When a Scot Ties the Knot (5 page)

“That was my best drawing pencil,” she said.

“It's just a pencil.”

“It came from London. I have a limited supply.”

His thumb caressed her cheek. “It almost put out my eye. I've a limited supply of those, too. And it's better this way.”

“But—­” Her breath caught. “Oh.”

He bracketed her cheeks with his hands, tilting her face to his.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She stared at his mouth. A wave of inevitability washed over her.

She whispered, “This is really happening, isn't it?”

In answer, he pressed his lips to hers.

And Maddie went still. The lightning bolt of sensual expertise she'd been hoping for didn't arrive. She was glued to his face, staring at his cheekbone. She had no idea what she was supposed to do.

Close your eyes, ninny.

Maybe, if she was very still and paid close attention, her idiocy wouldn't be obvious. Perhaps he could teach her to kiss, in the same way the sky taught the loch to be blue.

It was a stupid risk, kissing her this soon.

Logan realized it the moment his lips met hers and she went rigid in response. Bloody hell. If this embrace went wrong, he could scare her off and his grand plans would be over before they began.

That meant his challenge was plain.

He had to make sure this kiss went right.

“Hush
, mo chridhe
. Softly now.”

He brushed his lips over hers in brief passes, with all the patience and tenderness a man like him could muster—­which wasn't a great deal. But before long she was responding in a shy, sweet way. Her lips brushed his, too.

The same hands that had flattened against his chest to hold him back now clutched at his lapels, drawing him closer. Her lips parted beneath his, and he swept his tongue between them. A small sigh eased from the back of her throat, encouraging and sweet. He explored her mouth with slow, languid strokes.

And then his patience was rewarded, when her tongue touched lightly to his.

Holy God. His knees almost buckled.

Yes. That's the way of it.

She had the idea now, his clever little minx. When he explored, she yielded. When he took, she gave. And she did the same in return.

Logan could have stood by that mirror-­finish loch and kissed her for hours. Days. Weeks and months, perhaps, while the seasons changed around them. There was something different to her. A taste he couldn't quite name, except to decide he'd never known it in a kiss before. A bit of spice, a bit of sweet, and all of it warm.

Whatever it was, that teasing essence had him wanting to kiss harder, probe deeper to chase it. As if he could bring it into himself and make it his own.

But he didn't want to frighten her. After one last, lingering brush of his lips to hers, he lifted his head.

He'd forgotten that she was still standing on tiptoe, balanced on that rock. As he released her and stepped back, she swayed toward him. Their bodies collided with a dull
unf
. Softness meeting strength.

Acting on instinct, he caught her in his arms.

He felt all of her against all of him. Warm and curved and feminine and so alive beneath that gray mourning frock.

Then she looked up at him—­with those big brown calf's eyes, fringed with sooty lashes, and her kiss-­plumped lips slightly parted.

Holy God. His knees really did waver this time.

Logan believed what he'd told her, with everything he had in that place where a heart ought to be. Love was nothing but a lie ­people told themselves.

But lust?

Lust was real, and he was feeling it. Feeling it to his core. As he held her to him, his blood pounded with the fiercest, most primal kind of need. One that spoke of possession and claiming and
mine
.

She made him wild.

Surely it was simply because he'd gone so long without female company. Madeline wasn't even his usual sort. Given his choice, he would have said he favored a bonny Scots lass with fiery hair and a knowing gleam in her eye. Not a shy, proper English gentlewoman just learning the taste of her first kiss.

But beneath the shyness and reserve, she possessed a natural, earthy sensuality. He couldn't help but think of what that might mean in bed—­when all the rules and corsets were shed, and the dark freed her from propriety.

Damn. He was wondering about her again.

He was weary of that, the wondering. He'd been wondering about this woman for far too long. Day after bloody day, and night after freezing night. For years. It had driven him mad.

He needed to see her. Search her. Taste her. Everywhere. Hear the little noises she made in pleasure. Just once. Then the wondering would be replaced with knowledge, and he wouldn't be haunted by her anymore.

He lifted her down from the rock and set her on her feet.

“Captain MacKenzie,” she said dreamily, “I wi—­”

“Logan,” he corrected. “I believe it's better to call me Logan now.”

“Yes. I suppose it is. Logan.”

“What was it you meant to say?”

She shook her head. “I've no idea.”

He'd take that as a good sign.

“I'd best go clean myself up and gather the men,” he said. “You can start preparing for the ceremony.”

“I suppose a week ought to be sufficient time,” she said. “Though I'd rather have two.”

He shook his head. “I'm not waiting a week.”

“A few days, then. At least give me that much. I . . . I've nothing suitable to wear.”

“I dinna care about the color of your frock, lass. I'm only going to take it off you again.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

Logan knew he had to make this happen soon. If he gave her time to think about it, she might decide she wouldn't go through with it at all.

He cast a glance at the sun, fast sinking toward the green horizon. “You have three hours. We're marrying tonight.”

 

Chapter Four

M
addie had always been different from other girls, and she had always known it. For example, she was certain she was the only bride to ever write the following to-­do list on her wedding day:

• Bath

• Coiffure

• Dress

• Lobsters

Three hours later, she was bathed, coiffed, and dressed—­and sadly for both her and Rex, there was still no sign of Fluffy molting.

Now she stood in the gallery, overlooking the scene that was to be her Highland wedding.

It was a stark tableau. There weren't any special decorations. Too early in the year for flowers, no ribbons on hand, and there hadn't been time for anything else.

Outside, a spring thunderstorm had broken. Wind and rain howled, lashing the castle walls. In the high hall, candles blazed in every available holder. The flames danced and flickered, looking as anxious as she felt.

Servants lined one side of the hall. Captain MacKenzie's men lined the other. Both groups were waiting on her.

And she wanted nothing more than to stay exactly where she was, forever. Or go hide with Fluffy under the rocks.

“Ready, lass?”

She jumped, startled. Logan had joined her in the gallery, sneaking up on her with his catlike steps.

Sneaking up on her with his gorgeousness, too.

Mercy.

He, too, had bathed. And shaved. Most of his brown hair had been tamed with a comb, but a few incorrigible locks fell over his brow in rakish fashion. Someone had brushed out his redcoat and polished the buttons. The gold braid and brass gleamed in the candlelight.

He'd been ruggedly attractive earlier today. Now he was magnificent.

Maddie felt unequal to him. Becky had done her best with the hair, but Maddie had no choice but to wear one of her usual dark-­gray frocks. She hadn't had anything else made in years. What would be the point? She never went anywhere, never entertained.

She certainly hadn't been prepared for a wedding.

“I don't feel ready for this,” she said.

He swept her with a quick, perfunctory gaze. “You look ready enough.”

Hardly what a bride dreamed of hearing on her wedding day. Not
You look beautiful.
Not
You look lovely.

You look
ready enough
.

She glanced down at the half dozen soldiers lining the hall. “What do your men think is happening here tonight?”

“They think I'm marrying you.”

“So they know about the letters?”

“Aye, they know I received them. But they never read them.”

Maddie would have liked to believe he was telling the truth, but she doubted it. To a soldier in grim circumstances, the ramblings of an undersexed, overimaginative English chit must have been high entertainment. Why would he have kept them to himself? It seemed far more likely that her letters had been passed around the campfire for amusement on dreary nights.

“It's just so many ­people,” she said. “And such a large space.”

It had started to feel far too much like a crowd.

Maddie didn't do well in crowds.

“You must know from my letters that I can't abide social gatherings like these. My shyness is the reason I invented you in the first place.”

“Invented me? Lass, you didna invent me.”

“No, you're right. I invented someone understanding and kind.” She crossed her arms and hugged herself. No one else seemed likely to do it. “Have you never heard the phrase
painfully shy
? The attention of a roomful of ­people . . . for me, it's an icy blast in the dead of winter. First my skin starts to prickle all over. Then I go numb. And then I freeze.”

“Look around you.”

He swiveled her to face the hall, then stood behind her, placing his hands on the railing and bracketing her between his arms. His solid chest met her back, and his chin pressed against her temple. The pose was intimate and oddly comforting.

He indicated his men one by one. “On the end there, Callum lost his hand. Rabbie has a leg full of shrapnel. Fyfe wakes screaming every night, and Munro can scarcely sleep at all. Then there's Grant. He can't hold onto a memory since Quatre-­Bras. Even if he noticed something amiss with you, he'd forget about it in an hour. There's not a soul in this hall without his own burdens.”

Not a soul?

She craned her neck to look up at him—­all six perfectly formed feet of him. “What burden do you have?”

“The burden of duty.” His voice lowered to an intense whisper. “I led those men into battle. When they were weary and chilled and sick with fear, I pushed them on. I promised they'd see the day when they'd come home to their wives, their sweethearts, their bairns, their lands. Instead, they came home to nothing.”

His anger was palpable, drawing the small hairs on the back of Maddie's neck tall.

“Tonight,” he said, “I'm taking their future back.”

“So that's why you want this land? For them?”

He nodded. “I've made it clear I'll not stop at lying, blackmail, or thievery. But just in case it needs underscoring,
mo chridhe,
you're going down there if I have to sling you over my back and carry you like a sack of oats.”

“That won't be necessary.”

He released the railing, took a step back, and offered his arm.

Maddie accepted it. She couldn't delay any longer.

Arm in arm, they descended the stairs. She was aware of the dozens of eyes on her, chilling her like a wintry wind—­but at least she had a tall, braw Highlander to offer some shelter.

Aunt Thea gave her a warm smile as she passed. That helped, too.

They made their way toward the center of the room. Along the way, Logan paused to introduce her to his men. Each soldier bowed to her. Between the graveness of their manner and the stormy, candlelit setting, Maddie felt transported back to another time. She might have been a medieval bride, accepting the fealty of her laird's clansmen.

It was a comfort to know he was doing this out of loyalty to his men and not simple greed. Even if he despised her, at least she knew he was capable of caring for someone.

“Here's Grant,” Logan said as they reached a large, hulking man at the end of the line. “You're going to meet him several times.”

“What's all this, Captain?” Uneasy, the big man rubbed his shaved head with one palm and looked around. “Where are we now?”

Logan reached out and placed a firm hand on Grant's shoulder. “Be easy. We're back in Scotland,
mo charaid.
The war's over, and we're at Lannair Castle in Invernesshire.”

The big man's eyes turned to Maddie. He looked at her as though he were struggling to focus. “Who's this lass?”

Maddie offered her hand. “I'm Madeline.”

“This is your sweetheart?” Grant asked Logan. “The one what sent all the letters?”

Logan nodded. “I'm marrying her. Right now, as a matter of fact.”

“Are ye?” The man stared at her for a moment, and then a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. Grinning, he dug his elbow into Logan's side. “You lucky bastard.”

In that moment, Maddie knew one thing.

Private Malcolm Allan Grant was her new favorite person.

He'd made her feel pretty on her wedding day. So long as she lived, she would never forget it.

“Say, can we go to Ross-­shire soon, Captain?” Grant asked. “I'm keen to see my nan and the wee ones.”

“Tomorrow,” Logan said. “We'll go tomorrow.”

“That will be fine.”

That settled, Logan steered her to the center of the room. “We'd better get on with it.”

“Who's going to officiate?”

“Munro will do the honors, but we dinna need anyone to officiate. There aren't any rings to bless. We'll keep this traditional, like the Highland ways of old. 'Twill be a simple handfasting.”

“A handfasting? I thought those only last for a year and a day.”

“In novels, perhaps. But the kirk put a stop to temporary unions some centuries ago. That doesna stop brides and grooms from exchanging vows in the old way. We clasp hands, like so.” He took her by the wrist, gripping her right forearm with his right hand. “Now take hold of me.”

She did as he asked, curling her fingers around his forearm as best she could.

“And the other,” he prompted.

He claimed her left wrist in the same manner, and she held onto his. Their linked hands now formed a cross between them. It looked something like a cat's cradle or a children's game.

Logan nodded at Munro.

The man stepped forward and wound a length of plaid around their linked wrists, tying them together. Maddie watched, transfixed, as the strip of fabric wound over her wrist and under his, lashing them together.

Her heart began to beat faster. Her breathing, too. Her brain began to feel as light and misty as a cloud.

He must have been able to tell. His grip tightened on her wrist.

“Can we not do this in private?” she whispered.

“There must be witnesses, lass.”

“Yes, but this many? It's only that . . .”

She couldn't finish her plea. The numbness had closed in on her, just as it always did. The cold found her, no matter how well she hid. And the ice encased her from toes to tongue, forbidding her to speak or move. Her pulse beat dully in her ears and time's progress slowed to a glacial creep.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

When she did, she found him staring down at her. His eyes were intent, captivating.

“Dinna worry about the others. It's only me and you now.”

His low words of assurance did something strange to her. Something she would have thought impossible. They heated her blood from the inside out and made her forget everyone else in the room. He'd erected a shield against that beam of attention.

It truly was just the two of them now.

Suddenly, the rain, the dark, the candles, the primal symbolism of being tied to another human being . . . It all seemed magical. And more romantic than she could bear.

She was visited by the strange, unshakeable sensation that this was everything she'd dreamed of since she was sixteen years old.

Don't,
she pleaded with herself.
Don't imagine this to be more than it is. That's how all your trouble starts.

“Now ye repeat the words as I say them,” Logan said.

He murmured something in Gaelic, and she repeated the words aloud as best she could.

“Good,” he praised.

Again, she warmed inside. Foolishly.

When she'd finished her part, he said something similar in return. She heard her name in the mix of Gaelic.

Then Munro stepped forward and unwound the cloth.

“What now?” Maddie asked.

“Just this.” He bent his head and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “That's all. It's done.”

The men all gave a rousing cheer.

It was done. She was married.

Did she feel different?
Should
she feel different?

“I wouldna expect you to wear a full arisaid,” her groom said. “But now that you're Mrs. MacKenzie, you should never be without these.”

One of the men handed him a length of green-­and-­blue tartan. Logan draped it from one shoulder to her waist, like a sash.

From his sporran, he pulled something small that flashed in the candlelight. He used it to pin the plaid together in front.

“Oh, that's lovely,” Aunt Thea said. “What is it?”

“It's called a luckenbooth,” a soldier—­the one named Callum—­explained. “It's tradition in the Highlands for a man to give such a brooch to his betrothed.”

“Then you should have given it to her in Brighton years ago,” Aunt Thea said.

“I should have done. I suppose I forgot.” With that, he gave Maddie a sly glance.

A realization struck her like a lightning bolt. She now had a confidant. A conspirator. Someone who knew everything. All her secrets. He didn't love her for them, but he hadn't run screaming from her, either.

This ruthless, kilted stranger she'd married might be the closest thing on earth Maddie had to a true friend.

Thunder boomed somewhere, quite nearby. The candle flames ducked and cowered. The storm must be passing directly overhead.

“What's this?” Grant asked, looking more confused than he had before the ceremony began. “We're drawing fire, Captain. We need to take cover.”

Maddie could see now what Logan had meant about the big soldier's memory. The poor man.

Logan reached out to his friend again. Explained, again, that they were safe in Scotland. Promised, again, to take him to Ross-­shire tomorrow to see his wee ones and his nan.

How many times must he have made those same assurances, Maddie wondered. Hundreds? Perhaps thousands? He must have the patience of a saint.

“And who's she?” Grant nodded at Maddie.

“I'm Madeline.” She held out her hand.

“You're the sweetheart what wrote him all those letters?”

“Aye,” Logan said. “And now she's my wife.”

Grant chuckled and dug his elbow into Logan's side. “You lucky bastard.”

Yes, Maddie thought. Grant was still her new favorite person. Faulty memory or no, she was going to enjoy having him around.

In fact, she was contemplating giving him a kiss on the cheek, when the hall flashed white, then dark. The entire castle shook with a mighty—­

Crash.

“Madeline, get down.”

When the lightning struck, Logan's heart took a jolt. And for the first time in years, his initial impulse wasn't to soothe Grant or protect his men.

His attention went solely to his bride.

He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her to his chest and pulling her toward the floor, lest something above them shake loose and fall.