When a Scot Ties the Knot (17 page)

Logan doubted it. He knew what he'd seen when those velvet drapes had been pushed aside in the dressmaker's shop, and it hadn't resembled an earwig. But she needed to discover that for herself.

He said, “There's only one way to find out.”

“You're saying I should screw up my courage and go to the ball.”

He nodded. “You have more courage than you give yourself credit for. You're brave enough to take me on, and that's not nothing.”

“I suppose that's true. You are rather formidable.”

“There are trained soldiers who fled at the sight of me. You've always held your ground.”

“It must seem unspeakably ridiculous, having to coax me to go to a party when you've led troops into battle. How did you manage it without being frightened?”

“Battle, do you mean?”

She nodded.

“I didn't. I was always frightened. Terrified, every time.”

“Oh.”

“But it helped to know I wasna alone. That there was always someone at my back who wouldna desert me.” He pulled her arm through his, tucking it close. “We'll be in it together. I'll be there for you. I sure as hell wouldna be at the Beetle Ball for anyone else.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

As if it were impulse, she kissed his cheek.

And then, as if it were destiny, he bent and kissed her lips.

The embrace was brief and chaste. But sweet. So sweet. And somehow more affecting than any kiss he'd known before. With Madeline, or with anyone.

This day grew more and more perilous. He'd woken from his sleep to find Maddie too close to caring for him. Then her aunt had made it clear there was a second set of hopes he stood at risk of destroying.

Now the worst, most unthinkable revelation of all.

What could be worse than knowing there were two hearts in danger of breaking?

Suspecting there might be three.

 

Chapter Eighteen

A
side from a small delay due to muddy roads, the journey went much as planned. They reached the coaching inn with plenty of time to dress for the evening.

One of the inn's serving girls helped Maddie with her gown and hair. The young woman was remarkably talented with curling tongs, Maddie thought, surveying the girl's work in the looking glass as she considered whether perhaps she ought to hire a proper ladies' maid.

But even if her hair looked tolerable, there was still . . . the rest of her. Her cheeks were pale. Her stomach was a writhing mass of nerves. She hadn't been able to eat a thing all day.

And Logan wasn't helping in the least. While she dithered over her choice of earbobs, he walked the room.

Back and then forth.

And back and then forth.

Worse, he seemed to pick up speed with every pass. Until he was striding with agitation in every step.

She watched him in the mirror. “You're making me nervous. I do wish you'd stop flouncing.”

That suggestion drew him to a halt. He turned to her. “I'm not flouncing.”

“It looked like flouncing to me.”

“Men canna flounce.”

“They can if they're wearing a skirt.”

“A kilt isna a skirt. 'Tis an entirely different thing.” He turned on his heel and resumed his agitated strides.

“Flounce,” she said lightly, looking pointedly at the bouncing hem of his plaid. And again with each of his heavy strides. “Flounce, flounce, flounce.”

She couldn't help but tease him. Needling him took away some of her own anxiety.

“It isna flouncing,” he said. “It's
pacing
.”

“If you say so, Captain MacFlouncy.”

“Or prowling.”

“Prowling
.” She arched one eyebrow. “Like a kitten?”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Call me a kitten once more, and I'll . . .”

“You'll what?”

“I'll pounce on you and lick you like a dish of cream.”

Maddie smiled to herself. That didn't sound like such a terrible punishment.

“You've been sitting at that dressing table for the past two hours,” he said. “I know you're anxious. But if you want to meet this Mr. Dorning, we must be on our way.”

“I know, I . . .” She lifted her head and met her own gaze in the mirror. “I'm just nervous.”

“This is hardly an appearance at St. James's. They're only a group of naturists.”

“Naturalists. If they were naturists, that would make getting dressed much easier.” She reached for a small jar on the dressing table. “I'm trying to decide whether to brave this rouge Aunt Thea gave me.”

She picked up the small pot of cosmetic and squinted into it. Then dabbed the contents gingerly with the tip of her little finger.

Logan crossed to her, took the rouge from her hand, carried it to the room's single narrow window, and pitched it out into the twilight.

After a count of three, she heard it land with a faint thud.

“Just as well. I'll be more comfortable if I don't attract notice.” Maddie rose to her feet with a sigh and gathered her gloves. “We can leave now.”

Now he blocked her path, forbidding her to take a single step. “Hold just a moment.”

Goodness. His sudden nearness was so affecting. He looked so fine in his dark green-­and-­blue tartan, and his freshened officer's coat fit him snug as sealskin. Every button and bit of gold braid gleamed. He'd even acquired a white cravat and tied it with reasonable skill.

And he'd shaved. Recently enough that even his formidable stubble hadn't yet managed to reappear. His jaw was smooth, save for a small red nick where he'd cut himself with the razor.

She was seized by the desire to touch his cheek.

Press her lips to that small, endearing wound.

And she wanted so much more.

Her hands fluttered with nerves, as if she and he had been strangers and this had been their first meeting.

Despite it, she tried to sound nonchalant. “I can't imagine what's come over you. First you're rushing me to leave, and now you're telling me to wait? I thought women are the sex with changeable moods.”

“We need to talk about that comment you just made. Something about how you won't attract notice?”

“Yes. Well, what of it?”

He put his hands on the dressing table, one on either side of her hips. His blue eyes pinned her, as surely as if she'd been a butterfly pinned to a board.

“Like hell you won't attract notice,” he said. “You have
my
notice.”

Maddie squirmed, trying to escape. “Really, we'll be late. We should be leaving.”

He didn't budge. “Not just yet.”

“But I thought you were in a hurry.”

“I have time for this.”

The words were a low growl that sank to her belly and simmered there. He leaned close enough that she could breathe in the scent of his clean hair and skin, along with the faint aromas of soap and starched linen. She'd never drawn a more arousing breath.

“You may say you dinna want to attract notice. Well, I notice all of you.” He tipped his head, letting his gaze saunter down her body. “In fact, I'm starting to fancy myself a sort of naturalist. One with verra particular interests. I'm becoming quite the expert in Madeline Eloise Gracechurch.”

“Logan . . .”

“And lass, you canna stop me.”

Logan took his time, drinking her in.

Holy God, she looked lovely tonight. The green of her gown brought out the rosiness of her cheeks and lips. The silk clung to her figure, and that little lacy ruffle decorating her bosom drove him mad with desire. He tilted his head, staring into the soft darkness of her cleavage.

He needed to touch her. Taste her. Possess her in some small way.

“What do you mean to do?” she asked.

“I mean to put some color on your cheeks.”

“How?”

“I'm going to kiss you.”

“Don't you dare. The maid spent an hour with the curling tongs.”

“I willna muss your curls.” A sly smile tugged at his mouth. “Not the ones on your head, at any rate.”

“Now you're not making any sen—­”

He dropped to his knees before her, tossing up her petticoats with both hands.

She squeaked in response.
“
Logan.”

“Just a kiss,
mo chridhe.
Just a kiss. Let me give you this much.”

This wasn't only about giving. He was taking, too.

He ran one hand up her stocking-­covered leg, skimming over her garter to caress her silken thigh. Then he swept his touch higher, settling in the dark triangle where her thighs converged.

“Logan, please. I don't want . . .” Her words trailed off in a breathy sigh.

He smiled a little, rubbing up and down with the pad of his thumb. “Oh, you want. You most definitely want. I can feel it.” He gave her inner thigh a lick. “I can taste it.”

She might have been shocked by his crude language, but her body didn't object. He slid a finger along her crease and found her to be wet. So wet and ready for him.

“It took too long to dress,” she whispered. “I don't want to be mussed.”

“Then lean against the dressing table.” He settled her backside against the edge. “Hold your skirt like so.” He lifted the silk hem and folded it upward, placing it in her hands. “And now be verra, verra still.”

Before she could muster another objection, Logan sank back to his knees and laid his mouth to her core.

She gasped.

He moaned.

Holy God. She tasted of ambrosia. Like peaches and blossoms and honey and musk. And just a touch of salt, to make the unbearable sweetness even sweeter still.

He went slowly, running his tongue up and down the full length of her slit. Teasing, tasting. Enjoying the hitch of her quickening breath. Feeling the little tremors in her thighs. Savoring the perfect softness of her most intimate places.

And then, when she began to arch against his mouth, he slid upward and touched his tongue to the place he knew she needed it most.

She cried out a little. Her hips bucked.

He reached under her petticoats, cupping the twin globes of her arse in his hands to hold her still.

So . . . very . . . still . . .

As he worried that sensitive bud with the gentlest flicks of his tongue.

Soon her hips were rolling in an instinctive rhythm. Moving with him, against him. If he withdrew his tongue, she chased it.

Yes.

Arousal surged through him. Beneath his plaid, his cock was hard as a staghorn dagger handle. A thought whispered through his lust-­frenzied mind.

He could have her.

He could make her his. Right here, right now. Forever.

If he rose to his feet this moment, lifted her sweet little arse onto the table, and positioned his cock at her entrance . . . would she tell him no?

He didn't think she would.

But damn if he wasn't enjoying this too much. The seduction. The chase. Learning the sweet taste of her, and finding every slight caress that made her sigh and moan.

Still, he needed to be inside her in some way. He released her backside with one hand and ran his fingers up the slope of her thigh. Never ceasing his attentions at the crest of her sex, he slid the tip of one finger inside her.

“Yes?” he whispered, pressing his brow to her belly.

There was no hesitation in her reply. Only trust. “Yes.”

He advanced his finger, thrusting in and out, pushing deeper by slow degrees. She was so damned tight. He felt a primal thrill at the way her inner muscles gripped his finger so fiercely. This was something she'd only shared with him.

And she loved it.

“Logan. Oh, Logan, that's so . . .” A moan caught her words and stole them away. “So lovely.”

“You're lovely.” He kissed her just where he knew she needed it. “Beautiful.” Made a tender pass of his tongue. “Perfect.”

Then he settled into a rhythm. Sliding his finger in and out. Teasing her with the tip of his tongue. Her breathing and motions grew frantic, but he kept up his slow, steady pace. She released her hem with one hand, tangling her fingers in his hair.

“Don't stop,” she pleaded.

Logan had no intention of stopping. He would stay like this—­kissing her, stroking her, worshipping her—­just as long as she needed him to.

That's it, mo chridhe. Mo chridhe. Come for me.

Her fingers tightened in his hair. With a sharp cry, she convulsed around his finger. He felt the pleasure shudder through her whole body.

Then she slumped back against the dressing table, panting and spent.

Logan needed a moment to gather himself, too.

“See? You had no need of any rouge.” He settled her skirts about her. “Now there's plenty of color on your cheeks. On your throat and bosom, as well. Everyone at the ball will see it. And because I've no intention of leaving your side, they'll know just who put it there.”

She reached to straighten his cravat. Evidently he'd become a bit mussed.

He liked having her fuss over him.

Her eyes tipped up at him from beneath those dark lashes. And she said, as though it were the sweetest of endearments, “You are terrible.”

“If it's an apology you're wanting, lass?” He dropped a kiss on her brow. “You'll be waiting a while.”

She'd be waiting for the rest of her life.

Because Logan had already made up his mind.

There wasn't going to be any compromise. No bargain, no trade.

Madeline would have her dreams,
and
she would be his wife. Tonight, if there was any justice. And once he held her in his arms, he was never going to let her go.

 

Chapter Nineteen

W
hen Maddie and Aunt Thea had purchased this coach in York, the carriage vendor had informed them that it seated four persons comfortably, six in a pinch.

Maddie supposed it might fit that many persons—­but only if none of those persons was a six-­foot-­tall Scotsman in full Highland dress.

As it was, the two of them made a tight squeeze.

He'd insisted on sitting across from her on the rear-­facing seat so as not to crush her gown. Well, so as not to crush it
further.

For what must have been the twentieth time in as many minutes, he ducked his head to peer out the carriage window. He'd only spared her the briefest glances, spending most of his time looking out at the road and countryside.

“We shouldna be more than a mile away now.”

“Indeed,” she said.

Stupid reply. All they'd exchanged since the inn were inanities. She didn't seem able to string more than two syllables together, ever since . . .

Ever since.

Mercy. After the wicked things he'd done to her . . .

Never mind speaking. She scarcely knew how to
look
at him now. Whenever she recalled the sensation of his tongue on her flesh—­which was approximately seven times a minute—­she burned all over. Her legs went quivery beneath her petticoats. Perspiration gathered between her breasts.

The carriage jounced in a rut. His knee knocked against her thigh.

Logan's eyes snapped to hers. “Are you well?”

“Indeed.”

She knew at once that his thoughts had been taking him to the exact same place—­underneath the tent of her splayed petticoats. For the first time since they'd left the inn, his eyes stopped roaming the hills and crags of the countryside and roamed her body's curves instead. Slowly, with a raw, possessive hunger.

A low, simmering heat sparked and built inside her, feeding off that desire in his eyes the same way a flame fed off coal.

He'd once called her uncommonly pretty in conversation, and at the time she had been tempted to argue back. But tonight, for the first time in her life, she felt irresistible. Ravishing.

Truly
beautiful
. In his eyes, if no one else's.

Oh, this was so dangerous.

The carriage rolled to a stop.

“We're here,” he announced, still staring into her eyes.

“Indeed,” she answered.

Her ever-­helpful nerves quickly pushed aside any other inconvenient emotions. By the time Logan alighted and extended his hand to help her down, sheer, dumb terror had replaced any lingering thrills.

He put his other hand under her elbow, being careful to support her weight as her slippers found the gravel drive.

At last she was able to look up at the scene before them.

So this was Varleigh Manor.

Good heavens.

The castle was an imposing spectacle of squared turrets, trimmed with an iced-­gingerbread border. The entire surface had been veneered with rose-­tinted harling, with small stones crushed in the plaster so that the façade glittered in the dwindling twilight.

Lights gleamed in every window, large or small. And all around them, exquisite gardens perfumed the night. She hadn't properly seen them yet, but the scent engulfed her senses and made her dizzy.

Maddie could do nothing but gape. She'd been expecting an impressive home. Perhaps even elegance. But this?

This was opulence, writ large.

Add in the crush of coaches surrounding them, the white-­tie gentlemen and ladies bedecked in jewels and plumes . . .

“Oh, no,” she whimpered. She clutched Logan's arm. “No, no, no. We can't go in there. Just look at it. Just look at everyone.”

Just look at me.

The hastily altered silk gown that had looked quite passable in a dimly lit coaching inn now felt hopelessly dowdy and out of fashion. She ought to have worn her mother's pearls. She ought to have bought new gloves.

“I was expecting a small, quiet gathering of science-­minded aristocrats. Not this.”

“We're here now, lass. There's no going back.”

Perhaps there was no going back, but Maddie's feet were not eager to move forward, either.

She stayed close to him as they walked toward the entrance and queued up for their announcement in the ballroom.

“First rule of balls,” he whispered, tucking her arm tight in his. “Dinna panic.”

“What's the second rule? I think we should just move on to that.”

“Remember when we went to the Beetle Ball and had a smashing good time?” he murmured.

“I do, as a matter of fact. You were quite well behaved and charming. In fact, I seem to recall that you even danced with the dowager countess herself.”

He shrugged. “I am surprisingly good with older women.”

“So I've heard.”

“But I only danced with her to be polite. The true enjoyment came later. When I cornered you in an alcove and pleasured you until you screamed.”

Maddie clapped a gloved hand over her startled laughter. At least her cheeks would be pink without any rouge.

It was their turn to be announced. The majordomo looked at them, waiting for Logan to provide the names.

Logan cast an uncertain glance in Maddie's direction and tugged at his cravat.

In that moment, Maddie realized something. She'd been unbearably self-­centered. As out of place as she felt in this setting, Logan must have been feeling a hundred times more uncomfortable. True, she'd never attended a proper ball, but she'd been trained in how to behave at them. She'd been raised within this class of society.

Logan was an officer, but he had not been born a gentleman. For an orphaned country lad who'd grown up sleeping with cattle in the byre, this scene must be completely foreign. He might as well have been launched to the moon.

A soft tendril of emotion uncurled in her heart.

Stop that,
she told herself.
He's not here for love of you. He's here for the castle. The land. His men.

They had an agreement. After tonight, he would have his lands, and Maddie would have her life back. No more hiding. No more lies.

She leaned toward the manservant and gave their names. “Mrs. Madeline Gracechurch and Captain Logan MacKenzie, of Invernesshire.”

As they were announced, they moved into the ballroom.

Maddie spoke through a smile. “This is my debut. That's the first time I've heard my name announced like that.”

“I hope you enjoyed it. It's also the last time you'll hear your name like that.”

A strange thing for him to say, but Maddie supposed he had the right of it. It seemed unlikely she would ever attend another ball.

She murmured, “Now we go in and make a slow circle of the room.”

“Right,” he said. “See, I told you they'd all stare.”

“Of course they're staring. They're staring at you.” And Madeline was so glad of it. She'd been worried about being noticed, but she might as well have been invisible next to Logan. “You really don't know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“How wildly magnificent you look tonight.”

He made a dismissive noise. “It's the kilt.”

“It's partly the kilt. It's mostly the swagger.”

This was, after all, a gathering of naturalists—­and Logan was a rare specimen. She wondered if there was any sight so handsome as a Highlander in full military dress. Everyone in the room was plainly fascinated.

“I dinna see Varleigh,” he muttered.

“I imagine he's probably preparing for his lecture.”

Logan nodded. “Did you want to dance?”

“No,” she quickly replied.

“Thank God. I'll stay close to you then so no one else asks.”

She didn't know which was more endearing—­his faith that someone else would bother asking her to dance, or the deliciously possessive sentry post he adopted at her side. They accepted glasses of punch from a passing servant. Made a show of inspecting a carved marble bust. Watched the dancers as they moved through a quadrille. Through it all, he never strayed more than two feet from her elbow.

She knew this was partly to protect her and partly to protect himself, but to the casual onlooker he must have appeared completely besotted with her. Maddie had no complaint. She'd always imagined what it would be like to have a strong, handsome Highland officer slavishly hanging on her every word and action. Now she knew.

It was every bit as wonderful as she'd dreamed.

Soon, the music stopped, and the guests began filtering toward a gallery.

“Here.” Maddie fished a small object from her reticule and pressed it into Logan's palm.

“What's this?” he asked.

“A cheroot.”

“I dinna smoke cheroots.”

“Well, you could smoke one tonight. If you wanted.”

He frowned at her, plainly confused.

“It's your ticket out of doors if you want an escape. The naturalist lecture will be starting soon. I know you're not interested in hearing about nineteen new species of Amazonian beetles, and I think I can bear sitting in the back of a lecture on my own. If you'd rather take a turn outside, I'll understand.”

He looked at her for a moment. Then he crushed the cheroot into the nearest potted plant. “I'm staying with you.”

In that moment, Maddie wasn't sure she cared to hear about nineteen new species of Amazonian beetles, either. Perhaps she'd rather find the nearest alcove and make that memory Logan had teased her with. But considering how much trouble he'd gone to, she had to hold up her end of the bargain.

That was the point of the evening, she reminded herself. Trading her dream for his. Logan surely hadn't forgotten it, and she shouldn't, either.

They found seats toward the rear of the room.

Logan suffered through the lecture admirably, boring as it must have been for him. Even Maddie's attention wavered. She was anxious that at any moment Lord Varleigh would call on her to stand and be recognized. The firm press of Logan's thigh against hers was reassuring. And deliciously distracting.

Her worries, however, proved to be in vain. A smattering of applause let her know that the lecture was over.

Maddie was still in her seat.

“He didna mention you,” Logan muttered. “Why not?”

“I don't know,” she whispered. “Maybe he means to acknowledge me later.”

“But it's over. Everyone's wandering away.” Before she could stop him, Logan shot to his feet and called, “Lord Varleigh.”

The ­people stopped wandering away.

“Yes, Captain MacKenzie? Did you have a question?”

“Just a compliment to offer, my lord.” Logan cleared his throat. “I wanted to congratulate you on the superb quality of these illustrations.”

Lord Varleigh looked him directly in the eye. “Thank you.”

Maddie felt Logan's immediate flare of anger. He might have dressed in fine clothing and put on suave manners tonight, but he was still a warrior beneath it all, and now his battle instincts had charged to the fore.

Someone was going to get hurt.

“The bastard.”

She tugged on his sleeve, urging him to sit. “It doesn't matter.”

“Of course it matters. That's your work on the walls, and he's stolen all the glory.”

“He deserves to have the attention tonight. He's the one who traveled to the Amazon.”

“He got on a damned boat. That's all. And once there, I've no doubt he paid a crew of native Amazonians to do all the work. He's probably stolen from them, too. But you, Maddie . . . You took his ugly, dried-­up husks of things and brought them life.” He touched her cheek. Only briefly, as though he didn't trust himself to be gentle just now. “That's the most remarkable thing about you,
mo chridhe
. The way you have of bringing things to life.”

A lump formed in her throat.

Desperate, she pulled him away from the lecture group and into a side room. A small library of some sort.

Lord Varleigh joined them. “Is there some sort of problem, Captain MacKenzie?”

“You know damned well there is.”

“Logan, please,” Maddie murmured.

In concession, Logan moderated his tone from a quiet roar to a steely growl. “You invited her here to be recognized. You offered to introduce her to Mr. Dorning. Now what kind of explanation can you offer to Miss Gracechurch for your behavior?”

Lord Varleigh straightened his waistcoat. “I should still be glad to introduce Miss Gracechurch to my colleagues. That is, provided she assures me that she will remain Miss Gracechurch.”

“What?”

“I need to know,” Varleigh said, “that there is no chance that she will shortly become Mrs. MacKenzie.”

Logan muttered an oath.

“But why should that matter, my lord?” Maddie asked.

“Miss Gracechurch, I cannot, in good conscience, recommend you for a lengthy project if you are to be wed. A wife has obligations to her husband and family, and those duties will supersede your artistic employment.”

“But that is absurd,” she said. “Surely many of your colleagues are married gentlemen, with duties to their families and wives. No one questions their scholarly dedication.”

“Perhaps,” Lord Varleigh said, sliding a condescending glance in Logan's direction, “if were you married to a gentleman of some social or scholarly standing, that would be a different matter.”

Now it was Maddie's turn to experience a flare of anger. Never in her life had she struck another person, but she wanted to punch Lord Varleigh in his aristocratic nose.

“Did you just insult Captain MacKenzie?” she said. “I will have you know, he is a highly intelligent man. He reads. Every evening. He even attended university.”

“Mo chridhe.”
Logan gently pulled her back. He addressed Lord Varleigh. “Miss Gracechurch will be with you in a moment, my lord.”