When a Scot Ties the Knot (6 page)

Once the chandeliers had stopped swaying and the danger had passed, he leaned close to speak to her. “Are ye well?”

“Yes, of course. The crash only startled me.”

She was still trembling.

And Logan didn't think it was only because of the storm. Through the entire ceremony, her unease had been palpable. She'd grown more and more pale, and by the time they'd spoken their vows, her eyes had refused to focus on his.

She hadn't been exaggerating when she'd said she disliked social gatherings. And this was a mere dozen ­people in a castle in the remotest part of the Highlands. How much worse would it have been for her in a crowded London ballroom?

He had been accustomed to thinking of her as spoiled or petulant for inventing a sweetheart the way she had. But now he was starting to wonder if there hadn't been something more to it.

Damn. He was wondering about her again.

The wondering ended tonight.

And it didn't matter if she'd had motives of self-­preservation. The task of preserving her was his now. He'd just pledged as much before his men and God, and despite this marriage being a convenient arrangement, he wasn't one to take those vows lightly.

He helped her to her feet, acutely aware of how small she was, how delicate. Every wash of pink on her cheeks or labored breath was suddenly a matter for his concern.

Which didn't make a bit of sense, considering he was the villain in her life. He'd just forced her into a marriage she didn't want, and now he was obsessed with protecting her? It was laughable.

But no less real.

As he helped her to her feet, he asked, “Are you well?”

“Just a bit shaky. Perhaps from standing so long.”

The men would be expecting a celebration. Music, food, dancing. Logan had asked the castle's cook for a feast and wine. “Come along, I'll take you upstairs.”

“Just go slowly, if you will,” she whispered to him. “So I can keep pace.”

“That won't be necessary. I mean to carry you.”

“Like a sack of oats?”

“Nay, lass. Like a bride.”

He hefted her into his arms and carried her out of the hall, to his men's cheers and her aunt's evident delight.

Once they'd made it out of the hall, however, Logan realized he had no idea where he was going. “How do I get to your rooms?”

She gave him directions. The directions involved a great many stairs.

“You walk up all of these steps each evening?” he asked, trying to hide the fact that he'd grown a bit winded.

“Usually multiple times a day.”

That was the problem with Scottish tower houses, he supposed. They were built tall and narrow for greatest protection from siege—­and inside, they were all stairs.

“The original lairds would have housed the servants all the way up here. Why don't you use a room on one of the lower floors?”

She shrugged. “I like the view.”

Her bedchamber, once they reached it, was warmly furnished and cozy. The spaces under the sloping gabled ceilings were filled with rows of books and small curiosities. It wasn't at all the way he would have expected an English heiress's room to be—­but having read Maddie's letters, he could recognize it as entirely
her
.

His eye was drawn to a pair of miniatures on the dressing table, depicting two fair-­haired children, one boy and one girl. Logan knew them at once.

“That's Henry and Emma,” he said.

“Yes. How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I recognized them from your letters.”

The truth was, not only did he recognize the children but he also recognized Maddie's hand at work in the miniatures.

A strange sense of intimacy overtook him.

Fast on its heels came an inconvenient wave of guilt.

He set her down.

“Thank you for carrying me.”

“You weigh less than a bird. It was nothing.”

“It was distressingly romantic, is what it was. Would you try to be a bit less dashing? This is meant to be a convenient arrangement.”

“As you like,
mo chridhe.
”

She was right. Romance was not in their bargain. Now that he had her upstairs, in a bedchamber, he was eager to get on with the parts they did agree to.

The two of them, in a bed.

He nodded to her as he left the room. “I'll give you a half hour to make ready. And then I'll return.”

 

Chapter Five

I
'll give you a half hour to make ready.

A half hour?

Maddie tried not to panic. What was a half hour to prepare for becoming a wife? A mere blink, surely. Thirty minutes were nowhere near enough time to make herself ready.

Thirty
years
might not be enough time to feel ready. There was simply too much to absorb.

She was married. She was about to lose her virginity. And worst of all, she was feeling stupidly infatuated with her new husband.

At this very moment, her heart was throbbing with a sweet, tender ache.

So absurd.

For heaven's sake, she'd only known him half a day, and he'd been terrible for most of it. Her brain argued back and forth with her foolish, sentimental heart.

He blackmailed you into marriage.

And then kissed me by the loch.

His behavior to you was detestable.

But his loyalty to his men is admirable.

He threatened to carry you like a sack of oats.

And swept me off my feet instead.

Maddie, you are impossible.

She sighed and muttered, “No argument there.”

She decided against calling in the maid to help her prepare.

As she removed her plaid sash and gown, she sternly reminded herself that this Captain Logan MacKenzie was not the hero she'd spent her girlhood dreaming of. When he returned to this room in—­she checked the clock—­nineteen minutes' time, it would not be with the intent of sparking romance; he would come to complete a transaction.

But, but, but . . .

Lightning flashed outside. She froze in the act of unrolling her stockings, suddenly awash with the memory. His arm, wrapping tight around her when the thunder crashed. He'd looked so handsome by candlelight. Not to mention, rather thrilling when he'd whisked her up the stairs.

Oh, she was in so much trouble.

As she pulled a brush through her unbound hair, shivers of anticipation coursed through her. They played a naughty game of tag as they chased from one secret part of her body to the next. Her skin felt warm and tingly. Willing.

Ready.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep, slow breath. She should not be looking forward to this. She should not be imagining this encounter to mean things that it didn't. That kind of foolishness could only lead to getting hurt.

Love is just a lie we tell ourselves.

And Maddie was all too practiced at lying.

She took another glimpse at the clock. Eight minutes left.

As she replaced the hairbrush on her dressing table, her gaze landed on the small heart-­shaped brooch he'd given her at the close of the ceremony. What was the name Callum had told her?

A luckenbooth.

She lifted it for closer examination. The design was simple, even humble. The outline of a heart shape had been worked in gold, with a few chips of semiprecious stones—­green and blue—­inset near the crest.

Maddie turned the brooch over in her hands to examine the clasp. As she did, her fingertips caught a rougher patch on the otherwise smooth gold.

Interesting. It was engraved.

She leaned closer to the candlelight, peering hard at the tiny markings. It looked to be a pair of initials.

“L.M.”

For Logan MacKenzie, of course.

Goodness, he'd arrived prepared. He seemed to have thought everything through. Then she squinted to make out the second set, expecting to find an “M.G.” for Madeline Gracechurch.

There was no “M.G.” engraved there.

There was, however, another set of letters.

“ 'A.D.,' ” she read aloud.

Unbelievable.

Apparently Captain Logan “Love's just a lie we tell ourselves” MacKenzie was a liar, too. He must have had some history of romance. One that hadn't ended well, evidently—­considering he'd given Maddie the brooch he'd bought for this former lover.

The rogue.

Maddie dropped the brooch on the dressing table. At least her tingling, yearning feelings had dissipated. This was exactly the sharp object she'd needed to separate her heart from the rest of her body. Now she had a foolproof way to remember that this was not a real marriage and she should not imagine him to possess any true feelings. She'd be wearing that luckenbooth every day—­a little heart-­shaped talisman to remind her that all of this was false.

The door creaked on its hinges.

Oh, Lord. It was time.

Maddie scrambled into the bed and dove beneath the coverlet. Not quite fast enough, unfortunately. He'd seen the entire maneuver, she was sure.

She drew the bed linens up to her chin and peered at him.

He'd removed his coat and uncuffed his shirt, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. He appeared to be barefoot, shed of his socks and boots. He wore only that open-­necked shirt and his kilt, loosely belted and slung low on his hips.

“Are you ready?” His voice was darker than the shadows.

“I'm not certain,” she answered. “But I don't think I'll grow any readier.”

“If you're fatigued, we could wait for the morning.”

“No, I . . . I think I should rather have it over with tonight.” Given any more time to think and worry, she might lose her nerve entirely.

“Well, then.”

He licked his fingertips, then extinguished the candles one by one, until the only light in the room came from the flickering red-­and-­amber fire in the hearth.

The bed dipped with his weight.

Maddie lay very still beneath the coverlet. Her heart was beating faster than a bird's. She felt hot everywhere.

“There's this.” She reached for the jar her aunt had given her. “Aunt Thea gave it to me. It's some sort of cream or salve, I think. She said you'd know what to do with it.”

He took the jar, unscrewed the cap, and gave the contents a sniff.

“Aye. I know what to do with it.” He capped the jar and flung it away. It rolled into a darkened corner.

“But—­”

“I ken better than to let your aunt's remedies anywhere near me,” he said. “I remember too well how her sleeping tonic fared. Your letter said you had a blistering rash for weeks.”

Maddie bit her lip and drew the coverlet tight about her shoulders. He remembered that? Even she'd forgotten about the sleeping tonic. But he was right, she'd been covered in itchy red bumps for weeks.

It was disconcerting how much he knew
about
her without knowing
her
at all. And when it came to knowing the real Logan MacKenzie, she was completely in the dark. In this situation, every advantage was his. He had knowledge, experience, control.

“Drink this instead.” He handed her a small flask.

“Is it medicine?”

“It's Highland medicine. Good Scotch whisky.”

She gingerly lifted the flask to her lips.

“Toss it back. The burn is worse if you sip.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tossed her head back and tipped the flask, sending a bolt of liquid fire down her throat. Coughing, she handed it back.

“If the deed's done right,” he said, “there willna be any need for any creams or salves.” His hand encircled her calf through the bed linens. “And I mean to do this right. You'll enjoy it.”

She swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“Even so, it's likely to pinch a bit when I—­”

“Right.”

“But it will be quick from there, much as it pains my pride to say it. That's the usual way when a man's gone without company for a time.”

Without the candles, the firelight cast him in murky silhouette.

She would have felt better if she could see him plain. No doubt he'd intended the darkness to be comforting, but Maddie was used to looking at natural creatures in an unfiltered, direct way. Observing where their pieces joined, learning how they moved and worked. Perhaps if she'd been given the same chance to survey his body—­even a furtive glimpse or two as he'd undressed—­her racing pulse would have calmed.

But it was too late now. The candles were out. And even if they could be relit, she didn't know to
ask
for such a thing.

To her, he was merely shadow. Shadow with hands and heat and a deep, entrancing baritone.

“Don't be afraid.” His hand drifted down her body, blazing a path of unprecedented sensation. “I know you've wondered about this. How a man fits with a woman. How it feels to be joined. I can show you everything. I'll make it good. Verra good.”

“I don't know if I can do this,” she said.

“You can. There's nothing easier. If this were difficult, humanity would have died out long ago.”

“I think you underestimate my capacity for taking normal human interaction and making it awkward.”

She inched away, putting space between them.

“Try to understand,” she said. “You've been reading my letters for years. You know so much about me, and I don't have even the slightest understanding of you. Where you come from, how you've lived your life . . . to me, you're little more than a stranger.”

“I'm your husband now.”

“Yes, but we've no history together. No shared memories.”

“We have seven years of actual history. And we do have memories.”

“Such as . . . ?”

He shrugged. “Remember when we first met and you fell on your arse? Remember when we strolled beside the water and spoke of marriage? Remember the time I kissed you so hard, you felt it in your toes?”

“No,” she replied defensively. “I only felt it so far as my ankles.”

He gripped her waist. “Well, then. I'll have to try harder this time.”

He leaned in.

She put her hand on his chest, holding him back. “Can't we get to know each other first?”

“I dinna see any purpose to further chatter,” he said. “We agreed this is an arrangement, not a romance.”

“That's just it, you see. I don't
want
a romance. I don't
want
to pretend. But when I close my eyes, it's not you touching me. It's some fictional Captain MacKenzie of my own creation. I'm liable to make too much of this. I don't think you want a silly, clinging wife making demands on your affections.”

“You're right on that score. I canna say I do.”

“It's like you told me. Love is a lie ­people tell themselves,” she went on. “If that's the case, actual knowledge should be the best antidote. Once I get to know you better, I should have no difficulty finding reasons to despise you.”

“Is shameless blackmail not enough?”

“I would have thought it would be. But then you told me about your men's dire circumstances. I saw how loyal you are to them. It all became too sympathetic. I need a new reason to dislike you.” She crossed her legs. “Let's begin with the basics. Where were you born?”

“Over toward Lochcarron on the western coast.”

A sudden thought occurred to her. “Do you have any family?”

“None.”

“Oh. That's good. I mean, it's not good. It's terrible for you, and entirely too sympathetic. But it's convenient for our purposes. It matches the lies I told.” She bit her lip, cringing. “I can be a bit absorbed in my own problems at times. It's one of my worst failings. But you knew that already.”

He nodded. “Oh, aye. I knew that already.”

“See? You know all about my flaws. It's easy for you to remain detached. But I don't know any of yours.”

“Here's the first.” He reached to encircle her ankle with his hand. His thumb stroked up and down. “I'm entirely too good in bed. Have a way of ruining a woman for all others.”

She pulled her leg away. “Boastfulness would be the first flaw, then. That will do for a start. What's the worst thing you've ever done?”

He pushed his hands through his hair. “I'm beginning to think it was marrying you.”

“No, no. Don't show a sense of humor. That ticks a box in the wrong column.”

He reached for her and drew her close, then rolled her onto her back. The hard, heated weight of him pressed her body into the mattress. “I can tick all the boxes, lass.”

She swallowed hard. “Who's A.D.?”

“What?”

“The brooch you gave me. It has the initials L.M. and A.D. Who is A.D.?”

His eyes hardened to chips of ice. “No one important to me.”

“But—­”

He bent his head and kissed her neck. A whisper of heat against her skin. Despite herself, she sighed with pleasure.

He heard that sigh. And was encouraged by it.

His hands ranged over her curves. Not grabbing or taking. Simply learning her shape.

And as he did, Madeline was learning things, too. She was used to examining creatures, cataloging all their parts. The key to creating a good illustration was understanding how the creature functioned. The reason for an antenna. The purpose of a spinneret.

As Logan touched her, she realized something crushing. Over the recent years, she'd reduced herself to a rough sketch of a person. She had hands to draw, eyes to see, and a mouth to occasionally speak. But there was so much more to this body she inhabited—­so much more to her—­and when she lay beneath him, all of it made sense.

It made her wonder which parts of himself he'd been neglecting. How long he'd gone without a woman to remind him of this small, secret hollow of his throat, the perfect shelter his body made when it curved around hers. The way his hand was made to cup her breast just as capably as it gripped a dagger.

It was all too much.

Maddie squirmed out from under him. “I'm sorry. So sorry. I know this is supposed to be physical. Impersonal. It's only that I keep thinking of lobsters.”

He flipped onto his back and lay there, blinking up at the ceiling. “Until just now, I would have said there was nothing remaining that could surprise me in bed. I was wrong.”