When a Scot Ties the Knot (3 page)

Logan patted her slender shoulder. “There, there.”

Aunt Thea hurried to excuse her niece. “You must forgive her, Captain. We believed you dead for years. She's worn mourning ever since. To have you back again . . . well, it's such a shock. She's overwrought.”

“That's understandable,” he said.

And it was.

Logan would be surprised, too, if a person he'd invented from thin air, then cravenly lied about for close to a decade, appeared on his doorstep one afternoon.

Surprised, shocked . . . perhaps even frightened.

Madeline Gracechurch appeared to be no less than terrified.

“What was it you mentioned wanting,
mo chridhe
? A poultice?”

“A posset,” Aunt Thea said. “I'll heat one at once.”

As soon as her aunt had left the room, Logan tightened his grip around Madeline's slender wrist, drawing her to her feet.

The motion seemed to help her find her tongue.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“I thought we covered that already.”

“Have you no conscience, coming in here as an imposter and frightening my aunt?”

“Imposter?” He made an amused sound. “I'm no imposter, lass. But I'll admit—­I am entirely without conscience.”

She wet her lips with a nervous flick of her tongue, drawing his gaze to a small, kiss-­shaped mouth that might otherwise have escaped his attention.

Wondering what else he might have missed, he let his eyes wander down her figure, from the untidy knot of dark hair atop her head to . . . whatever sort of body might be hiding under that high-­necked gray shroud.

It didn't matter, he told himself. He hadn't come for the carnal attractions.

He was here to collect what he was owed.

Logan inhaled deep. The air hovering about her carried a familiar scent.

When you smell lavender, victory is near.

Her hand went to her brow. “I can't understand what's happening.”

“Can't you? Is it so hard to believe that the name and rank you plucked from the air might belong to an actual man somewhere? MacKenzie's not an uncommon name. The British Army's a vast pool of candidates.”

“Yes, but I never properly addressed anything. I specifically wrote the number of a regiment that doesn't exist. Never indicated any location. I just tossed them into the post.”

“Well, somehow—­”

“Somehow they found their way to you.” She swallowed audibly. “And you . . . Oh, no. And you
read
them?”

He opened his mouth to reply.

“Of course you read them,” she said, cutting him off. “You couldn't be here if you hadn't.”

Logan didn't know whether to be annoyed or grateful that she kept completing his side of the conversation. He supposed it was habit on her part. She'd conducted a one-­sided correspondence with him for years.

And then, once he'd served his purpose, she'd had the nerve to kill him off.

This canny little English heiress thought she'd come up with the perfect scheme to avoid being pressured into marriage.

She was about to learn she'd been wrong.

Verra wrong.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered. “I think I'll be sick.”

“I must say, this is a fine welcome home.”

“This isn't your home.”

It will be, lass. It will be.

Logan decided to give her a moment to compose herself. He made a slow circle of the room. The castle itself was remarkable. A classic fortified tower house, kept in a fair state of repair. This chamber they currently occupied was hung with ancient tapestries but was otherwise furnished in what he assumed to be typical English style.

But he didn't care about carpets and settees.

He paused at the window. It was the surrounding land that interested him. This glen was ideal. A wide, green ribbon of fertile land stretched alongside the clear loch. Beyond it lay open hills for grazing.

These were the Highlands his soldiers had known in their youths. The Highlands that had all but disappeared by the time they'd returned from war. Stolen by greedy English landlords—­and the occasional fanciful spinster.

This would be home for them now. Here, in the shadow of Lannair Castle, his men could regain what had been taken from them. There was space enough in this glen to raise cottages, plant crops, start families.

Rebuild a life.

Logan would stop at nothing to give them that chance. He owed his men that much. He owed them far more.

“You,” she announced, “have to leave.”

“Leave? Not a chance,
mo chridhe
.”

“You have to leave. Now.”

She took him by the sleeve and tried tugging him toward the door. Unsuccessfully.

Then she gave up on the tugging and started pushing at him instead.

That wasn't any help, either. Except, perhaps, as an aid to Logan's amusement.

He was a lot of man, and she was a mere slip of a lass. He couldn't help but laugh. But her efforts weren't entirely ineffectual. The press of her tiny hands on his arms and chest stirred him in dangerous places.

He'd gone a long time without a woman's touch.

Far too long.

At length, she gave up on the pulling and pushing, and went straight to her last resort.

Pleading. Big, brown calf's eyes implored him for mercy. Little did she know, this was the least likely tactic to work. Logan wasn't a man to be moved by tender emotion.

However, he was a man—­and he wasn't unmoved by a pretty face. What with all her exertions, he was starting to see a flush of color on her cheeks. And an intriguing spark of mystery behind those wide, dark eyes.

This lass didn't belong in gray. With that dark hair and those rosy lips, she belonged in vibrant color. Deep Highland greens or sapphire blue.

His own smile took him by surprise.

She was going to look bonny wearing his plaid.

“Just go,” she said. “If you leave now, I can convince my aunt this was all a mistake. Because it
was
a mistake. You must know that. I never meant to bother you with my silly ramblings.”

“Perhaps you didna mean to. But involve me you did.”

“Is it an apology you want, then? I'm sorry. So very, very sorry. Please, if you'll just give me the letters back and be on your way, I'll be most generous. I'd be glad to pay you for your troubles.”

Logan shook his head. She thought a bribe would appease him? “I'm not leaving, lass. Not for all the pin money in your wee silk reticule.”

“Then what
do
you want?”

“That's simple. I want what your letters said. What you've been telling your family for years. I'm Captain Logan MacKenzie. I received every last one of your missives, and despite your best attempts to kill me, I am verra much alive.”

He propped a finger under her chin, tilting her face to his. So she would be certain to hear and believe his words.

“Madeline Eloise Gracechurch . . . I've come here to marry you.”

 

Chapter Two

A
unt Thea sat across from Maddie at the tea table. “Well, my dear. I must say, this has been a most surprising afternoon.”

Maddie could not dispute it. She dipped her spoon in the posset and traced figure eights in the pale, lumpy brew.

The entire encounter with Captain MacKenzie had left her reeling.

I've come here to marry you,
he'd said.

And in return, what had she said? Had she given him a scathing, witty refusal? Shredded his smirk to ribbons with her rapier wit? Sent him riding into the sunset, sworn to never again pester an unsuspecting Englishwoman in her home?

Hah. No, of course not. She'd merely stood there, still as a stone and twice as dumb, until her aunt had returned, posset in hand.

I've come here to marry you.

Maddie blamed her upbringing. Every gentleman's daughter was raised to believe that those words—­when spoken by a reasonably attractive, well-­intentioned gentleman—­were her key to bliss. Marriage, she'd been taught over the course of a thousand dollhouse tea parties, should be her desire, her goal . . . her very reason for existing.

So ingrained was this lesson that Maddie had actually felt a foolish
zing
of exhilaration when he'd declared this preposterous intent. A little voice inside her had kept standing up to cheer.
You've finally made the grade! At last, a man wants to marry you.

Sit down,
she'd told it.
And be still.

She refused to define her personal worth on the basis of a marriage proposal. Much less this one. Which was not a true proposal but a threat—­delivered by a man who was
not
a gentleman,
not
well intentioned, and attractive to an
un
reasonable degree.

“I never dreamed that this was possible.” Maddie circled her spoon in the bowl again and again. “I can't imagine how it occurred.”

“To be sure, I'm stunned as well. The back-­from-­the-­dead part is quite a shock, of course. Even more than that . . .” Her aunt propped her chin on the back of her hand and stared out the window looking onto the courtyard. “Just look at that man.”

Maddie followed her aunt's gaze.

Captain MacKenzie stood in the center of the grassy space, giving directions to the small band of soldiers in his command. His men had brought their horses inside the castle walls to be fed and watered and stabled for the night. After that, they'd expressed an intent to make camp.

They were practically taking up residence.

Dear heaven. How had this happened?

The same way all of it had happened, Maddie told herself.

It was her fault.

She'd made one mistake years ago, in much the same way a child made a snowball. It had been a small, manageable, innocent-­looking thing at first. It had fit in the palm of her hand.

Then the snowball had rolled away from her and taken a wild bounce down a hill. From there, everything escaped her control. The lies built on themselves, growing ever larger and gaining furious speed. And no matter how long and hard she chased after it, she never quite managed to get the snowball back.

“To think that my little Madling—­at the tender age of sixteen—­snagged that glorious specimen. And here I thought you only collected seashells.” Aunt Thea toyed with her cuff bracelet. “I know you told us a great deal of your captain, but I assumed you were overstating his qualities. It would seem you were being humble instead. Were I thirty years younger, I'd—­”

“Aunt Thea, please.”

“Now I understand why you resisted marrying elsewhere all this time. A man like that will ruin a woman for all others. I know it well. It was just the same between me and the Comte de Montclair. Ah, to relive that springtime at Versailles.” She looked over at Maddie again. “You haven't touched your posset.”

Maddie peered at the lumpy, aromatic mess before her. “It smells . . . adventurous.”

“It's just the usual. Hot milk, curdled with ale. A bit of sugar, anise, clove.”

“Are you certain that's all?” Maddie gathered a spoonful. “No special ingredients?”

“Oh, yes. I did add a dram of Dr. Hargreaves' Elixir. And a pinch of pickling spice to clear the phlegm.” She nodded at the bowl. “Go on. Be a good girl and eat it up. We've hours yet before dinner. I told your captain to bring his men in for the evening meal once they've settled.”

“We're going to feed them?” Everyone knew that once you fed a pack of wandering beasts, they'd never leave. “Cook will quit in protest.”

“They're soldiers. They'll only want simple fare. Bread, beef, puddings. No need for a lavish menu.” Aunt Thea raised a silver brow. “Unless you're offering up a pair of lobsters?”

Maddie looked up, horrified. “Fluffy and Rex? How could you even suggest it?”

“What I'm suggesting, my dear, is that your time as a shellfish voyeur may be drawing to a close.”

“But I've been commissioned by Mr. Orkney to draw a series illustrating the lobster's life cycle. Mating is only one part of it. They can live for decades.”

The lobsters were only one of a few small projects she had underway. With a bit of luck—­and Lord Varleigh's assistance—­she hoped to have larger undertakings soon.

“You have a life cycle of your own to get on with.” Aunt Thea placed her hands atop Maddie's. “Now that the captain has returned, you can be married soon. That is, assuming you still
want
to marry him. Do you not?”

Maddie met her aunt's gaze.

This was it. Her chance to give that ever-­growing snowball a swift kick of truth. Break it apart once and for all.

Actually, Aunt Thea, I don't wish to marry him. You see, I
didn't
manage to snag that glorious specimen of man. I'd never seen him before today. There never was any Captain MacKenzie at all.
I told a silly, panicked lie to avoid a season of disappointment. I deceived everyone for years, and I'm sorry for it. So very sorry and ashamed.

Maddie bit her lip. “Aunt Thea, I . . .”

“Hold that thought,” her aunt said, rising from the table and moving toward the cabinet. “First, I'm pouring myself some brandy to celebrate. I know this is
your
miraculous day.
Your
sweetheart, come home. But in a way, it is my triumph as well. After all those times I went to battle with your Papa, when he wanted to force you back into the
ton
. . . I'm just so happy for you. And happy for myself, as well. I'm vindicated. The past ten years of my life have meaning now.” She brought her glass of brandy back to the table. “Well? What is it you have to say?”

Maddie's heart pinched. “You do know how grateful I am. And how much I adore you.”

“But of course I do. I'm rather easy to adore.”

“Then I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” Her aunt laughed. “Whatever for, my Madling?”

Maddie's head began to throb at the temples. She gripped the spoon until her knuckles ached.

“For not eating the posset.” She gave her aunt a sheepish smile. “I'm feeling better. Might I have a brandy, too?”

She just couldn't do it. Aunt Thea must not be made to suffer for Maddie's mistakes. The old dear had no fortune of her own. She depended on Maddie for financial support, and Maddie depended on her aunt for everything else. To tell the truth now would hurt them both too deeply.

This predicament was one of her own making.

That intimidating Highlander in the courtyard was her problem.

And Maddie knew, then and there—­it was up to her to solve him.

By the time Logan emerged from the castle, his men were anxiously awaiting news. And judging from the looks on their faces, they expected the news to be bad.

“So . . . ?” Callum prompted. “How did it go?”

“As well as could be expected,” Logan replied.

Better than he'd expected, in some ways. Logan had anticipated arriving to find a woman plagued with pockmarks or afflicted with a harelip. At the least, he'd told himself, she would be plain. Why else would a gently-­bred heiress feel compelled to invent a sweetheart?

But Madeline wasn't afflicted in any visible way, and she certainly wasn't plain. She was lovely.

A lovely little liar.

He wasn't yet certain whether that made things better or worse.

“If that's so,” Rabbie asked, “why are you out here with us?”

“She'd believed I was dead,” he said. “Our return came as a shock to her. I'm giving her a moment to recover.”

“Well, at least she's still here,” Callum said. “That means you fared better than I did.”

Munro, the field surgeon, joined them. “Still no news about your lass, Callum?”

Callum shrugged. “There's news. My uncle in Glasgow checked the records of the ship what sailed for Nova Scotia. There was no Miss Mairi Aileen Fraser on the passenger list.”

“But that's good,” Munro said. “Means she's still here in Scotland.”

The round-­faced soldier shook his head. “I said there was no Mairi Aileen Fraser on the list. There was, however, a Mrs. Mairi Aileen MacTavish. So much for my returning hero's welcome.”

The older man clapped Callum on the back. “Sorry to hear it, lad. If she didna wait, she didna deserve you.”

“I canna blame her.” Callum patted his chest with the stump of his left forearm—­the one missing a hand Munro had amputated in the field. “Have a look at me. Who'd wait on this?”

“A great”—­Fyfe hiccupped—­“many lasses, surely.”

Logan pulled a flask of whisky from his sporran, uncapped it, and passed it to Callum. Sympathetic words were never his strong point, but he was always ready to pour the next round.

It wasn't supposed to be this way. When the regiment had landed at Dover last autumn, they'd been greeted as triumphant heroes in London. Then they'd marched north. Home, to the Highlands. And he'd watched his men's lives and dreams fall apart at the seams, one by one.

Callum wasn't the only one. The men gathered around him represented the last of his discharged soldiers, and the worst off: the homeless, the wounded, the left behind.

They'd fought bravely, survived battle, won the war for England on the promise of coming home to their families and sweethearts—­only to find their families, homes, and sweethearts gone. Pushed off the lands they'd inhabited for centuries by the same greedy English landlords who'd asked them to fight.

And Logan couldn't do a damned thing about it. Until today.

Today, he took it all back.

The hulking man at the edge of their group startled. “What's this, then? Where is this place?”

“Easy, Grant.”

Grant's was the saddest tale of the lot. A mortar had landed too close at Quatre-­Bras, tossing the giant of a man twenty feet through the air. He'd survived his injuries, but now he couldn't remember a blessed thing for more than an hour or so. He had a perfect recollection of everything in his life up until that battle. Anything new slipped through his grasp like so much sand.

“We're at Lannair Castle,” Munro explained. The grizzled field surgeon had more patience than the rest of them put together. “The war is over. We're home in Scotland.”

“Are we? Well, that's bonny.”

No one had the heart to dispute it.

“Say, Captain,” the big man said. “Will we be making our way to Ross-­shire soon? I'm keen to see my nan and the wee ones.”

Logan nodded tightly. “Tomorrow, if you like.”

They weren't going anywhere near Ross-­shire tomorrow, but Grant would forget the promise anyhow. Most days, Logan couldn't bear to tell him they'd been to Ross-­shire months ago. Grant's nan was dead of old age, the wee ones had perished of typhus, and their family cottage was a burned-­out shell of ash.

“Tomorrow would be fine.” After a pause, Grant chuckled to himself and added, “Did I tell ye the one about the pig, the whore, and the bagpipes?”

The rest of the men groaned.

Logan silenced them with a look. At Corunna, Grant had held off an entire line of
voltiguers,
giving their company time to fall back. He'd saved their lives. The least they could do was listen to his bawdy joke one more time.

Logan said, “Let's hear it, then. I could do with a joke today.”

The telling of it lasted a while, what with several starts, stops, and pauses for Grant to collect his thoughts.

When he finally came to the end, all the men joined him in a bored tone: “ ‘Squeal louder, lass. Squeal louder.' ”

Grant laughed heartily and slapped Logan on the back. “A good one, isn't it? Can't wait to tell it back home.”

Home.
This place was as close to a home as Grant could have now.

Logan raised his voice. “Have a look around the glen, lads. Start choosing your sites for cottages.”

“They'll never let us have this,” Rabbie said. “Are ye daft? It's been more than eight years since you kissed her good-­bye. This land's in English hands now. That lass of yours has a father or a brother somewhere who'll show his face to chase us off, and we'll be on the next ship to Australia.”

Callum shifted his weight. “Perhaps we should wait to be certain she'll marry you, Captain.”

Logan squared his shoulders. “Have no worry on that score. I'll be making certain of it. Tonight.”