When a Scot Ties the Knot (15 page)

He pulled the belt loose and let the length of braided fabric drop to the floor. Then he slid his hands inside her dressing gown to meet the cool, crisp linen of her shift—­and the soft, pink heat of her body beneath it.

He smiled against her mouth. She was only wearing one shift tonight.

With a low, weary groan, he dipped his head and began to draw a line of kisses down her neck. He skimmed one hand down the firm slope of her thigh, gathering the muslin and giving it an upward tug.

“Logan,” she gasped.

If she meant him to stop, she was going about it all wrong. He loved hearing his name from her lips. It made his blood pound. His cock came to attention, hardening beneath the heavy weight of his kilt.

“You said you'd give me time,” she said. “Time to find another solution. I can't let this happen.”

“It's already happening.” He reached beneath her shift, stroking the tantalizing curve of her calf and teasing the hollow of her knee. “You want this,
mo chridhe
. I know you do. Oh, you can try to deny it with words. But if I were to touch you, right now, is that the same tale your body would tell? Or would I find you hot and wet and trembling beneath my fingertips?”

He skimmed his touch higher, climbing the silky expanse of her thigh. She sighed, and her flesh quivered beneath his fingertips. So soft. So sweetly warm.

“Tell me you didn't miss me,” he whispered. “Tell me you don't want my touch.”

“Logan, I can't . . .”

When her voice trailed off, he kissed her, deciding to end the sentence right there.

No, you can't, lass. You can't tell me that because it isn't true. You want me every bit as much as I want you.

He had to believe that, or he'd go mad.

He ran a caress up her thigh and settled his touch at the heart of her. His fingertips slid easily up and down her crease. She was ready for him, just as he'd known she would be.

She gasped and clutched his arms with both hands. “Logan . . .”

“Just this
, mo chridhe
. Just touching.”

In acquiescence, she let her head fall forward to rest on his shoulder. Her breathing had grown rough, needy.

He parted her folds with a gentle touch, slipping a finger into her heat. God, she was tight. So tight, and so wet. She gave delicious little gasps of pleasure as he slowly worked his finger in and out, delving deeper by incremental degrees. When he slid fully inside and the heel of his hand made contact with her mound, her hips bucked. He kept still, giving her a moment to adjust to the sensation, grinding his palm against her most sensitive place.

And then he went still, waiting.

Come along, then. You're a clever lass. You know what your body wants
.

Soon enough, she began to roll her hips. Riding his finger. Rubbing her mound against the heel of his hand. Chasing the sensation, just as he'd known she would.

Her shameless pursuit of pleasure made him wild. His cock pushed against the rough weave of his plaid. Every whisper of friction sent a thrill to the base of his spine. He'd never craved release so desperately in all his life. Not even as a randy youth.

Small puffs of her breath caressed his neck. She lifted her head and looked up at him with those dark, sleepy, enticing-­as-­anything eyes. Her shy, pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.

He couldn't keep silent any longer. Words started to tumble from his lips. Tender words, crude words. Words he would disclaim when he recalled them in the morning. All in Gaelic, thankfully.

She would have laughed to hear him confessing how often he'd thought of her in his absence. She would have doubted when he said no other woman had made him this achingly hard. And if she ever heard him comparing her dewy lips to the first blush of heather on a Highland summer morn, it would ruin everything.

But he couldn't help himself.

She made his blood catch fire.

“
Maddie a ghràdh. Mo chridhe. Mo bean.”

She lifted her arms and laced her fingers at the back of his neck. And then she drew him forward, drowning him in her kiss.

Her hips rolled, and he moved with her, adding a second finger as he plunged into her eager body again and again. Her tongue tangled with his, searching and desperate. Her fingernails bit into his neck.

Logan thought he might spend right then and there.

No sooner had he thought it than she shifted her weight, leaning back on the table. Her thigh came in contact with the aching curve of his cock. And even with the layers of velvet, linen, and wool between them—­that, plus the pulsing heat enveloping his fingers, was enough to send him right to the edge.

He fought the urge to grind against her until he reached climax. He hadn't come into the folds of his kilt since he was a lad of fifteen, and he wasn't about to do it now. To lose control that way . . . it would be too much like surrender.

He was in command here.

“Come,
mo chridhe,
” he whispered. “I need to feel you come for me.”

Her body went rigid, save for a delicious tremor in her thigh that let him know her peak was near. He kept his rhythm steady, ignoring the soreness in his wrist and the ache of unspent need in his groin.

She bit her lip, and her eyes squeezed shut.

“That's it. Let it happen.”

And then he felt it. Her body seizing around his fingers, shuddering with the bliss of orgasm. The cries of pleasure she made were timid and subdued, but no less arousing for it.

When she slumped against him, limp with pleasure and damp with sweat, he told himself the balance of power had been restored.

He slipped his fingers free of her body and pulled her shift back down over her knees.

“The other day,” he said, caressing her back, “you told me Becky had made up a bedchamber for me.”

She nodded drowsily against his chest.

“I'll sleep there tonight.”

“No, no.” She lifted her head. “Logan, you needn't be alone.”

“You just told me you still wanted time.”

“That's not what I mean.” Her hand pressed against his chest. “There's more than one way to share pleasure, and there's more than one way to share a heart.”

“I've told you—­”

“And you lied. You loved someone once. Enough to want to marry her. Enough to carry a memento of her with you for years, through battle and worse.” She pounded his chest with the flat side of her fist. “I know there's something in there, you stubborn creature. That beneath that hard exterior, you're nothing but squish. You're not fooling me.”

He made his voice cold. “You're fooling yourself.”

“Perhaps.” She shrugged and looked away. “I suppose it wouldn't be the first time.”

The truth of it was, he was a coward. Too afraid to admit that whatever remained of his dark, shriveled heart
was
growing involved.

Maddie had a great deal about him wrong, but maybe she was right about a few things. Perhaps Logan wasn't quite as empty inside as he'd wanted to believe. And that thought scared him. He didn't want to need her, not that way. If he needed her, that gave her power over him, and he'd danced long enough at the end of her string.

All those letters, all those years.

All that wanting and yearning she'd rekindled in him . . .

Only to be left for dead.

The senseless anger swirled in him. The urge to hold her, punish her, pleasure her, possess her. Tonight, he would be a greater danger to her than Grant could ever pose.

He gathered what willpower remained to him and stepped back. “Good night,
mo chridhe
. Take yourself up to bed. And when you get there, bar the door.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

O
ver breakfast the next morning, Rabbie cocked an eyebrow at him. “Still no progress on the bedding front?”

Logan stared straight forward. He refused to acknowledge the question.

“That's a no, I take it.”

“Are you certain you're applying yourself?” Callum asked.

Logan gave him a sharp look.

“You've got to be the Rob Roy of her imaginings. Are you calling her a ‘bonny lass'? The Englishwomen's hearts go all a-­flutter at that.”

“What do you know about the hearts of Englishwomen?”

“He's got the right of it,” Rabbie put in. “ ‘Bonny lass' is good. ‘Wee bonny lass'—­well, that's even better.”

“ ‘Yer wee bonny lassie,' ” said Callum, taking the improvement one step further. “Throw in lots of ‘och' and ‘aye' and ‘dinna fash yerself,' too.”

Rabbie shook his head. “You're all missing the obvious answer.”

“What's that?” Munro asked.

Logan was glad Munro had asked, because he sure as hell wasn't going to. But truth be told, he was coming to the end of his patience. If he didn't have her soon, he was going to go mad with wanting. At this point, he was willing to listen to any idea, no matter how ridiculous—­even if it came from Rabbie.

Rabbie hunched over to whisper. “She's got to see him with his kit off. Shirt, plaid, all of it.”

A coarse whoop rose up from the men.

Logan rolled his eyes and stabbed his meat with his knife.

“No, I mean it,” Rabbie said, standing up. “Here's how it goes. You rise early one morning, Captain. Choose a misty one, when the gloom's settled like a blanket over the valley.”

He waved his flattened hand before them like an artist painting a landscape. “You strip down to your skin, and then you have a dip in the loch. Wait until she comes looking for you. Because she will. They always do. But pretend not to notice when she does. And then—­just when she's close enough to see and she's been watching for a while, you rise up out of the water. Like a dolphin. Or a mermaid. Shooting up through the mist and pushing your hair back with both hands”—­Rabbie thrust both hands through his hair to demonstrate—­“with all the little beads of water trickling down over the ridges of your shoulders and chest.” He danced his fingers down his belly. “Like so.”

Munro snorted. “So he's supposed to go down to the loch at half-­crack o' the morning, paddle about in the frigid water for an hour or two, and then emerge? I'm finding it difficult to believe she'd see anything impressive.”

Everyone laughed. Even Grant.

“You lot can laugh,” Rabbie said, “but mark my word, Captain. Get your kit off. The next time you have her in your arms, she won't be able to resist.”

“I've been married,” said the habitually silent Fyfe. “I'll tell you what she wants. She wants your secrets. She wants your soul. You've got to crack yourself open and find that broken, shameful piece of your heart that you'd hide from the world and God Himself if you could manage it. And then serve it up to her on a platter. They won't settle for anything less.”

The mood around the group grew solemn.

“Well, I like my idea better,” said Rabbie, winking at Logan. “Try it first.”

“I might,” Logan muttered.

Even if he was willing to crack himself open, he would find little there to offer her.

“You're all making this too complicated,” Munro said. “She's a lass. Bring her flowers. Take her dancing. Give her an excuse to put on a pretty frock. That's all it takes.”

“But Madeline's different. She doesna like those things,” Logan said.

“Trust me. They all like those things.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. Perhaps Munro was right. In the village, Maddie had said the same.

Women are women, Logan. Every girl needs a bit of luxury and a chance to feel pretty now and then.

Wasn't that what her letters had been about? She didn't think she could ever be a success at a party or an assembly. And her dream had been a man who would want her anyway.

He didn't want to be her dream man. But maybe he could play the role for one night.

Perhaps all Madeline Gracechurch had ever needed was a bit of everyday courting. The same sort of attention any girl her age would receive. And she deserved that much and far more.

Logan knew exactly what he had to do.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “I'm going to have to attend the Beetle Ball.”

“You want to attend Lord Varleigh's ball?” She replaced a pen in its inkwell and turned to face him. “Logan, we can't.”

“Why not?”

“It's impossible. For a dozen reasons.”

She folded her arms over her ink-­stained work smock. She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth. And that single fingertip went to her collarbone again, tracing back and forth. Driving him wild with wanting.

He crossed his arms and jammed his own hands in his oxters. It was the only way he knew how to keep from reaching for her. “Tell me the reasons. One at a time.”

“Firstly, we already declined the invitation. I told Lord Varleigh we weren't attending.”

“Easily mended. You write a message telling him we've changed our minds. I'll dispatch one of the men to deliver it this afternoon. Next reason.”

“I . . . I have nothing to wear.” She gestured at her frock. “I've been wearing half-­mourning for years. All my gowns are gray wool.”

“We'll find you a ready-­made gown in Inverness tomorrow. Next problem.”

“And I suppose you could wear your best uniform. An officer's dress is always acceptable attire. But you've invited everyone here for Beltane, and that's less than a fortnight from now.”

“All the more reason to find you a new gown and give the skirts a spin or two. The lady of the castle canna welcome her guests in gray wool.”

She sighed. “Lord Varleigh lives in Perthshire. It's too far to travel.”

“I've heard they have these new things called inns. Often located near roads. We'll find one nearby to stay the night.”

Now Logan was really starting to appreciate this idea. The Beetle Ball itself sounded like many-­legged torture, but the prospect of spending a night with Madeline in a tiny room at a coaching inn, with an even tinier bed, away from his men and her aunt—­now
that
sounded worth a few hours of anything.

It also sounded like the perfect way to finally make this marriage real.

“But it's a ball.” She turned away from him, continuing the work of straightening her desk. “I don't go to balls. I'm miserable at them. I can't dance.”

“Neither can I. Not that sort of dancing, at any rate.” He came to stand behind her, lightly placing his hands on her waist. “We dinna have to dance,
mo chridhe.
We'll just go and listen to Lord Varleigh talk about his beetles. Most importantly, you'll be there to see your work unveiled.”

“I don't really want that kind of attention.” She tapped a pencil against the blotter on her desk. “But I confess, I would like a chance to meet a man who'll be there.”

Now this made him take notice. “A man?”

“Logan, don't be jealous.”

He tightened his grip on her waist. “You like it when I'm jealous.”

“Very well, perhaps I do.” He could hear a little smile in her voice. “Lord Varleigh told me of a scholar he knows in Edinburgh. One who'll be attending the ball. Apparently this scholar is planning an encyclopedia.
Insects of the British Isles
,
in four volumes. He might be in need of an illustrator. Lord Varleigh promised to make the introduction.”

He turned her to face him. “See? So you do want to attend.”

She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. Now that Logan had removed the barriers, a pretty flush had started to warm her cheeks. Once he got her into a proper silk gown rather than this scratchy mourning attire, half the battle would be won.

“That's only six reasons so far,” he pointed out. “You said there were a dozen. Hurry up, then, so I can remedy the rest.”

“On second thought, perhaps there's only one more reason. But it's the biggest reason, and there's no remedy to be found for it.”

“Try me.”

“I can't leave the lobsters.”

Holy God.

She moved toward the tank, peering into it. “Fluffy's become more active over the past day. It's a sign she might be ready to molt. I have to stay close, or I could miss the mating entirely. I've been waiting too long to let that happen. So has Rex, for that matter.”

Curse it, couldn't she see that Rex wasn't the only frustrated male in this castle? If the bloody lobster ended up satisfying his natural urges before Logan did, he would be tempted to climb the highest tower of Lannair Castle and fling himself off it.

“Let me worry about the lobsters,” he said.

“But—­”

“Trust me.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I'm a captain, remember? I know how to set a watch, draw up a plan, command troops. We'll remove Rex to a separate tank for the night. My men will set up shifts for the lobster watch. If there's any sign of Fluffy molting, Rabbie will ride hell-­for-­leather to Varleigh's estate and let you know. You'll be home with plenty of time to put Rex and Fluffy together and watch the sparks fly.”

She glanced at the seawater tank. “I'm not sure how many sparks will be involved.”

“Watch the bubbles blub. Watch the antennae wave. Whatever it is that happens when lobsters make love, I swear on my plaid you willna miss it. I make no promises I canna keep.”

She looked up at him with those calf's eyes. As usual, he could sense a whole world's worth of thought going on behind them.

Logan couldn't hold back anymore. He touched his thumb to her collarbone, sliding up and down the narrow ridge. Soothing her the way she would soothe herself.

Her skin was so soft. He was dying to touch her everywhere.

“Let me worry about everything.” His voice was suddenly hoarse. “I just want you to enjoy yourself. You deserve this, Maddie.”

She drew in a deep breath, then released it. “Fine.”

Fine.

That wasn't exactly the overjoyed acceptance he'd been hoping to hear.

But he'd take it.

“Perhaps it's more than fine.” She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. “Perhaps it's perfect.”

Perfect.
Now that was better.

“Maybe this is the compromise we've been searching for.”

Logan supposed maybe she'd been searching for one, but he had never been interested in compromise. “I want what I want, lass. That's all.”

“I know. I do understand. That's what makes it perfect.” She whirled away from him, as if powered by her own little breeze of excitement. “See, you have a dream.”

“I told you,
mo chridhe
, I dinna—­”

“You don't dream. Fine. Call it a goal, then. You want to give your men a
baile
here, in this glen. I have a dream, too.”

“A dream with bugs.”

“Exactly. A dream of all the insects in the British Isles. If Mr. Dorning hired me on for his encyclopedia, I would have a small, but steady, income to support myself. And then I would be established, with excellent prospects for more work thereafter. I wouldn't even need to live here.”

Logan shook his head. “We've already discussed all this. A lease willna be acceptable, and I canna buy the land.”

“Perhaps we can work out another sort of bargain. A trade.”

“A trade? What kind of trade?”

“Your goal for mine.”

He could only stare at her. She wasn't making sense.

“I could never think of attending a ball on my own,” she said. “I'm shy, I'm awkward. I want to flee and hide. But maybe I won't be that way if you're near.” A little smile played about her lips. “It's as if you make me so irritated, I forget to worry about myself. If you escort me to Lord Varleigh's ball, perhaps you can help me make a good impression on Mr. Dorning. And if he gives me the encyclopedia post . . .” She turned to face him. “ . . . I'd give you this castle, and gladly.”

What?

Logan couldn't believe that offer. He certainly didn't trust it.

“I didna ask for that,” he said, “and I dinna want it. No one's ever given me anything. I've worked for everything I've ever had.”

“I know. And you're going to work for this. Perhaps it doesn't seem equal if you look at it in terms of money or land. But to me, it will be an even trade. Your dream for mine.”

He didn't know what to say. “You're certain?”

“I'm certain. Well, and there's one other thing.” She bit her lip. “I'd need those letters back, too.”

“Right,” he said. “The letters. Of course.”

That might be a wrinkle in this plan of hers, but Logan decided he would swim that loch when he came to it. He'd just make certain she signed her side of the papers before he handed his over to her.

She laced her arms around his neck, lightly swaying to and fro in a flirtatious manner. “And perhaps, if we're not playing this will-­we-­or-­won't-­we-­consummate game any longer, we can enjoy a few lesser carnal pleasures.”

Now she had his attention.

“You did say men are more creative than lobsters.”

“Aye, lass. That we are.”

“And you also said that I'm curious. Maybe you were right about that, too. Especially after last night.”

Her hands flattened against his chest, soft and warm. Exploring. Enticing.

This plan of hers . . . well, it sounded nigh on perfect. Too perfect, he worried. Or at least it might have been if there hadn't still been one significant hurdle to clear.