by Tessa Dare
"Feathers?"
"We needn't dwell on that. My point is, the importance of compatibility in the bedchamber cannot be overstated. Anyhow, I loudly proclaimed my ruination as an excuse to avoid marriage. I was able to take lovers when and how I pleased, but for his last two decades or so, I was rather devoted to Lynforth. His passing was quite the blow. It's why I so gladly came north with you. I was in mourning, too."
"Yes, but your mourning was real." Maddie edged closer. "Oh, Aunt Thea. I'm so sorry."
Her aunt dabbed at her eyes. "We knew it was coming. But one is never truly prepared. Nevertheless, life changes. We discover new passions. While you've spent your time drawing beetles, I've penned a torrid novel in my tower upstairs."
"You, a novelist? But that's . . . Well, that's perfect."
When she thought about it, Aunt Thea had been writing melodrama for years, with Maddie in the starring role.
"It's more of a memoir, really. Or as the French call it, a roman a clef. Nearly everything in the events is true to life, but the names have been changed to protect the wicked."
Maddie shook her head. "Why didn't you tell me? Why have we been lying to each other all this time?"
She clasped Maddie's hands in her own. "I didn't know we were, dear. For years, I rather thought it was all mutually understood. Sometimes a woman doesn't quite fit in with her expected role. We do what we can to make our own way, carve out a space for ourselves. I thought you were happy here in Scotland, and I encouraged your father to leave you be. But then that enormous, glorious man appeared . . ."
Maddie laughed wryly. "Did he ever."
"And then I didn't know what to think. Perhaps you'd been telling the truth all along. I devised a test or two for him. The poem, the dancing lesson. I tried to make myself available should you need to confide in me. But mostly, I decided . . . you are a woman now. A strong, intelligent woman whom I admire. It wasn't my place to interfere."
Maddie picked at the crocheted edge of her handkerchief. "He's a complete stranger. Can you believe it? My letters were delivered to him somehow, and he knew everything about me. About our family. But I'd never met him before he arrived in the parlor. And now . . ."
"And now you love him. Don't you?"
"I'm afraid I might." Her eyes stung at the corners, and she blinked hard. "But he doesn't love me. Or perhaps he could, but he won't let himself. I don't know what to do. We quarreled terribly after the ball last night. I gave him back the engagement brooch."
"A mere lovers' quarrel, perhaps."
"Is it? I don't know if we're lovers at all. I want to be loved so desperately, I'm afraid I'm just imagining he could love me in return. I'll end up stuck in another lie of my own creation."
Aunt Thea smiled. "After what I put him through in preparation for that ball, he must genuinely care for you. At least a little."
"He's a loyal man. But I . . . I think I've wounded him somehow. Deeply. Perhaps my lies didn't hurt you or the family, but they hurt Logan. I don't understand how or why the silly letters of a sixteen-year-old could have such an effect. But I wish I knew how to make it right."
Even offering her love hadn't been enough. What more could she give him than that?
She stared at the table. "I just feel so twisted up inside, and hopeless."
"I have just the remedy for that condition."
Maddie cringed. There was nothing to ruin a heartfelt moment like one of her aunt's remedies. "Oh, Aunt Thea. In the interests of honesty, I must say . . . I don't know if I can choke down one more of--"
"Don't be silly. It's just this."
Her aunt leaned forward and caught her in a warm, tight hug. It was a hug that smelled like a cosmetics counter, but so welcome nonetheless. They held each other, rocking back and forth.
By the time they pulled apart, Maddie had tears in her eyes.
Aunt Thea cupped her cheeks. "You are loved, my precious Madling. You always have been. Once you know and believe that in your heart, everything else will be clear."
Logan kept his distance from Maddie for the next several days. It wasn't easy staying away, but he didn't see that there was anything to be gained from approaching her. She was already on the brink of leaving, and he didn't have anything new to say.
He could only hope that time--or perhaps the lingering threat of those letters--changed her mind.
That seemed even less likely when on the afternoon of Beltane, he found her in the dining hall amid dozens of crates and boxes.
The table was covered with china, silver, glassware, linens, pewter candlesticks. And humbler items, too: pots and kettles, fireplace pokers, candles and small jars of spice.
He asked, "Are you having a tea party?"
"No," Maddie said. "This isn't a tea party. I'm building the men's trousseaux."
"Trousseaux?"
Her brow wrinkled. "Can men have trousseaux? I don't rightly know. It doesn't matter. When they move into the new cottages, they will need to set up house. They'll be in need of these items."
"Isn't the castle in need of these items?"
"Not anymore." She packed a pewter jug in straw. "I'm going home to my family. Someone ought to make use of these things."
Logan set his jaw. It rankled him, the calm, matter-of-fact way she spoke of leaving. Not only leaving the castle but leaving him as well.
He followed her as she moved to the other end of the table, counting out equal piles of spoons.
"Do I get a parting gift, too?" he said, no doubt sounding more petulant and transparent than he would have liked. "Perhaps a side table and a pair of candlesticks?"
"Actually, I have something else in mind for you."
"Oh really? What's that?"
Her dark eyes met his. "I want you to have this."
"What, a spoon?"
"No, this." She tilted her head to glance at the vaulted ceiling. "The land. This castle. All of it."
Logan stared at her. What was she saying? "Maddie, you can't mean to--"
"It's already done." She reached toward the center of the table and plucked an envelope from atop a pile of folded tablecloths. "I drew up the papers by copying the documents that transferred the property to me. Becky and Callum signed as witnesses. The news will have spread through the castle by now. By this evening, everyone will know." She handed the envelope to him. "Lannair is yours."
He took the envelope in his hand. He couldn't do anything but stare at it.
"But that bargain you suggested . . . I didna hold up my end."
"The truth is, Logan, it just doesn't belong to me. It never did. I didn't work for it. I have no attachment to the land. This place belongs to the Highlands. To the people who've lived here for generations. To those whose ancestors piled the stones of this castle with their bare hands. And I can't imagine a better person to watch over it."
"I want no charity from you or anyone. I've worked for everything I've ever had."
"Oh, I know that. I know well that accepting this will make you uncomfortable, and that's part of my fun. I'm taking great pleasure in watching you squirm. For me, it's a victory of sorts."
And victory looked well on her.
"So when are you leaving?" he asked.
"Tomorrow. I plan to stay for the feast, of course. And for the bonfire tonight. We've all worked hard on the preparations. Even if I'm no longer the lady of the castle, and even if I won't be your bride . . . I want to be there."
"I want you there, too."
I want you here always.
The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't speak them. It was too late. Too useless. In giving him this castle, she'd taken away his last bargaining chip. He didn't have any worldly possessions or influence she hadn't already refused.
Another man might have offered her something from within himself. His heart, perhaps. A certain warmth of emotion. Maybe even a dream. But Logan had forgotten how to dream, if he ever had known how.
And when he looked inside himself, he saw noth
ing but emptiness and cold.
He lifted the envelope. "Thank you for this."
She nodded. "It's been an honor to know you, Logan. I do hope you'll understand if I don't write."
Chapter Twenty-two
Maddie found unexpected enjoyment in being a hostess. She found it far easier than being a guest. She was so busy keeping the ale flowing and monitoring the progress of dishes in and out of the kitchen that she could keep to the borders of the hall and duck out for a moment whenever the crowd became too much for her.
Most convenient of all, she scarcely had time to think about Logan. She saw him once or twice in passing. He greeted her with a brusque nod, but she didn't pause to chat.
It seemed entirely likely that she might not speak to him again before she left in the morning.
Just as well. There just didn't seem to be anything left to say.
When afternoon was waning, everyone pushed back from the tables lining the High Hall and walked, full bellies and all, up to the highest peak overlooking the loch.
As the day faded into twilight, a small group of villagers gathered to make a bonfire. Instead of bringing coal from someone's hearth, they fashioned a crude machine of sort with sticks--almost like a drill. After nearly an hour of the biggest and strongest taking turns with it, a curl of smoke rose from the rubbing wood. A woman hurried forward with a handful of dried moss and wood shavings.
With a bit of patient blowing--and perhaps some cursing and prayer--the small glow became a flame. And with many hands bringing more fuel, the flame became a bonfire.
Whisky was passed around, along with wedges of fruited oatcake. Maddie politely declined the former but happily accepted the latter.
"Be sure it's not the marked one," Rabbie said.
"What do you mean?"
" 'Tis tradition. One of the cakes is marked with charcoal. Whoever draws that one, we toss them into the bonfire." He winked.
"What a charming tradition." She inspected her oatcake. "No charcoal."
"Ye'll live to see the next Beltane, then."
A bright, merry fiddling struck up, and when she looked, its source was a shock to her.
"I didn't know Grant played the fiddle."
"Oh, aye," Rabbie said. "He had one that he brought with him on campaign. Hauled it over the Pyrenees and back, but it was ruined in a river crossing. The captain just brought him that one from Inverness the other day."
Maddie nibbled at her oatcake and played a game of peek-a-boo with a little fair-haired girl hiding behind her mother's skirt. After a few rounds of dodge-and-hide, she offered the girl the remainder of her oatcake and received a shy, gap-toothed smile in return. Maddie thought it an excellent trade.
Every once in a while, she saw Logan out of the corner of her eye--usually talking with a farmer or one of his men, or passing another round of whisky. They never made eye contact.
Once she thought she felt the heat of his stare. But when she turned to look, he was nowhere to be found. She supposed she was imagining things. It wouldn't be the first time.
Maddie stood close to the bonfire, hugging her shawl tight about her shoulders and watching couples dance to the music Grant supplied. Judging by the way the men and ladies queued up, the reel didn't seem too different from a traditional English country dance.
As the dancers queued up for a new dance, Callum appeared at her side. "Would you like to join in?"
"Oh, no," she said without thinking.
"Ah. I see. Very well, then."
Something in his disappointed demeanor sparked a realization. She'd been so caught in worrying about herself, she'd misunderstood. Callum hadn't been asking whether or not she enjoyed dancing. He'd been asking her to dance.
With him.
And she'd refused him with one word and a shudder.
Really, Maddie.
"Callum, wait!" She reached out to catch him before he could disappear. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you were asking me to dance."
"No matter. You dinna need to explain."
"No, I want to explain. The truth is, I'm honored to be invited to dance. It means a great deal to me. More than you could know." She squeezed his arm. "Thank you."
His eyes warmed with a smile, and the knot in her stomach began to loosen up. As difficult as it was going to be to walk away from Logan, leaving Lannair Castle was going to break what remained of her heart. She would miss her new friends here. So very much.
"The problem is," she told him, "I don't know how to dance."
" 'Tis nothing. The steps are not difficult."
"Perhaps not for most, but I've never danced. I'm afraid I'll be terrible at it."
He held up his pinned, shortened sleeve. "I'm at a disadvantage myself. So if you are terrible, at least we'll be equally matched. Shall we have a go at it anyway? 'Tis only for laughs."
Perhaps it was the heat of the bonfire. Or maybe she just couldn't bear to disappoint the enthusiastic look in Callum's eyes. It was possible a small part of her hoped Logan might see them and be jealous.
But most likely . . . it was just time to stop standing in the cold. Rabbie had said she'd live to see the next Beltane. But she wouldn't be here in the Highlands. She might only have this one chance to dance a Scottish reel, and it would be a pity to waste the night on nerves and fretting.
Perhaps this was a moment to be seized.
A moment to simply be.
For whatever reason, Maddie found herself saying yes. To dancing. For the first time in her life.
And it made her immediately wonder why she hadn't done the same years ago.
Which is not to say that it went especially well.
The dance itself was rather a disaster--but an amusing one. The particular reel they'd joined involved a great deal of twirling, and once Maddie started spinning, she had a hard time ceasing. Add in the fact that Callum wasn't in the best position to reach out and catch her, they resembled nothing so much as two billiard balls colliding and spinning away from each other, repeatedly.
Before long Maddie was laughing so hard that she could scarcely catch her breath. At the end of the reel, they were supposed to grab hands--but they missed one another entirely.
She lost her balance and careened away, still twirling and laughing.
Until she collided with someone. Someone helpfully big and solid and impossible to knock over.
"Oh, goodness. I'm so sorry, truly. I--" She looked up. Her stomach sank. "Oh. It's you."
Logan.
"Are you enjoying yourself?"
"I am, quite. Thank you for asking."
Suddenly she was every bit as nervous with him as she would have been at sixteen. Who could help it?
Tonight he carried with him a new air of . . . not swagger. Swagger was nothing more than bluster arranged to mask uncertainty. Tonight, he looked confident. Protective. Ready to lead.
Lairdly, in the truest sense of the word.
Dressed in his full great kilt and a crisp ivory shirt, he also looked ready to pose for an illustration in Sir Walter Scott's next novel.
The dance ended, and Callum came to find her. He gave Maddie a grin. "Sorry to have stolen you from her, Captain."
"No need to apologize," Logan replied. "Madeline belongs to herself."
"We were just dancing," she said.
"I saw."
"Not very well."
His mouth quirked. "I saw that, too."
"Yes. Well. I'm sorry to have collided with you. It's just so dark."
She looked around, desperate to avoid the confusing look in his eyes. There were no other lights, anywhere. Not at the castle, not at the baile on the riverbank.
The world had collapsed to the orange-red glow of the bonfire and the vast, starry sky above.
" 'Tis the tradition," Callum said helpfully. "On Beltane, we douse all the fires in every home. At the end of the night, each family will take coals or a torch and relight their hearth from this bonfire. 'Tis a fresh start."
"A fresh
start. What a lovely thought."
It helped her understand why Logan had been so determined to have the land in his ownership before Beltane--he wanted his men and the tenants to know this was a fresh start.
It also made her wonder what she and Logan could be to each other if only they could make a fresh start of their own.
He was a good man. Caring, protective, intelligent, loyal.
And on a shallow level, so attractive.
Maddie was going to forever regret not having made love to him. At least Aunt Thea had been properly ruined by the Comte de Montclair. Feathers and all.
But it was no use pining after what couldn't be.
Logan didn't love her. He couldn't love her. Some other woman had gotten to him first and left him ruined for all others.
She hoped this A.D., whoever and wherever she was, properly appreciated what she'd missed. Maddie hoped the woman rued her mistake daily. Maddie was also not above wishing her to be a frequent sufferer of boils.
"What was that?" Logan asked.
Had she spoken aloud? "Oh. Nothing."
A woman cloaked in a traditional arisaid approached them. She began speaking to Logan in fervent Gaelic, and before Maddie knew what was happening, the woman had placed an infant in her arms.
Wonderful. This was exactly what her heart didn't need right now.
She started hoping that the infant would squall or soil its clout or vomit up soured milk. Something, anything to stop her womb from turning these frantic use-me cartwheels.
But the babe refused to be anything less than entirely adorable. He was an angelic little bundle in Maddie's arms, swaddled in a length of cozy flannel.
Meanwhile, the babe's mother thanked Logan--even without knowing the language, Maddie could recognize the look of gratitude, and Callum translated the rest. The young woman had been recently widowed, and she had thought she would be forced to leave Scotland. Apparently Logan had engaged her services to do laundry and cook for the men while they completed their new cottages. She and her son would be able to stay.
Maddie's heart wrenched. She stared down at the little bundle, who cooed and waved his tiny fists.
A bright something winked at her from the child's bunting, and Maddie peered at it.
"He's wearing a luckenbooth." She showed Callum. "But surely he's a bit young to be engaged. And I thought those were for lasses."
