When a Scot Ties the Knot (8 page)

“We exchanged vows last night.”

“In a traditional handfasting. But that's more of a formal betrothal. It's . . . well, it's complicated.”

“I see,” said Lord Varleigh, although it was clear he didn't.

Really, who could? This was madness. Any explanations she might attempt would only make it worse.

When he spoke, Lord Varleigh's jaw barely moved. “As I've been telling Miss Gracechurch, there will be a ball at my home next Wednesday. I should be delighted to welcome you both.” He collected his portfolio and bowed. “Until then.”

Even after Lord Varleigh left, Logan's arm remained on Maddie's shoulder. The room vibrated with quiet tension.

She took a step in retreat.

With unsteady fingers, Maddie gathered her folios and pencils from the table. “I need to return these to my studio.”

“Wait,” he said. “Dinna move.”

Her knees went weak as he drew closer. It was tempting to blame her reactions on his raw masculine appeal, but Maddie knew better.

He was the first—­and likely only—­man to pursue her this way.

She was curious. She was a romantic. And above all, she was lonely.

Hunger, after all, was a more potent seasoning than salt.

She waited, breathless, for Logan to make his move. But when he did, it wasn't the move she expected.

His gaze focused on something just behind her left elbow. With lightning speed, he lunged forward and smacked the tabletop.

Thwack.

“There,” he declared triumphantly, shaking out his hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Killing that disgusting insect before it jumped on you.”

“Killing a . . . ?” Maddie wheeled around. “Oh, no.”

There it was, on the carpet. A stag beetle. It must have fallen out of Lord Varleigh's specimen case.

“Oh, what have you done?” She fell on her knees to the carpet.

“What have I
done
? Most lasses like it when a man kills the bugs. Along with reaching high places and giving sexual pleasure, it's one of the few universally popular qualities we have on offer.”

She scooped up the remnants of the beetle into her hand. “This particular bug was already dead.”

And now it was flattened.

She needed to take it back to her studio and put it under glass at once, lest any further harm befall it.

He followed her down the corridor. “Don't walk away from me. I'd like some answers here. Whose invitation did I just accept, and what does that slimy prig want of you? And why do I come third in your affections behind the slimy prig and a squashed beetle?”

“Lord Varleigh owns an estate in Perthshire. We are professional acquaintances. He's a naturalist.”

“A naturalist? You mean one of those ­people who scorns clothing and runs about the countryside bare-­arsed?”

“No,” Maddie said calmly. She slowed and turned to face him. “No, those would be naturists. A
naturalist
studies the natural world.”

“Well, that one seemed to be mostly interested in studying your breasts.”

“What?”

He closed the distance between them and lowered his voice to a growl. “He had his hand on you.”

A frisson skipped down her vertebrae, practically unlacing her corset as it went. Just those few words, and she was unraveled. Everything about the night before returned to her. She recalled his breath on her neck. His mouth on her skin.

His hands everywhere.

The wanting hit her with such force, so hot and overwhelming, that it threatened to push her brain out through her ears.

This was terrible.

At last Maddie was on the cusp of a career, amassing accomplishments of her own. Imagine, the chance to illustrate a book.

Not just a book but an entire encyclopedia.

Four whole volumes.

Bliss.

And now this could ruin everything. Couldn't he have waited one more week to come back from the not-­truly-­dead?

“I can explain it better, but I'll need to show you.” She put her hand on the door latch behind her. “Come this way.”

Her heartbeat quickened as she opened the door.

She never allowed ­people in her studio. Especially not male ­people. It was her sanctuary of curiosities—­odd and secret and entirely her. Vulnerable.

Opening this door for Logan felt like throwing her heart on the floor and inviting him to tread on it. But she needed to explain Lord Varleigh somehow, and perhaps this time the sheer strangeness would work in her favor.

It just might cure him of the desire to be married to her at all.

 

Chapter Seven

H
oly God.

Logan found himself in a veritable chamber of horrors. The rumors about these old castles were true.

He followed her up a narrow flight of stone stairs. Candles in sconces lit the passageway, but they weren't bright enough to shed light into the corners. It was the corners he worried about. Probably crawling with bats or rats or . . . newts. Maybe dragons.

They emerged into a square room that must have been meant as a cell of some sort. It featured only a single narrow window.

He turned to have a look around, then started in alarm. A stuffed owl sat perched on a shelf, not a foot from his face.

The rest of the chamber wasn't much better. The room was lined with shelves and tables displaying all manner of seashells, coral, bird nests, shed snakeskins, insects and butterflies pinned to boards, and—­worst of all—­strange mysteries sealed up in murky jars.

“It's ice-­cold up here,” he said.

“Yes. It needs to be for Rex and Fluffy.”

“Rex? And Fluffy?”

“The lobsters. I thought I mentioned them last night.”

“You have lobsters named Rex and Fluffy.”

“Just because I lack any normal pets like cats or dogs doesn't mean the pets I have can't have proper names.” She smiled. “I do enjoy the way you say ‘Fluffy.' It sounds like ‘Floofy.' They're in here.”

She waved him toward a tank in one corner of the room. The water within it smelled of the sea.

“Are they for dinner?”

“No! They're for observation. I've been commissioned to illustrate the full life cycle. The only problem is, I keep waiting on them to mate. According to the naturalist who hired me, the female—­that's Fluffy—­first needs to molt. And then the male will impregnate her with his seed. The only question remaining is what, exactly, that will look like. I've drawn up several possibilities.”

She moved to a wide, cluttered worktable and rifled through a stack of papers. On each page was a sketch of lobsters coupling in a different position. Logan had never seen anything like it. She'd created a lobster pillow book.

He looked around at her desk—­the piles of paper, bottles of ink, rows of pencils at the ready. Here and there a drawing of a thrush's nest or a locust's wing.

Logan lifted a sketch of a damselfly and held it so that the light would shine through, illuminating every inked contour.

She'd been deft with sketching ever since she'd begun writing him. But he'd never seen her produce anything like this in all the margins of her scores of letters.

It was beautiful.

When he lowered the paper, he noticed that she'd been studying him just as closely as he'd been studying the page. Staring, with dark-­eyed intensity. He was struck by a sudden feeling of self-­consciousness.

“That's only a preliminary sketch,” she said, biting her lip. “It needs work yet.”

“Looks damn near perfect to me,” he said. “Ready to fly off the page.”

“You truly think so?”

Her face was so serious and pale. As though she were worried about his opinion. Surely with work of this quality and friends like Lord Varleigh, she didn't need a Highland soldier to tell her she had skill. Nevertheless, the vulnerability in her eyes made him want to try.

He wished he knew something clever to say about art. How to compliment the lines or the shading. But he didn't, so he just said what came to mind.

“It's lovely,” he said.

She exhaled, and color rushed back to her cheeks. A small smile curved her mouth.

Logan knew a small, quiet sense of triumph. After years of destruction on the battlefield, it felt good to build something up.

“How do you do it?” he asked, genuinely curious to know. “How do you draw a creature so faithfully?”

“Oddly enough, the trick isn't to draw the creature itself. It's to draw the space around it. The hollows and shadows and empty places. How does it bend the light? What does it displace? When I start to draw an animal—­or anything, really—­I look carefully and ask myself what's missing.”

He thought of her a few moments ago, studying him intently. As though she were wondering about
his
missing elements. “Is that what you're doing, then? When I catch you staring at me?”

“Perhaps.”

“I suggest you not waste your time,
mo chridhe.
”

She crossed her arms and cocked her head, gazing at him. “I've spent years studying all sorts of creatures. Do you know what I've noticed? The ones that build themselves the toughest, strongest shells for protection . . . inside, they're nothing but squish.”

“Squish?”

“Goo. Jelly. Squish.”

“You think I'm squish inside.”

“Perhaps.”

He shook his head, dismissing the notion. “Perhaps there's nothing inside me at all.”

He turned his attention to a map of the world mounted on the wall. The continents and countries were littered with stickpins.

“What's this?” he asked.

“I place a pin in the appropriate country for every exotic specimen I'm commissioned to draw. I always wanted to travel myself, but between the wars and my shyness, it never seemed possible. This is my version of the Grand Tour.”

Logan tilted his head and looked at the map. He saw a smattering of pins in India, Egypt . . . several in the West Indies. But one particular area had the largest concentration of pins, by a wide margin.

“You've drawn a great many creatures from South America, then.”

“Oh, yes. Insects, mostly. That brings us back to Lord Varleigh, you see. He recently returned from an expedition to the Amazon jungle, where he collected nineteen new species of beetles. I did the drawings, and he's going to present the specimens to his colleagues next week.”

“So your work for him is concluded, then. Good.”

“I didn't say that.” She took the sketch from his hands and set it aside. “In fact, I hope to do a great deal more illustrations, and not only for Lord Varleigh.”

He shook his head. “I dinna think you'll have the time.”

“But you said we would not interfere in each other's interests and occupations. That you would have your life, and I would have mine.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

He waved toward the stairs, in the direction of Lord Varleigh's exit. “Before I knew ‘your life' included that jackass.”

“You needn't be angry just because he made an invitation. He was only being polite, to start. To continue, I was never going to accept. You already know I dislike social engagements.”

“I should have accepted his invitation for us both.”

She laughed.

“No, truly. I'd take you to that ball and make certain that Lord Varleigh and every last one of those naturists—­”

“Naturalists.”

“—­every last one of those
insects
knows to keep their feelers off my wife.”

She shook her head. “He's a professional acquaintance. Nothing more.”

“Oh, he'd like to be more.”

“And I'm not your wife yet. Not properly.”

His hand slid to the back of her head, tilting her gaze to meet his. “You will be.”

“Logan, are you . . .” Her eyes searched his. “Surely you can't be
jealous
?”

“He had his hand on you.”

“What if he did, Captain MacEnvy? You gave me a brooch with some other woman's initials on it.”

He shook his head, refusing to let her bait him. “If you think I'm harboring feelings for another woman, you have it all wrong. I dinna have any feelings,
mo chridhe
.”

“That's another thing. I wish you'd cease calling me that. If you have no feelings, I don't know why you keep referring to me as ‘your heart.' ”

“My lack of feelings is precisely why it's easy to call you that. Because my heart means nothing to me at all.”

“Be that as it may,” she said, “am I to believe that you've lived chaste and hermit-­like all your life?”

“No. Certainly not
all
my life. Just the past several years of it. And that's your fault, by the way.”

“I fail to see how that's my fault.”

“There was a time,” he said, “when I enjoyed a great deal of female companionship. But then you put me in a cage with those damned letters of yours.”

“I'm not understanding you.”

“All the men believed I had a devoted sweetheart. They looked up to me, believed me to be loyal and devoted, too. None of them wanted to see that falter. They chased the camp-­followers away from my tent. The other officers went to the brothels and left me to mind the camp. Our chaplain passed more time with fast ladies than I did.” Agitated, he pushed a hand through his hair. “I haven't lain with a woman since what feels like Old Testament times.”

She smiled a little. “Are you saying you were
faithful
to me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Not on
purpose
. Dinna dress it up as something it's not.”

“Believe me, I'm trying very hard not to do that. But I have too much imagination. Now I'm picturing you huddled by a lonesome campfire while all the other officers are out carousing. You're holding one of my letters and caressing it like a lovesick . . .”

No, no, no.

Logan had to put a stop to
that
notion, here and now.

His hands went to her waist and he pulled her close, startling a little gasp from her. Her body met his, soft and warm.

“What I'm saying isna romantic. It's raw, primal, and entirely crude.” He lowered his voice to a growl. “You, Madeline Eloise Gracechurch, have been driving me slowly mad with lust. For years.”

Maddie couldn't decide whether to laugh hysterically or faint with joy. Her, an unwitting temptress? She had no idea how to respond to the idea.

So, naturally, she said the most juvenile thing possible.

“
Me
?”

In answer, he bent his head toward hers.

“Wait.” She ducked away from the kiss. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing unless you want it.” His thumb caressed an aching spot on her back. It was maddening, how he could melt her defenses with a single touch. “But I think you do want it. I know you're curious. I know how you responded to me last night.”

“That's precisely why I need time. I'm not prepared for this. For what it might mean.”

“It's only physical,” he murmured, kissing her neck. “It doesna have to mean anything.”

“I'm sure it wouldn't, for you. But I haven't yet cultivated that talent. I don't know how to make it not mean anything. I think too much, too hard. I invent meaning where there's none to be found. Soon I'll be telling myself that you're . . .”

“That I'm what?”

That you're in love with me.

That was the danger she had to guard against. She knew, rationally, that Logan was no such thing. But she also knew herself, and her heart was far too imaginative.

“Let's take a moment to think,” she said. “What would happen if we didn't consummate the marriage?”

He stopped kissing her. “That is out of the question.”

“Then maybe we're asking the wrong question. Perhaps there's another mutually agreeable solution. What if I were to lease the lands to you and your men? For a low rent, indefinitely.”

He shook his head. “Not enough. You don't think my men had leases on the lands they already lost? The word of an English landowner is worthless in the Highlands now.”

“I'm not just any English landowner. I'm one with a most compelling reason to keep my word. You could trust me.”

“Trust
you
. That's something, coming from a woman who's lied to everyone in her acquaintance for years.”

“I never lied to you.”

His gaze held hers, intense. “Even if I could trust you, I canna trust the world. What if something happens to you?”

“What do you mean? If I were to die?”

“If you married elsewhere.”

She laughed at the idea. “Me, marry elsewhere? Death is the more likely event. I'm so far on the shelf now, I've accumulated an inch-­thick layer of dust.”

“You're a gentlewoman. You come from good family. You're an heiress with property, and you're uncommonly pretty. I canna believe you'd have no prospects.”

Maddie wanted to argue back at him, but her thoughts kept snagging on the fact that he'd called her uncommonly pretty.

He went on, “If you were to marry another—­or die trying—­the lands would pass to someone else. Then all your intentions and promises would be worthless. So a lease willna be acceptable.”

She sighed. “None of this is acceptable.”

Becky knocked and called up from the foot of the stairs. “Ma'am, Cook is asking how many for dinner this evening.”

“Eight,” Logan answered.

“
Eight
?” Maddie asked him.

“You, me, your aunt, and my men. Eight.”

She shook her head. “We rarely have a formal dinner. Most evenings, I work late and then take a light repast in my room.”

“Well, tonight you and I are going to welcome my men to dinner at a proper table. As husband and wife.”

“This was supposed to be an arrangement of convenience. I thought we agreed that you would have your life, and I would have mine.”

“And we will, once we're married fully and irrevocably. But as you've pointed out, that isna yet the case.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “Perhaps you'd prefer for everyone in England to read about your love affair with a pillow?”

“Logan, this isn't fair.”

“I never promised you fairness. I promised you the letters in exchange for a proper marriage. I'm still waiting on my end of the bargain.”