mother thanked Logan—­even without knowing the language, Maddie could recognize the look of gratitude, and Callum translated the rest. The young woman had been recently widowed, and she had thought she would be forced to leave Scotland. Apparently Logan had engaged her ser­vices to do laundry and cook for the men while they completed their new cottages. She and her son would be able to stay.

Maddie's heart wrenched. She stared down at the little bundle, who cooed and waved his tiny fists.

A bright something winked at her from the child's bunting, and Maddie peered at it.

“He's wearing a luckenbooth.” She showed Callum. “But surely he's a bit young to be engaged. And I thought those were for lasses.”

“He's not engaged.” Callum tickled the little one's cheek. “ 'Tis the custom. A man gives the luckenbooth to his bride on their betrothal, and then 'tis placed on the bunting of the ­couple's firstborn child. ­People believed it wards off evil.”

“How interesting. So that means these markings here . . .” Maddie fingered the tiny markings scratched on the heart-­shaped brooch. “They're not the child's initials.”

“No, no. Those would be his mother and father's.”

“I see.”

She stared down at the babe in arms, and that heart of gold that flickered in the light of the bonfire.

L.M. and A.D.

The world slowed down. Her heartbeats thumped singly in her ears.

Did you love her?

As much as I knew how. It wasn't enough.

So she left you.

Yes.

A clever woman, then.

Maddie cringed at the memory. Oh, good Lord. If her suspicions were correct . . .

The widowed woman had joined in the dance, and Logan had moved away. When Maddie looked up, she locked gazes with him over the bonfire. His eyes narrowed, intent and searching. The red firelight played over his furrowed brow.

He seemed to know something had changed.

“Callum,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat, “does the word
nah-­tray-­me
mean anything to you?”

He tilted his head. “
Na tréig mi,
do you mean? 'Tis not a word, it's a phrase.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, ‘dinna leave me.' Why do you ask?”

She tried to hide the sudden catch in her voice. “No reason.”

No reason. Except that everything makes sense now, and I realize I've been a complete and utter fool.

“I have to do something. Can you take him?” She turned to place the child in Callum's arms.

“No, no. Hold a moment. Me?” He stepped back, waving his amputated arm. “I canna take him with one arm.”

“Of course you can. Mothers do it all the time.” She tucked the babe into the crook of his full arm, making sure his hand supported the infant's bottom. “There now. Someday you'll hold your own child the same way.”

On impulse, she kissed both Callum and baby on the forehead.

Then she turned back to look for Logan, searching the crowd.

He wasn't there.

 

Chapter Twenty-three

L
ogan walked away from the bonfire with long, purposeful strides.

But he apparently didn't walk fast enough.

“Logan, wait.”

He didn't slow his pace. He couldn't talk to her. Not right now, after watching her rock that babe in her arms and dance with Callum. After feeling her body against his, even for that short moment.

She'd made her choices, and so had he. He could bear to part ways with her tomorrow. But if she came anywhere near him tonight, he'd be sure to pull her close and do something they'd both regret.

“Go back to the fire,” he told her. “It's too dark. No lights at the castle to guide your way. You'll stumble. There might be bogs.”

“
Na tréig mi.
”

The words stopped him in his tracks. His heart stopped for a moment, too.

He kept his voice calm. “You're learning Gaelic now?”

“I'm learning
you
now. Finally.”

What the devil did that mean?

She caught up with him. From what he could make out under the silver moonlight, she looked angry.

Good. It was safer that way.

“You lied to me, Logan.”

“I didna lie to you.”

“You let me continue under a false assumption. That luckenbooth. You didn't have it made for another woman. Did you?”

“This again? I've told you, she means nothing to me. Not anymore.”

“Now that is a lie.” She drew nearer. “The baby I was holding by the fire had a luckenbooth pinned to his bunting. Callum explained everything. The L.M. on that brooch wasn't yours, was it? They were your father's initials. You were named for him. And A.D. . . . Oh, Logan. Your
mother
. What was her name?”

He exhaled slowly. “I dinna rightly know. I wasna old enough to remember.”

“I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me the truth? I would have been proud to wear it had I known. Did you just enjoy making me envious?”

Envious.
The word made no sense to him.

“Why the devil would you be envious?”

“Because,” she cried, throwing up her hands, “I thought some bonny Scottish lass had stolen your heart and broken it. Of course I was eaten alive with envy. I wanted your heart for myself.”

“I told you, I can't give you that.”

“Yes. You told me. And you lied then, too.”

She drew close enough to lay a touch to his arm. Just the lightest brush of her fingertips on his sleeve. It electrified him.

“I know how much you care for those men,” she said. “I know how tender you can be, how gentle and protective. I know how you tended to me in Inverness. How you stood up for me at the ball . . .”

He grabbed her by the arms and forced her away. “I know how
you
are. You're overimaginative. You make too much of things. You lie to yourself. I should have thought you'd learned your lesson by now.”

He walked away, and once again, she followed.

“Are you ever going to stop punishing me? When I lied and wrote those letters, I was young and stupid and selfish and wrong. I deceived everyone. I unknowingly made you my accomplice. It was wrong of me. I know that, and I'm so sor—­” Her voice broke off. “I can't say I'm sorry. I'm
not
sorry.”

“Of course you're not sorry. Why should you be sorry? You were given a castle and an independent life.”

She hurried in front of him, blocking his path. “I found
you
.”

“You left me for dead.”

There it was. The seed of all his anger, raw and pulsing like an exposed wound.

“And it wasn't the first time you were left for dead. Was it?”

He didn't answer her. He couldn't.

“
Na tréig mi,
” she whispered. “Don't leave me. Do you know you say that in your sleep?”

“I don't—­”

“You do.
Na tréig mi, na tréig mi.
Over and over, while shivering.” She slapped a hand to her brow. “I don't know how I didn't see it before. It explains everything. Your mother wrapped you in a plaid, pinned the luckenbooth on to keep evil away . . . and then she abandoned you.”

“Yes. Yes, all right? That's exactly what she did, and 'twas on a hillside not much different from the one we're standing on now.”

“Which means you weren't an infant. You were old enough to remember.” She hugged herself. “Oh, Logan. The things I said . . . that she must have been a clever woman if she left you. You must know I didn't mean it that way. I'm so sorry. So sorry for what happened.”

“Sorry for what happened? Don't be sorry for what happened. Be sorry for what you did.”

“What did I do?”

He moved back, taking time to breathe and walk a slow circle. He was angry now. Not only with her. But partly with her. He'd been angry with Madeline Gracechurch for a long, long time. And since she'd asked, he was going to let her have it.

Here, in the dark.

“Do you want to hear something verra amusing?”

“I don't suppose it's a joke that ends with ‘Squeal louder, lass. Squeal louder.' ”

“Oh, far better than that. When your first letter reached me, I wasn't a captain. I was a private. Lowest rank in the army. Undisciplined, uninterested. Too poor to afford shoes. Here came this letter to Captain Logan MacKenzie. What a joke. They teased that I must have chatted up a girl before leaving, made myself out to be more than I was.” He pushed a hand through his hair. “Before long, they were calling me ‘captain' whenever my back was turned. My sergeant had me whipped for putting on airs.”

“And you blamed me.”

“Of course I blamed you. You were to blame. I'd read your letters. I knew they were nothing but fancies for a spoiled English debutante who didna fancy a turn about Almack's that season. But the letters kept coming. The mockery, too. And after a while, I started to wonder . . . could I not make captain? That would show them all.”

“That sounds very like you. Ambitious. Determined.”

He snorted. “It was absurd. Do you have any idea what a stupid notion it is for an enlisted private with no money and even fewer connections to set his sights on making captain?”

“But you did it.”

“Aye. I did it. It took me four years, but I did it, one promotion and field commission at a time. The address on the envelope became the truth. The men's teasing became respect. And the letters inside, they were changing, too. They were . . . kinder. Thoughtful. Bloody odd, but thoughtful. You sent me news of wee Henry and Emma. Here were children praying for me every night, as though I were part of their family. You canna understand, Maddie. I spent my youth in the byres, or huddled beneath my tattered plaid on the ground. I'd never had that. Never in all my life. I felt like a fool for it. But I started to pray for them, too.”

“Logan . . .”

“And then there was you. This strange, sweet woman that wouldna recognize me in the street but told me all her secrets—­and made more of me than I could have made of myself. Someone who was dreaming of me, wishing to hold me in her arms. It felt . . .” His voice caught. “It felt as if I'd tugged on a loose thread of God's tartan, and a world away, someone tugged back. What was lies and foolishness to you was more than that to me. Your letters gave me the dream I didn't know how to imagine for myself. They brought me to life. And then you left me for dead.”

Maddie pressed a hand to her mouth. “Logan, I'm so sorry. I cared for you. What you felt . . . I felt it, too. I never would have kept writing for so long otherwise. I knew it was real somehow.”

“Dinna say that.” He seized her by the arms and gave her a little shake. “Dinna tell me I was real to you and then you walked away to never think of me again. That only makes it worse.”

“Then tell me how to make it better.”

“It's no use.” He shook his head. “There's nothing you could say.”

She touched her hand to his cheek. “Not even I love you?”

The words rocked him. He refused to let her see.

“No. I dinna want to hear that.”

“Well, I want to say it. Now, when there are no obligations. No threats hanging over my head. No lies to protect. I love you, Logan. Somehow . . . It began before I knew you.”

“That doesna make any sense.”

“I know it doesn't.” She smiled. “But it's true.”

“No.” He caught her face in his hands and held her tight. “It isna true, and you know it. I've had enough of falsehoods.”

“I love you, Logan. That's not a lie.”

He clenched his jaw. “Those words are always a lie.”

Perhaps those words weren't false for everyone. But they were always a lie when spoken to him. Everyone who'd ever claimed to love him had deserted him. Disclaimed him. Left him for dead.

And she was no different. She'd given him a false demise on the battlefield, and when he'd forced his way back into her life, she'd found another way to worm out of his grasp.

Right this moment, her trunks were packed. She was planning to leave him in the morning.

And now she dared to chase after him and tell him this?

He bent his head and pressed his brow to hers. “Stop.”

“You don't think I've tried stopping? For that matter, I tried mightily not to start in the first place. Neither strategy succeeded.” Her fingertips grazed his jawline. “I can't help it. And I can't deny it any longer. I love you. Whether anything comes of it or not, I want you to know.”

He would not let those words into his heart. He would not believe them.

But he would use them to his advantage, any way he could.

She kissed his mouth, so softly. Then his cheek. Then his temple.

“Remember the first night we made love?” she whispered, sliding her arms around his waist. “It was Beltane. Everyone was gathered around the bonfire, and we slipped away in secret.”

“Aye.” The word slipped out as a moan. He could feel himself giving in to the sweet warmth of her. “I remember.”

“Remind me what happened next. Did we spread your plaid on the heather and make love beneath the stars?”

He shook his head, nuzzling her throat. “We almost did. It was tempting. But I wanted our first time to be in a proper bed.”

“Oh, that's right. I recall it now.”

She stared up at him, waiting.

Enough with teasing. He needed to know.

Logan made his voice grave. He framed her face in his hands and gave her a mild shake to be sure she was paying attention. “If you dinna want this, tell me now. I know you're curious. I know you have desires. And if a bit of exploration's all you're after, there's no shame in that. But that's not what will happen if we do this tonight.”

Her lips parted, but she didn't speak.

“I mean to make you mine,
mo chridhe.
Touch all of you. Taste all of you. Learn you from the inside out. Once I've held you like that, I'm not going to let go. Ever.”

And in response, she spoke a single word:

“Good.”

Very well. He'd tried to warn her. He'd given her every chance to demur. She'd asked for this.

He did what he'd been threatening to do since the very first night. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of oats.

And carried his bride home.

To bed.

It might have seemed strange, Maddie supposed, for a woman who was currently slung over a Scotsman's shoulder with her hair and feet dangling in the night wind to claim that moment as any sort of triumph.

But victory was exactly what she felt.

At last, she was getting the man of her dreams. On her own terms. And unless her Highland lover meant to expose himself as a shameless liar . . .

Tonight was going to be verra, verra,
verra
good.

The castle was completely dark. Every fire had been extinguished. Moonlight got them as far as the courtyard, then Logan was forced to set her down. They gathered a candle and flint from the table in the entry hall and, after a bit of cursing and fumbling in the dark, managed to light it.

The small yellow light glowed like a promise.

It wasn't a spark carried home from the bonfire, but it was one they'd created themselves.

A new flame. A fresh start. Nothing in the past mattered any longer. There was only the future now.

And the future was theirs for the taking.

Maddie placed the candle in a holder, and together they climbed the stairs to her bedchamber.

Their
bedchamber.

Her heart began to pound harder with every step. She closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock.

Then she found herself pinned against the door.

He caged her there with his body, using one hand to wind her loosened hair around his fist, pulling it up and away. Then his mouth, hot and hungry, descended on her neck.

She gasped with the sweet shock of it. The firm tug on a thousand nerve endings. His tongue, running from her collarbone to her ear.

Her knees wobbled.

She braced her arm against the door.

She slumped forward there, helpless to move as he covered every inch of her neck with kisses and possessive sweeps of his tongue. The rasp of stubble scraped against her skin, adding a deliciously sharp contrast to the soft heat of his mouth.

Soon her whole body felt aflame. Beneath her bodice, her nipples pressed to hard points, craving touch. Craving his mouth. And his kisses kindled a low, hollow ache between her thighs.

She'd been biting her lip to keep from crying out. But when he reached to cup her breast, she couldn't hold back any longer. She abandoned that last shred of self-­consciousness and moaned with pleasure.

The sound only seemed to encourage him. He responded with a low groan of his own.