When a Scot Ties the Knot (16 page)

He had just promised to take a lady to a ball—­one hosted by a bloody earl, at which beetles would be the main topic of conversation—­and make her a success.

And he didn't have the damnedest idea how.

Perhaps he could find something in a book.

 

Chapter Sixteen

W
hen Maddie prepared for bed behind her screen that night, she emerged to find the most terrible sight yet.

“Oh, really, Logan. That just isn't fair.”

He looked up from his reclined pose in her bedroom chaise longue, his face partly hidden behind a book bound in dark green leather. “What?”

“You're reading
Pride and Prejudice
?”

He shrugged. “I found it on your bookshelf.”

Seeing him read any book was bad enough. But her
favorite
book? This was sheer torture.

“Just promise me something, please,” she said.

“What's that?”

“Promise me that I'm not going to come out from around this screen one night and find you holding a baby.” That seemed the only possibility more devastating to her self-­control.

He chuckled. “It doesna seem likely.”

“Good.”

“While we're on the topic of books . . .” Logan rose from the chair and tossed the book to the side. “I have a question for you. If these are the kinds of stories you prefer, why did you invent a Scottish officer for your imaginary suitor? You could have created a Mr. Darcy type.”

“Because Scotland is far away, and I needed you to be someone who'd never come around.”

He gave her a half smile. “How did that work out?”

“Not quite as I'd planned. More's the pity.” At the dressing table, she finished plaiting her hair and tied the ends with a bit of plaid. “Any further questions?”

“Aye. I have one.”

She turned around and found him staring at her with unabashed desire.

“Why did you never send me a drawing of yourself?”

She paused, surprised. “I don't know. I suppose the idea never occurred to me. But are you saying the idea occurred to you?”

“Of course it did. I'm a man, amn't I?”

Yes. He most definitely was a man. And his manliness was on full display as he undid the cuffs of his shirt, exposing his bronzed, muscled forearms.

“Every time they delivered one of your letters,” he said, “I'd have this swell of anticipation. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . this time there'd be a sketch of a woman in there.” He pulled his shirt over his head and hung it over the back of the chair. “No such luck. All I got was moths and snails.”

Maddie barely heard the last part of his speech. Aside from the usual stupor that accompanied the sight of him shirtless, her mind had seized on a word toward the beginning of his statement. The one that had sounded like . . . anticipation.

“You . . .” The word died on her tongue. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You looked forward to my letters?”

He answered her from the washing stand. “War is a brutal occupation,
mo chridhe
. It is also deadly boring and verra uncomfortable. Socks are cause for celebration. A toothbrush?” He held up the one currently in his hand. “Worth its weight in gold. Letters are manna from heaven.”

After he rinsed his face, he crossed to the edge of the bed and slid one finger along her collarbone. “The slightest glimpse of this softness would have seemed a miracle.”

He undid the top button of her shift, pushing the fabric to the side to reveal a small swatch of her skin. “Only one shift tonight?”

She nodded. “I trust you now.”

With a heavy sigh, he leaned against the bedpost, his eyes never leaving her body. “Then sketch a picture for me. No pencil. No paper. Just you, right here, right now.”

Maddie's pulse stuttered. His suggestion should have been unthinkable. But her body had ideas of its own.

She said, “Tell me how.”

“Start by taking down your hair.”

She reached for the scrap of fabric tying the end of her plaited hair. She pulled the knot loose and began to tease the strands of the braid apart, shaking her head gently to distribute them.

In this moment, she would do almost anything he asked. But she wasn't doing any of it
for
him. Oh, no. This was all for herself. She loved the way he was looking at her right now. She never wanted it to end.

“Now this.”

He pushed the sleeve of her shift down her shoulder. She tensed.

“I just want to look,
mo chridhe
.” His voice was hoarse. “Let me have this much.”

He pushed the panel down to reveal her breast. With just the pad of his fingertip, he circled her pink areola. Her nipple tightened to an aching peak.

Maddie glanced up at him. The expression on his face was pure, unfiltered yearning. She never would have believed she could inspire that look in anyone, much less a man who'd been privy to her worst sins. He swallowed, and the hard bob of his Adam's apple was the most sensual, arousing thing she'd ever seen.

Her whole life had been an exercise in avoiding attention. Observing, rather than being observed. She'd mastered the art of hiding in plain view. And for the first time, she never wanted this attention to end.

She slipped her arm from the loosened sleeve entirely. Then she undid a few more buttons of the shift, pulled her other arm free, and let the cloud of white linen settle about her waist.

Her heart pounded in her throat.

“Lie back on the bed.”

She followed his instruction, reclining against the bed. In an impulse of sheer wantonness, she pushed the wadded shift over her hips and peeled it down her legs. Leaving herself completely bare, from head to toe.

Her choice of position was instantly more fraught than she had anticipated. Should she lie on her back, or on her side? Bent legs or straight? And for heaven's sake, what should she do with her arms? Stretch them overhead? At her sides? One of each?

Her sincerest impulse was to flail them about in indecision, but that wasn't the erotic picture she hoped to present.

In the end, she lay on her side, crosswise on the bed. Legs together, bent gently at the knees. With one arm, she propped up her head. The other hand lay draped—­ casually, she hoped—­on her thigh.

He stared at her.

He stared at her so long without speaking that she began to grow concerned.

“Maybe this was a bad id—­”

He shushed her. “Sketches don't talk.”

She touched the backs of her fingers to her elongated neck, drawing them slowly downward. She waited for him to complain that sketches didn't move, either.

He didn't complain.

Unless a strangled groan counted as a complaint, and she didn't think it did.

She let her fingertips drift lower, down into the hollow between her breasts. He muttered something Gaelic that she assumed to be the best kind of blasphemy.

With his eyes never leaving her body, he undid a fastening of some kind on the inside of his kilt. The heavy plaid fell to the floor, leaving him every bit as naked as she was.

Every bit as naked, perhaps, but considerably more tanned, muscled, and covered with hair.

More solid, too.

One particular bit of him was very, very hard.

Maddie worried it would be impolite or lewd to stare, but she couldn't tear her gaze away. She was fascinated. Not only as an artist but as a woman as well.

Good heavens. His male organ jutted out from its nest of dark hair, a thick, dusky curve of flesh that appeared, at first glance, quite alarming in size. As she stared at him, her mind was doing estimations, drawing diagrams.

How could . . . ? Why did . . . ?

Her brain could scarcely complete a question. She needed more observation.

Which meant she needed to give him something to watch, too.

With her fingertips, she traced the globe of her breast. Slowly circling her fingers round and round.

He gave a low groan. With one hand, he gripped the bedpost.

He wrapped his other hand around his staff.

The jolt of arousal was immediate. Electric. The moment his hand closed around his rigid staff, her own breeding parts went soft and quivering.

Perhaps she ought to have felt embarrassed—­and to be truthful, she did, a bit. But she couldn't look away. The visible proof of his arousal, the strength of his grip, the tension in the sinews of his neck as he stroked up and down . . .

She'd caused that. All of it.

The surge of power was intoxicating.

Most thrilling of all was the way he looked at her, or rather looked through her.
Inside
her. Somewhere behind those eyes, he was making love to her in bold, passionate strokes.

And something told her it wasn't the first time he'd been lost in that particular fantasy.

The idea was wildly arousing.

She let her fingertip circle one nipple, then the other. Then she drew that single fingertip down her belly. To her own most sensitive place.

He nodded. His eyes, heavy with desire, lifted to hers. “Go on.”

Maddie could scarcely believe she was doing this, but her arousal was so powerful that it pushed out any sense of shame. At his urging, she touched herself there. Just the way she knew it would please her most if she were alone.

But she wasn't alone. Logan was watching her, and that meant every sensation was heightened. There was danger here between them, but also trust. The most frightening sense of safety she'd ever known.

He stroked himself faster, bracing his head against his propped arm. His breathing was rough.

Her pleasure spiraled toward a steep, fast-­approaching peak.

She wanted to hold back, the better to watch him and absorb every detail of the sight. But all too soon, the pleasure broke over her. She curled in on herself, closing her eyes and letting the waves of bliss rock her again and again.

She was dimly aware of his low groan. When the haze of her own climax lifted, she looked up to find him wiping himself clean with his discarded shirt.

Her breath heaved in her chest.

Good heavens. What did they say to each other after that?

Nothing, apparently.

Without a word, Logan lay down on the bed alongside her. Not touching. Just beside her. No pillows or tension between them—­only warmth.

His breathing calmed, and a delicious languor spread through her body. Neither of them seemed willing to ruin the pleasant truce by speaking.

So they were quiet.

And then they were asleep.

Logan's sleep was much as it always was.

Dark. Cold. Empty.

Seemingly endless.

Then, out of nowhere, a face appeared to him in the darkness. A pale, pretty face with dark eyes.

She called to him in a sweet, husky voice. “Logan.”

Well, Logan thought. If he was going to develop the talent for dreaming, these were the kinds of dreams he could enjoy.

He reached for her, wanting to draw her close.

And then the face began to recede. Back into the darkness.

No.

No, come back.

“Logan.”

This time, there was fear in her voice.

He had to get to her. Hold her. Keep her from slipping away.

But he reached for her in vain. Looking down, he saw to his horror that his feet had sunk into the ground. His arms weren't his own anymore. They were freakishly thin. Child-­sized. He couldn't stretch them far enough, no matter how he tried.

And he did try.

Again and again and again.

“
Logan.
”

He sat bolt upright in the bed, shaking and breathing hard. The bed linens were bathed in perspiration.

Maddie sat up next to him. Her hand went to his shoulder. “Logan, are you well? You were having a dream.”

He shook his head. “It's not possible. I never . . .”

“You do. You do dream, you stubborn man. I've seen this more than once. You dream, and you talk. Sometimes I'm able to settle you in your sleep, but this time was different. I'm sorry to wake you, but I couldn't bear to watch you suffer that way.”

Logan's breath heaved in his chest.

He didn't know how to receive this news. Apparently he'd been embarrassing himself nightly in front of her . . . and she'd been soothing him when he'd been insensible to it?

He pushed both hands through his hair, frustrated in more ways than one.

“You're fine now,” she crooned, sweeping her fingers down his spine. “We can go back to sleep.”

He shrugged off her touch. “It's nearly morning. We might as well rise and be dressed if we're going to be in Inverness when the shops open for the day.”

“Very well, then.”

Logan tried to ignore the crestfallen look on her face. He knew he was hurting her by brushing away her sweet gestures. But he would hurt her more deeply later if he allowed them.

Dreams had no place in his plans. This had been a ruthless scheme from the outset, and it needed to remain that way. If he meant to secure this land for his men, he had to conquer Madeline, one way or another. Either she would surrender this property, or she would surrender her virtue. Emotions could only complicate matters.

He could not encourage her to care for him.

If only because it would grow too tempting to care for her in return.

 

Chapter Seventeen

A
unt Thea leaned close to him. “I'm going to guess you don't have a great deal of experience shopping for ladies' formal attire?”

Logan scratched his neck. “What gave it away?”

They sat on two narrow chairs in the midst of an Inverness dressmaker's shop, waiting on Maddie to make her choice of a gown. The sheer quantity of lace and plumes in the establishment had him feeling itchy.

“Not much experience attending balls, either?” she asked.

“None.”

“You must be so anxious. I couldn't eat for weeks before my first presentation.”

If he hadn't been anxious already, he was growing anxious now.

Thank you, Aunt Thea. Much obliged.

“While we're waiting, I'll give you a bit of advice.” She pushed to her feet and prodded him in the elbow. “Come along. Stand up. A man should never be sitting while a lady stands.”

Logan reluctantly stood. He didn't especially want etiquette lessons at the moment, but he didn't know what else to do with himself in this place, either. At least she offered a way to pass the time. It was better than fidgeting. If he tapped the heel of his boot any more times, he would wear a hole in the carpet.

“Now,” she began, “when you first make a new acquaintance, the person of lower social rank is presented to the higher.”

“No need to memorize any of the social ranks,” he said. “I'm going to be on the same end of that exchange every time.”

He couldn't imagine there would be anyone of lower rank present at an earl's residence. Even within a humble Highland
baile,
Logan had always been the lowest of the lowly, one step above the animals. Sometimes he'd been fed
after
the dogs.

“Regardless, you will then bow. No need to bow deeply from the waist. That's for toadying footmen. But something more than a nod is in order with the aristocracy. Think of a hinge in between your shoulder blades and lean forward from there. That should do.”

Logan obeyed as best he could, feeling rather like a marionette.

“Now kiss my hand.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers.

“That part isn't strictly necessary.” Her eyes twinkled. “It was mostly for me.”

He couldn't help but smile a little. He didn't know where Madeline had inherited her shy nature, but it certainly hadn't been from her aunt's side.

“Now for the dancing,” she said.

“We won't be dancing.”

“Most of the steps aren't difficult. Wait for a country dance and watch the gentleman next to you. Or, if you're feeling adventurous, you could try the waltz.”

Logan shook his head. “Maddie told me she won't want to dance at all.”

“Perhaps she won't. But I do. It's been ages since I danced the gavotte with the Comte de Montclair. Humor me?”

He cast a wistful look at the heavy drapes that guarded the dressing room, willing them to open and give him an excuse to refuse.

No luck.

So he allowed Aunt Thea to position his arms just so and teach him to step this way, then that. One-­two-­three, one-­two-­three. He wouldn't remember any of it later, but if it made an old woman happy, he supposed he couldn't object.

“Not bad,” she said. “Not bad at all.”

Logan bowed and kissed her fingers again.

She kept his hand and squeezed it. “I never had children, you see. That's why my Madling is so precious to me. I've thought of her as my own. Mothered her the best I could. You do realize what that means, Logan?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is this the moment where you warn me that if I hurt her, you'll slip poison in my tea?”

“No, no. What I have to say is much worse. If you're Maddie's husband, that means I'm going to mother you.” She gave him a quick, tight hug before releasing him. “And you'll just have to endure it.”

Logan was stunned.

He'd never been mothered by anyone. He wasn't certain he'd recognize the feeling, much less know how to return the sentiment. But he understood loyalty. The familiar protective impulses rose as he helped her take her seat. In that moment, she'd been added to a short roster of ­people he would give his life and soul to protect.

It wasn't a decision, just a fact. He would guard this daft old woman's happiness with his life. No matter how she tried to kill him with tonics and salves.

And just when he'd begun to recover his wits, Madeline pushed aside the dressing room curtains.

And he was stunned again.

Madeline stood before him in a gown of rich, emerald-­green silk. The low-­cut bodice did miraculous things for her bosom, and the vibrant color made a striking contrast with her pale skin and dark hair. And her lips . . . something about the green brought out their richness. They looked like two lush slices of a ripened plum.

His mouth watered.

She turned and twisted in front of the mirror, trying to get a look. “It needs some alterations, but I think it will do.” She turned to Logan. “Don't you?”

He nodded dumbly.

“Very well, then.”

She disappeared once again, drawing the curtains closed.

He was still nodding dumbly.

What had just happened? She'd parted those curtains for all of ten seconds, perhaps, and he felt like a prophet who'd glimpsed divine revelation. Now his world was on end.

Aunt Thea tugged on her gloves. “Well, that's done. While Madling finishes with her fitting, you stay here. I'm going to duck down the street and have a peek in the apothecary.”

Logan nodded. Again.

“Are you feeling quite well?” Aunt Thea asked. “You haven't spoken a word since Madling emerged. And your face is all flushed.”

“Is it?” Logan rubbed his face. “Perhaps I need one of your tonics or possets.”

“I don't think so.” She arched one slender, silver brow. “I've seen this affliction before. It's a heart malady. And there isn't any cure.”

“No, wait. It isn't like that. Aunt Thea—­”

Once the older woman left, Logan leaned forward in his chair and let his head drop into his hands.

Brilliant. Just when he'd started to worry about breaking Maddie's heart, he now had to worry about her aunt's, as well.

“Where's Aunt Thea?” Maddie asked.

He looked up to see she'd emerged again, this time in her usual gray frock. Rationally, he should not have found her even lovelier than he had a few minutes ago—­but he did. It was the familiarity that stirred him. He knew this frock. He knew
her
.

“She said she wanted to stop in at the apothecary's.”

“Oh, dear.” She pulled a face. “Well, I happen to need new gloves. I don't suppose you can tolerate a quick stop by the draper's? I think it's just down the street.”

Together they left the shop and made their way toward the other side of the lane. It was midday, and a market day, and the street had grown considerably busier while they'd been in the dressmaker's shop.

A trio of laughing boys racing down the lane divided them. Logan was forced to release his grip on Maddie's hand. When he reached the pavement on the other side of the road, he turned to look for her.

She wasn't at his side.

“Maddie?”

Madeline had come to a dead halt in the center of the road. She stood pale and trembling. ­People and horses moved about her like trout swimming around a rock in the stream.

Jesus Christ. If she didn't move, she was likely to be hit by a cart.

Logan pushed his way to her side.

“Maddie. What is it? Are you going to swoon? What's wrong?”

She didn't answer. Only stood there, her eyes unfocused and her whole body quivering.

He was tempted to pluck her off her feet and carry her in his arms, but he worried that would create even more of a scene. He didn't want to draw more attention.

Placing his arm around her shoulders, he guided her to the side of the main thoroughfare, scouting their surroundings for a safe place where she could sit and recover her breath. There was a tea shop nearby, but it was crowded with patrons at this hour.

Out of desperation and a lack of alternatives, Logan steered her toward the kirk.

Of all places, a kirk. He hadn't been inside a proper house of worship in years.

But the space was dark and quiet and empty, and that was what Maddie needed right now.

He walked her down the center aisle and helped her find a seat on a narrow wooden bench. Then he put his arms about her, attempting to soothe the tremors racking her slender frame. He thought of the way she'd touched him that morning, when he'd woken shaking and covered in sweat. Tracing his fingers down the linked pearls of her spine, he tried to imitate her soothing caress.

He held her like that for several minutes, until she felt ready to speak.

“I can't do this.” She choked on a sob. “I'm sorry. I know we had an agreement, but I can't even walk down a street without panicking. I don't know how I thought I could go to a ball.”

“Easy,
mo chridhe.
I have you now. It's over.”

“It isn't over. It's never over.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “I hoped at last I could move past this, but I've been this way almost all my life. At least, ever since . . .”

“Ever since what,
mo chridhe
? What happened? You can tell me.”

“You'll think me so stupid and foolish. I
was
stupid and foolish.”

“I'd never think you stupid. Foolish, possibly. Tell me the story, and I'll let you know.”

She plucked at the lacy edge of her handkerchief. “When I was seven years old, it was Christmastime and my mother was dying. I knew it, even though no one would tell me so. I could see it in the way she'd grown so pale and thin, and I could smell it on her breath. It was the strangest odor, like mineral spirits and rose petals. There weren't any callers, other than doctors. My lessons were suspended. I had to be very quiet at all times, so as not to disturb her rest. So I learned at quite a young age how to be invisible. Any game I played, any joy I found—­it had to be undetectable. I spent a great deal of time out of doors. Taking interest in other small, quiet things.

“One day, one of the local farmer's girls told me there was to be a Christmas pantomime in the village square. I was curious to see it, but I didn't dare tell anyone. I crept out and walked all the way into the village myself to see it. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd. It was wondrous. The costumes, the joking. There was a man who juggled flaming batons. I laughed until my sides hurt. For a few minutes, I forgot all about the sadness at home. And then . . .”

When she paused, Logan reached over and took her hand.

“I don't know precisely what happened,” she went on. “A horse startled, perhaps?” Her brow wrinkled with concentration. “Maybe a dog got loose. I can't recall. The whole crowd went into a panic, and I was caught in the middle with no one to protect me. If I hadn't managed to wedge myself under the scaffolding, I surely would have been trampled. I still don't remember how I got home. I only remember that it was dark, and so cold. I stuffed my frock in the coal bin to hide the rips and stains, then spent the night trembling in my bed. I thought surely they'd find me out in the morning. They would have heard the news from the village, or they would have noticed the frock. But when my father woke me, it was to say my mother had slipped away in the night. So no one discovered my misbehavior. And I never told them.”

“No one?”

“How could I? Confess that while my mother lay on her deathbed, I'd stolen away to laugh at a pantomime? I was so ashamed.”

He shook his head. “You were a girl. You wanted a respite from grieving and sadness. That's nothing to be ashamed about.”

“It was difficult to believe that as a child, though. For the longest time, I felt my timidness was a deserved punishment. You see, I've tended to freeze in crowded places ever since. Markets, busy streets, theaters . . .”

“Ballrooms,” he finished for her.

“Ballrooms.” She lifted her shoulders, then let them drop. “Whenever there are too many ­people around, I become that seven-­year-­old girl again. Alone and frozen with fear.”

Logan wasn't sure what to say. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “It's understandable.”

“Is it? Because I don't understand it, really. Is it truly the crowd that frightens me? Maybe I'm still punishing myself for an old mistake. Or perhaps it's superstition. I'm afraid that if I enjoy myself, something terrible will happen.”

She swallowed. “In any event, there was no way I could face a London season, and no way I could explain the reasons to my father. So I lied. And years later, here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“See?” She forced a smile. “I told you the truth was stupid. Just another foolish story of Maddie Gracechurch making one mistake and then letting it ruin the next ten years of her life. It's a pattern, apparently.”

He regarded her, thoughtful. “That pattern isna what I see when I look at you.”

“It isn't?”

“No.”

In the dim, misty interior of the kirk, her eyes were pools of dark liquid. “Then what
do
you see?”

He waited a moment before responding. “I see a bug.”

She laughed in surprise. Just as he'd hoped she would.

“No, truly,” he said. “One of those insects that starts out as a grub and then makes itself a case. What's it called?”

“A cocoon?”

“Right. It makes itself a cocoon and goes into hiding. And when it finally emerges, it's something entirely different. Something beautiful.”

“Well, sometimes it's beautiful. A great many insects make themselves cocoons. It's not all pretty moths and damselflies, you know. If you're right, and I've been hiding in a cocoon, I could emerge to find that I'm an earwig or a termite.”