When a Scot Ties the Knot (7 page)

She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. “I
am
the girl who made up a Scottish lover, wrote him scores of letters, and kept up an elaborate ruse for years. Does it really surprise you that I'm odd?”

“Maybe not.”

“Lobsters court for months before mating. Before the male can mate with her, the female has to feel secure enough to molt out of her shell. If a spiny sea creature is worth months of effort, can't I have just a bit more time? I don't understand the urgency.”

With a gruff sigh, he drew a fold of her quilt over his lap. “We had a handfasting, lass. The vows we spoke would be considered a mere betrothal on their own. The consummation is what makes it a marriage.”

He had her full attention now. “You mean this could still be undone?”

That was interesting.

Very interesting.

“Dinna get any ideas,” he said, looking stern. “Let me remind you that I have dozens of reasons why you don't want that.
Incendiary
reasons.”

Yes, Maddie thought to herself. He had dozens of reasons stashed away somewhere.

An idea took hold of her.

If she could hold him off from consummating the marriage, she might be able to find those reasons—­and burn them once and for all. Watch them go up in smoke. Then he wouldn't have so much power over her.

“You wanted shared memories, did you not?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Remember how on our wedding night I made wild, naked love to you until you were screaming for more?”

“Actually, I remember us staying up all night talking.” Just to vex him, she added, “And cuddling.”

He scowled. “I dinna do cuddling.”

“That's for the best, I suppose,” she said. “You offered to wait until tomorrow to consummate the vows if I wished. Well, I do wish to wait. I'm not ready tonight.”

And if she could find another way out of this situation, perhaps she would never need to be.

She laid a row of cushions down the center of the bed, carefully dividing it into two sides:

His, and hers.

“Is that truly supposed to stop me?” He fell back on the bed, on his side—­peering over the pillow wall at her with amusement. “I fully intended to have my wicked way with you. But now there's this cushion, so . . .”

She burrowed under the coverlet, drawing it up to her neck.

“Now that you mention it,” he went on, “I dinna know how this strategy escaped Napoleon's notice. If only he'd erected a barricade of feathers and fabric, we Highlanders wouldna have known how to get over it.”

“I don't expect the pillows to keep you out,” she said. “They're merely a guard against anything accidental happening.”

“Ah.” He drew out the syllable. “We canna have any accidental happenings.”

“Exactly. I might roll over in the night, and I know how you feel about cuddling. I should hate to take advantage of you.”

“Minx.” He sat up in bed and plucked the cushion from between them. “I'm here now. I'm flesh and blood, and I'm your husband. I'll be damned if I'll give up my place to a pillow.”

She held her breath. What would he do?

“I'll sleep on the floor,” he said.

He took that pillow and the spare quilt from the end of the bed and began to arrange a pallet near the hearth.

Maddie told herself to be happy—­it was safer that way.

Instead, she couldn't keep from stupidly worrying about his comfort. The floor would be cold and hard, and he'd been traveling. Physical nearness was one kind of danger, but
caring
about him would be even worse.

“We're adults with an understanding,” she said. “You're welcome to share the bed. No barricade required. I'll stay on my side and you'll stay on yours.”

“I'll sleep on the floor. I prefer it.”

“You prefer the floor to a bed?”

“At the moment,
mo chridhe,
I prefer the floor to you.”

Horrid man.

“You said you want to wait,” he went on. “I'd like to think my honor makes a stronger barrier than pillows. But tonight, it wouldna be prudent to put that theory to the test.”

After a moment, she said, “I see.”

He folded the quilt in half, spreading it on the floor. “It's no matter. I slept on the ground for my first ten years of life. Never once in a bed.”

“Ten years of the floor?”

“Ten years of the cowshed or the sheep pasture, most accurately. Before the vicar took me in, I was an orphan raised on the charity of the parish. I stayed with whichever family would keep me—­and that meant whoever needed a hand with the sheep or cattle that season. I tended the animals, day and night. In exchange, I had my morning parritch and a crust or two at night.”

Oh, no. This entire exchange was one step forward, two steps back. A mild insult—­excellent. He abandoned her bed for the floor—­better. But now, this tragic tale of orphan woe? It ruined everything.

How was she supposed to remember to dislike him when she was picturing a hungry, lanky boy with reddish-­brown hair, shivering on the frosted ground all alone?

Maddie wanted to clap her hands over her ears and tra-­la-­la to drown out the pounding beat of her heart.

Instead, she punched her pillow a few times to soften it. “Sleep well, Captain MacSurly.”

What had she done? Just when it seemed she couldn't pay enough ways for telling one silly lie in her youth . . . this happened. She'd agreed to marry a perfect stranger. One who cared nothing for her, and one she was in danger of caring far too much about.

But she wasn't fully married to him yet.

With a bit of luck, perhaps she never would be.

 

Chapter Six

L
ogan hadn't expected to get much sleep on his wedding night.

He hadn't thought he'd be spending it on the floor.

But his rest was disturbed for an entirely different reason. It was distressingly quiet.

Everything he'd told Madeline was true. In boyhood, he'd slept in pastures or byres, surrounded by shaggy Highland cattle or bleating sheep. Since joining up with the Royal Highlanders, he'd been bedding down on a pallet surrounded by his fellow soldiers. It hadn't felt much different from sleeping amid beasts, to be honest. There had been a certain comfort to it, with the nightly symphony of crude snorings and scratchings.

But while he'd passed many hours of pleasure with female company, he was not accustomed to sleeping near a woman. Cuddling? Never happened.

Maddie's presence in the same room made him strangely uneasy. She was too mysterious, too quiet, too tempting. The sweet scent of lavender kept prodding him awake every time he started drifting off to sleep.

As soon as the first light of dawn seeped through the window, he rose from his makeshift bed, buckled his kilt about his waist, and made his way out of the castle to stand by the loch, watching the new day creep across the blue surface and burn off the mist.

“So, Captain. How are ye feeling this fine morn?”

Logan turned away from his view of the loch. “What?”

Callum and Rabbie stood behind him, peering at him with an unusual degree of interest.

Rabbie propped his forearm on Callum's shoulder. “What do you think, lad?”

Callum cocked his head. “I dinna rightly know. I think it's a yes.”

Rabbie laughed. “I think not.”

Logan frowned. “What the devil are you on about?”

Rabbie clucked his tongue. “Irritability. That's not a good sign.”

“But he doesna look well rested,” Callum replied. “That should be a point in my favor.”

Logan stopped trying to make sense of them. He was in no humor for their joking this morning.

“If you're awake, we might as well get to work,” he said.

After breakfast, they all rode out to scout the glen.

Not far from the loch, they found the remnants of a ruined cattle enclosure. Time, weather, or battles had crumbled the low walls ages ago. There was no use in rebuilding it, but the loosened stone could be put to use in building cottages.

He put his hand on a waist-­high bit of wall, and a chunk of stone immediately shook loose. It landed on his boot, crushing his great toe. Logan kicked it aside and ground out a curse.

He turned in time to see Rabbie extending an open palm in Callum's direction. “I'll take my payment now.”

Callum resentfully dug a coin from his sporran and placed it in Rabbie's hand.

Logan had had enough of their mysterious chatter. “Explain yourselves.”

“I'm just settling a wager with Callum,” Rabbie said.

“What kind of bet?” he demanded.

“As to whether you bedded your wee little English bride on the wedding night.” Rabbie grinned. “I said no. I won.”

Damn. Was his frustration that obvious?

Logan thought of the way he'd just cursed at a rock.

Yes, it probably was.

They'd lived too close with each other for far too long. Logan could tell at a glance when Callum's stump was paining him, and he could sense when Fyfe had a difficult night ahead.

He knew his men, and they knew him, too. It would be plain to them all that he hadn't purged his own lust last night.

Though Rabbie's wagers were crass and stupid, he understood why the men would take more than an idle interest in his amorous activities. In order to ensure Castle Lannair would be their permanent home, he needed to consummate the marriage. There was a lot riding on Logan's . . . riding.

As of this morning, he was letting them down.

He hated that feeling. In battle, he'd been their infallible, loyal officer, leading them into battle without so much as a blink. Not anymore.

Callum, always the peacemaker, tried to apologize. “We're just having a bit o' sport with you, Captain. She must have been weary last night, and you only just came home to her. Was quite a shock, I expect. There's no shame in giving her time to adjust to the idea. I'm certain your lass thinks it sweet.”

Sweet?

Curse it all. First cuddling. Now he was sweet?

“That'll be enough,” he said. “If I hear of any more wagers like this one, heads will be cracked. You should spend your time on something more worthwhile. Like shoveling out the castle stables this afternoon.”

“But Captain . . .” Callum lifted his amputated arm.

“No pity from this quarter.”

Until he could put any doubt to rest, he would do what he'd done for the past several years: keep the men working and focused on the future.

They placed stones to mark out sites for building and planting. Then he led the group up the slope to survey the grazing lands from a higher vantage.

“There's no time to be wasted,” he said. “If we want to have a harvest this autumn, we need to put crops in the ground by Beltane.”

“Let's hope the land's yours by Beltane,” Rabbie said.

“It's mine already. I've married her.”

“Aye, in word. But the English have a way of breaking their word, up here in the Highlands.”

“I'll remind you, that's my wife you're discussing.”

Rabbie gave him a doubting look. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

Maddie would be his wife. Fully, legally, permanently, and soon. He'd acceded to her requests for a delay last night because of everything Callum said: She'd had a shock and a long, wearying day.

He knew she was curious, and he'd tasted her kiss. There was potential for matters to be good between them—­perhaps even incendiary. It would be a crime to squander their agreed-­upon night by pressing her too far, too fast.

When Logan bedded his wife, she would not only be willing. She would want it. She would be
pleading
for him.

And he'd leave her so limp and exhausted with pleasure that she could have no thought of any cuddling afterward.

“Say, Captain.” Callum motioned back toward the castle. “Looks as though you have a visitor.”

Logan peered into the distance. An elegant coach-­and-­four had drawn up in front of the castle's entrance. A man alighted from the coach. No sooner had the man's boots met the ground than a small figure in gray emerged from the castle to greet him, as though she'd been expecting him to call.

Maddie.

“On second thought,” Rabbie said, “looks as though your lady has a visitor.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group.

“I expect it's probably some man of business,” Munro said. “Don't all English ladies have men of business?”

“Do you see that team of bays?” Fyfe put in. “That's no working man's coach-­and-­four.”

Logan remained quiet. He didn't know who Maddie's visitor might be. But he meant to find out.

“Lord Varleigh.” Maddie dropped a curtsy. “Do come in. It's always a pleasure to see you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Gracechurch.”

Miss Gracechurch.

The words gave Maddie pause.
Was
she still Miss Gracechurch? Should she correct him?

Maddie decided against it. It was too complicated to explain right now, and Lord Varleigh would likely be gone before Logan even noticed he was here.

With any luck, she might never need to change her name to Mrs. MacKenzie at all.

Lord Varleigh cleared his throat. “Might I see the illustrations?”

“Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.”

Heavens. Would she never lose this awkwardness? She'd had enough conversations with Lord Varleigh over the past year to know he was an intelligent and thoughtful gentleman, but he was also rather an imposing one. Something about his dark, inquisitive eyes and groomed fingernails always made her a bit nervous.

Focus on the work, Maddie. He's here for the illustrations, not for you.

She gathered the folio and carried it to a wide, flat table to lay it open. “As we originally discussed, there are ink drawings for each species in different perspectives.”

She stood to the side as he paged through her work. Methodically and slowly, as any good naturalist would do.

“What's this?” he asked, arriving at a watercolor near the end of the stack.

“Oh, that. I took the liberty of combining some of the species and doing a few plates in color. I know they can't be printed in the journal, but I thought you might like to have them. If not, I'll keep them. They were mostly for my own amusement.”

“I see.” He tilted his head as he looked at them.

At last, Maddie could bear the suspense no longer. “Do the sketches not meet with your approval? If you don't like them or they're not right, there's still time. I can make changes.”

He let the folio cover drop shut and turned to her. “Miss Gracechurch, the sketches are remarkable. Perfect.”

“Oh. Good.” Maddie exhaled with relief and just a touch of pride.

For the most part, she illustrated for the love of it, and for the pleasure of contributing to knowledge—­not for applause. Not that there were a great many ­people queuing up to applaud scientific illustrators, anyhow.

But Lord Varleigh's praise meant something to her. It meant a great deal. He made her feel she'd done
something
right, despite spending yesterday dealing with a Highlander determined to punish her for her every youthful folly.

“I'm hosting a gathering at my home next week to unveil the specimens,” Lord Varleigh said, packing up her illustrations and the glass-­boxed samples she'd worked from. “I've invited all the members of the naturalist society, Orkney included.”

“It's to be a salon, then?”

“More of a ball.”

“Oh.” A cold sense of dread washed over her. “A ball.”

“Yes. There will be supper and a bit of dancing. We must provide some amusement for the ladies, you see, or they will boycott the evening altogether.”

Maddie smiled. “I'm not much of a lady, then. I'm uninterested in dancing, but I would be fascinated by your display.”

“Then I hope you'll attend.”

“Me?”

“I have a good friend who'll be visiting. Mr. Dorning. He's a scholar in Edinburgh, and he's compiling an encyclopedia.”

“An encyclopedia?”

Lord Varleigh nodded. “
Insects of the British Isles,
in four volumes.”

“Be still my heart. I do love a book with multiple volumes.”

“Does that mean you're interested?”

“Naturally. I should love to see the work when it's finished.”

He smiled. “Miss Gracechurch, we seem to be misunderstanding one another. I'm asking if you'd be interested in meeting my friend so that he might consider engaging your ser­vices for the project. As an illustrator.”

Maddie was stunned. An encyclopedia. A project of that size would mean steady, interesting work for months. If not years. “You'd truly do that for me?”

“I'd consider it a favor to him, frankly. The quality of your work is exceptional. If you are able to attend our gathering next week, I should be pleased to make the introduction.”

She bit her lip. What a chance this could be for her, but . . .

A ball.

Why did it have to be a ball?

“Could I not pay a call earlier in the afternoon?” she asked. “Or perhaps the following morning. It would seem a shame to interrupt your amusements with talk of work.”

“The work is the reason for the gathering. You wouldn't be an interruption.” His hand brushed her wrist. “I'll look out for you, I promise. Do say yes.”

“I have a question,” a deep voice interrupted. “Does this invitation extend to me?”

Oh, Lord.

Logan.

After a brief, assessing pause in the doorway, he moved into the room. He was dressed for physical labor, it would seem, in his kilt and a loose homespun shirt. He must have just come in from the glen.

Lord Varleigh looked faintly horrified, but also intrigued. His glance to Maddie sent an almost scientific question:

Just what kind of wild creature is this?

Without so much as a nod in the direction of manners or propriety, Logan crossed the room in firm, muddy strides. He drew near Maddie, but his gaze never left Lord Varleigh's.

He casually draped his arm about Maddie's waist, then flexed it—­yanking her to his side. The brisk morning air clung to his clothing, bringing with it the faintly green scents of heather and moss.

“Good morning,
mo chridhe
.
Why don't you introduce me to your friend?”

Maddie's tongue went dry as paper. “B-­but of course. Lord Varleigh, may I present Captain Logan MacKenzie.”

“Captain MacKenzie?” Lord Varleigh looked to Maddie. “Not
the
Captain MacKenzie. The one you . . .”

“Yes,” she managed.

“Your intended?” His gaze darted to Logan. “Forgive me, sir. I was under the impression you were—­”

“Dead?” Logan supplied. “A common misconception. As ye can see, I'm verra much alive.”

“Extraordinary. I had no idea.”

“Well,” Logan said smoothly, “now ye do.”

“I should have mentioned it earlier,” Maddie said. “Captain MacKenzie only returned with his men yesterday. It was quite the shock. I'm afraid I'm still a bit scattered.”

“I can only imagine, Miss Gracechurch.”

“Miss Gracechurch is Mrs. MacKenzie now.” Logan's hand slid to Maddie's shoulder in a gesture as baldly possessive as it was unsubtle.

Mine.

“Actually,” Maddie interjected, nudging away, “I'm still Miss Gracechurch at the moment.”