When a Scot Ties the Knot (2 page)

 

Chapter One

Invernesshire, Scotland

April 1817

B
lub.

Blub-­blub-­blub.

Maddie's hand jerked.

Ink sputtered from her pen, making great blots on the wing structure she'd been outlining. Her delicate Brazilian dragonfly now resembled a leprous chicken.

Two hours of work, gone in a heartbeat.

But it would be nothing if those bubbles signified what she hoped.

Copulation.

Her heart began to beat faster. She set aside her pen, lifted her head just enough for a clear view of the glass-­walled seawater tank, and went still.

Maddie was, by nature, an observer. She knew how to fade into the background, be it drawing-­room wallpaper, ballroom wainscoting, or the plastered-­over stone of Lannair Castle. And she had a great deal of experience observing the mating rituals of many strange and wondrous creatures, from English aristocrats to cabbage moths.

When it came to courtship, however, lobsters were the most prudish and formal of all.

She'd been waiting months for Fluffy, the female, to molt and declare herself available to mate. So had Rex, the male specimen in the tank. She didn't know which of them was the more frustrated.

Perhaps today would be the day. Maddie peered hard at the tank, breathless with anticipation.

There. From behind a broken chunk of coral, a slender orange antennae waved in the murky gloom.

Hallelujah.

That's it,
she silently willed.
Go on, Fluffy. That's a girl. It
's been a long, lonely winter under that rock. But you're ready now.

A blue claw appeared.

Then receded.

Shameless tease.

“Stop being so missish.”

At last, the female's full head came into view as she rose from her hiding place.

And then someone rapped at the door. “Miss Gracechurch?”

That was the end of that.

With a
blub-­blub-­blub
, Fluffy disappeared as quickly as she'd emerged. Back under her rock.

Drat.

“What is it, Becky?” Maddie called. “Is my aunt ill?”

If she'd been disturbed in her studio,
someone
must be ill. The servants knew not to interrupt her when she was working.

“No one's ill, miss. But there's a caller for you.”

“A caller? Now that's a surprise.”

For an on-­the-­shelf Englishwoman residing in the barren wilds of the Scottish Highlands, callers were always a surprise.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It's a man.”

A
man
.

Now Maddie was more than surprised. She was positively shocked.

She pushed aside her ruined dragonfly illustration and stood to peer out the window. No luck. She'd chosen this tower room for its breathtaking view of the rugged green hills and the glassy loch settled like a mirror shard between them. It offered no useful vantage of the gate or entryway.

“Oh, Miss Gracechurch.” Becky sounded nervous. “He's ever so big.”

“Goodness. And does this big man have a name?”

“No. I mean, he must
have
a name, mustn't he? But he didn't say. Not yet. Your aunt thought you had best come and see for yourself.”

Well. This grew more and more mysterious.

“I'll be there in a moment. Ask Cook to prepare some tea, if you will.”

Maddie untied her smock. After pulling the apron over her head and hanging it on a nearby peg, she took a quick inventory of her appearance. Her slate-­gray frock wasn't too wrinkled, but her hands were stained with ink and her hair was a travesty—­loose and disheveled. There was no time for a proper coiffure. No hairpins to be found, either. She gathered the dark locks in her hands and twisted them into a loose knot at the back of her head, securing the chignon with a nearby pencil. The best she could do under the circumstances.

Whoever this unexpected, nameless, ever-­so-­big man was, he wasn't likely to be impressed with her.

But then, men seldom were.

She took her time descending the spiraling stairs, wondering who this visitor might be. Most likely a land agent from a neighboring estate. Lord Varleigh wasn't due until tomorrow, and Becky would have known his name.

When Maddie finally reached the bottom, Aunt Thea joined her.

Her aunt touched a hand to her turban with dramatic flair. “Oh, Madling. At last.”

“Where is our mysterious caller? In the hall?”

“The parlor.” Her aunt took her arm, and together they moved down the corridor. “Now, my dear. You must be calm.”

“I
am
calm. Or at least, I
was
calm until you said that.” She studied her aunt's face for clues. “What on earth is going on?”

“There may be a shock. But don't you worry. Once it's over, I'll make a posset to set you straight.”

A posset.

Oh, dear. Aunt Thea fancied herself something of an amateur apothecary. The trouble was, her “cures” were usually worse than the disease.

“It's only a caller. I'm sure a posset won't be necessary.”

Maddie resolved to maintain squared shoulders and an air of good health when she greeted this big, nameless man.

When they stepped into the parlor, her resolve was tested.

This wasn't just a man.

This was a
m
an
.

A tall, commanding figure of a Scotsman, dressed in what appeared to be military uniform: a kilt of dark green-­and-­blue plaid, paired with the traditional redcoat.

His hair was overlong (mostly brown, with hints of ginger), and his squared jaw sported several days' growth of whiskers (mostly ginger, with hints of brown). Broad shoulders tapered to a trim torso. A simple black sporran was slung low around his waist, and a sheathed dirk rode his hip. Below the fall of his kilt, muscled, hairy legs disappeared into white hose and scuffed black boots.

Maddie pleaded with herself not to stare.

It was a losing campaign.

Taken altogether, his appearance was a veritable assault of virility.

“Good afternoon.” She managed an awkward curtsy.

He did not answer or bow. Wordlessly, he approached her.

And at the point where a well-­mannered gentleman would stop, he drew closer still.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, anxious. At least he'd solved her staring problem. She could scarcely bear to look at him now.

He stopped close enough for Maddie to breathe in the scents of whisky and wood smoke, and to glimpse a wide, devilish mouth slashing through his light growth of beard. After long seconds, she coaxed herself into meeting his gaze.

His eyes were a breathtaking blue. And not in a good way.

They were the sort of blue that gave one the feeling of being launched into the sky or plunged into icy water. Flung into a void with no hope of return. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.

“Miss Madeline Gracechurch?”

Oh, his voice was the worst part of all. Deep, with that Highland burr that scraped and hollowed words out, forcing them to hold more meaning.

She nodded.

He said, “I'm come home to you.”

“H-­home . . . to
me
?”

“I knew it,” Aunt Thea said. “It's him.”

The strange man nodded. “It's me.”

“It's who?” Maddie blurted out.

She didn't mean to be rude, but she'd never laid eyes on this man in her life. She was quite sure of it. His wasn't a face or figure she'd be likely to forget. He made quite an impression. More than an impression. She felt flattened by him.

“Don't you know me,
mo chridhe
?”

She shook her head. She'd had enough of this game, thank you. “Tell me your name.”

The corner of his mouth tipped in a small, roguish smile. “Captain Logan MacKenzie.”

No.

The world became a violent swirl of colors: green and red and that stark, dangerous blue.

“Did you . . .” Maddie faltered. “Surely you didn't say Cap—­”

That was as far as she got. Her tongue gave up.

And then her knees gave out.

She didn't swoon or crumple. She simply sat down, hard. Her backside hit the settee, and the air was forced from her lungs. “
Oof.”

The Scotsman stared down at her, looking faintly amused. “Are ye well?”

“No,” she said honestly. “I'm seeing things. This can't be happening.”

This really, truly, could
not
be happening.

Captain Logan MacKenzie could not be alive. He could not be dead, either.

He didn't exist.

To be sure, for nigh on a decade now, everyone had believed her to be first pining after, then mourning for, the man who was nothing but fiction.

Maddie had spent countless afternoons writing him letters—­missives that had actually just been pages of nonsense or sketches of moths and snails. She'd declined to attend parties and balls, citing her devotion to the Highland hero of her dreams—­but really because she'd preferred to stay home with a book.

Her godfather, the Earl of Lynforth, had even left her Lannair Castle in his will so that she might be nearer her beloved's home. Quite thoughtful of the old dear.

And when the deceit began to weigh on her conscience, Maddie had given her Scottish officer a brave, honorable, and entirely fictional death. She'd worn black for a full year, then gray thereafter. Everyone believed her to be disconsolate, but black and gray suited her. They hid the smudges of ink and charcoal that came from her work.

Thanks to Captain MacKenzie, she had a home, an income, work she enjoyed—­and no pressure to move in London society. She'd never intended to deceive her family for so many years, but no one had been hurt. It all seemed to have worked for the best.

Until now.

Now something had gone terribly wrong.

Maddie turned her head by slow degrees, Miss Muffet fashion, forcing herself to look at the Highlander who'd sat down beside her. Her heart thumped in her chest.

If her Captain MacKenzie didn't exist, who was this man? And what did he want from her?

“You aren't real.” She briefly closed her eyes and pinched herself, hoping to waken from this horrid dream. “You. Aren't. Real.”

Aunt Thea pressed a hand to her throat. With the other, she fanned herself vigorously. “Surely it must be a miracle. To think, we were told you were—­”

“Dead?” The officer's gaze never left Maddie's. A hint of irony sharpened his voice. “I'm not dead. Touch and see for yourself.”

Touch?

Oh, no. Touching him was out of the question. There would not be any touching.

But before Maddie knew what was happening, he'd caught her ungloved hand and drawn it inside his unbuttoned coat, pressing it to his chest.

And they were touching.

Intimately.

A stupid, instinctive thrill shot through her. She'd never held hands with any man. Never felt a man's skin pressed against her own. Curiosity clamored louder than her objections.

His hand was large and strong. Roughened with calluses, marked with scars and powder burns. Those marks revealed his life to be one of battle and strife, just as surely as her pale, ink-­stained fingers told hers to be a life of scribbling . . . and no adventure at all.

He flattened her palm against the well-­worn lawn of his shirt. Beneath it, he was impressively solid. Warm.

Real.

“I'm no ghost,
mo chridhe.
Just a man. Flesh and bone.”

Mo chridhe.

He kept using those words. She wasn't fluent in Gaelic, but over the years she'd gathered a few bits here and there. She knew
mo chridhe
meant “my heart.”

The words were a lover's endearment, but there was no tenderness in his voice. Only a low, simmering anger. He spoke the words like a man who'd cut out his own heart long ago and left it buried in the cold, dark ground.

With their joined hands, he eased aside one lapel of his coat. The gesture revealed a corner of yellowed paper tucked inside his breast pocket. She recognized the handwriting on the envelope.

It was her own.

“I received your letters, lass. Every last one.”

God help her. He knew.

He knew she'd lied. He knew everything.

And he was here to make her pay.

“Aunt Thea,” she whispered, “I believe I'll be needing that posset after all.”

So,
Logan thought.
This is the girl.

At last he had her in his grasp. Madeline Eloise Gracechurch. In her own words, the greatest ninny to ever draw breath in England.

The lass wasn't in England now. And pale as she'd grown in the past few seconds, he suspected she might not be breathing, either.

He gave her hand a little squeeze, and she drew in a gasp. Color flooded her cheeks.

There, that was better.

To be truthful, Logan needed a moment to locate his own composure. She'd knocked the breath from him, too.

He'd spent a great deal of time wondering how she looked. Too much time over the years. Of course she'd sent him sketches of every blessed mushroom, moth, and blossom in existence—­but never any likenesses of herself.

By the gods, she was bonny. Far prettier than her letters had led him to imagine. Also smaller, more delicate.

“So . . .” she said, “this means . . . you . . . I . . . gack.”

Much less articulate, too.

Logan's gaze slid to her aunt, who was somehow
exactly
as he'd always pictured her. Frail shoulders, busy eyes, saffron-­yellow turban.

“Perhaps you'll permit us a few minutes alone, Aunt Thea. May I call you Aunt Thea?”

“But . . . certainly you may.”

“No,” his betrothed moaned. “Please, don't.”