When a Scot Ties the Knot

by Tessa Dare

  "He's not engaged." Callum tickled the little one's cheek. " 'Tis the custom. A man gives the luckenbooth to his bride on their betrothal, and then 'tis placed on the bunting of the couple's firstborn child. People believed it wards off evil."

  "How interesting. So that means these markings here . . ." Maddie fingered the tiny markings scratched on the heart-shaped brooch. "They're not the child's initials."

  "No, no. Those would be his mother and father's."

  "I see."

  She stared down at the babe in arms, and that heart of gold that flickered in the light of the bonfire.

  L.M. and A.D.

  The world slowed down. Her heartbeats thumped singly in her ears.

  Did you love her?

  As much as I knew how. It wasn't enough.

  So she left you.

  Yes.

  A clever woman, then.

  Maddie cringed at the memory. Oh, good Lord. If her suspicions were correct . . .

  The widowed woman had joined in the dance, and Logan had moved away. When Maddie looked up, she locked gazes with him over the bonfire. His eyes narrowed, intent and searching. The red firelight played over his furrowed brow.

  He seemed to know something had changed.

  "Callum," she said, swallowing a lump in her throat, "does the word nah-tray-me mean anything to you?"

  He tilted his head. "Na treig mi, do you mean? 'Tis not a word, it's a phrase."

  "What does it mean?"

  "It means, 'dinna leave me.' Why do you ask?"

  She tried to hide the sudden catch in her voice. "No reason."

  No reason. Except that everything makes sense now, and I realize I've been a complete and utter fool.

  "I have to do something. Can you take him?" She turned to place the child in Callum's arms.

  "No, no. Hold a moment. Me?" He stepped back, waving his amputated arm. "I canna take him with one arm."

  "Of course you can. Mothers do it all the time." She tucked the babe into the crook of his full arm, making sure his hand supported the infant's bottom. "There now. Someday you'll hold your own child the same way."

  On impulse, she kissed both Callum and baby on the forehead.

  Then she turned back to look for Logan, searching the crowd.

  He wasn't there.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Logan walked away from the bonfire with long, purposeful strides.

  But he apparently didn't walk fast enough.

  "Logan, wait."

  He didn't slow his pace. He couldn't talk to her. Not right now, after watching her rock that babe in her arms and dance with Callum. After feeling her body against his, even for that short moment.

  She'd made her choices, and so had he. He could bear to part ways with her tomorrow. But if she came anywhere near him tonight, he'd be sure to pull her close and do something they'd both regret.

  "Go back to the fire," he told her. "It's too dark. No lights at the castle to guide your way. You'll stumble. There might be bogs."

  "Na treig mi."

  The words stopped him in his tracks. His heart stopped for a moment, too.

  He kept his voice calm. "You're learning Gaelic now?"

  "I'm learning you now. Finally."

  What the devil did that mean?

  She caught up with him. From what he could make out under the silver moonlight, she looked angry.

  Good. It was safer that way.

  "You lied to me, Logan."

  "I didna lie to you."

  "You let me continue under a false assumption. That luckenbooth. You didn't have it made for another woman. Did you?"

  "This again? I've told you, she means nothing to me. Not anymore."

  "Now that is a lie." She drew nearer. "The baby I was holding by the fire had a luckenbooth pinned to his bunting. Callum explained everything. The L.M. on that brooch wasn't yours, was it? They were your father's initials. You were named for him. And A.D. . . . Oh, Logan. Your mother. What was her name?"

  He exhaled slowly. "I dinna rightly know. I wasna old enough to remember."

  "I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me the truth? I would have been proud to wear it had I known. Did you just enjoy making me envious?"

  Envious. The word made no sense to him.

  "Why the devil would you be envious?"

  "Because," she cried, throwing up her hands, "I thought some bonny Scottish lass had stolen your heart and broken it. Of course I was eaten alive with envy. I wanted your heart for myself."

  "I told you, I can't give you that."

  "Yes. You told me. And you lied then, too."

  She drew close enough to lay a touch to his arm. Just the lightest brush of her fingertips on his sleeve. It electrified him.

  "I know how much you care for those men," she said. "I know how tender you can be, how gentle and protective. I know how you tended to me in Inverness. How you stood up for me at the ball . . ."

  He grabbed her by the arms and forced her away. "I know how you are. You're overimaginative. You make too much of things. You lie to yourself. I should have thought you'd learned your lesson by now."

  He walked away, and once again, she followed.

  "Are you ever going to stop punishing me? When I lied and wrote those letters, I was young and stupid and selfish and wrong. I deceived everyone. I unknowingly made you my accomplice. It was wrong of me. I know that, and I'm so sor--" Her voice broke off. "I can't say I'm sorry. I'm not sorry."

  "Of course you're not sorry. Why should you be sorry? You were given a castle and an independent life."

  She hurried in front of him, blocking his path. "I found you."

  "You left me for dead."

  There it was. The seed of all his anger, raw and pulsing like an exposed wound.

  "And it wasn't the first time you were left for dead. Was it?"

  He didn't answer her. He couldn't.

  "Na treig mi," she whispered. "Don't leave me. Do you know you say that in your sleep?"

  "I don't--"

  "You do. Na treig mi, na treig mi. Over and over, while shivering." She slapped a hand to her brow. "I don't know how I didn't see it before. It explains everything. Your mother wrapped you in a plaid, pinned the luckenbooth on to keep evil away . . . and then she abandoned you."

  "Yes. Yes, all right? That's exactly what she did, and 'twas on a hillside not much different from the one we're standing on now."

  "Which means you weren't an infant. You were old enough to remember." She hugged herself. "Oh, Logan. The things I said . . . that she must have been a clever woman if she left you. You must know I didn't mean it that way. I'm so sorry. So sorry for what happened."

  "Sorry for what happened? Don't be sorry for what happened. Be sorry for what you did."

  "What did I do?"

  He moved back, taking time to breathe and walk a slow circle. He was angry now. Not only with her. But partly with her. He'd been angry with Madeline Gracechurch for a long, long time. And since she'd asked, he was going to let her have it.

  Here, in the dark.

  "Do you want to hear something verra amusing?"

  "I don't suppose it's a joke that ends with 'Squeal louder, lass. Squeal louder.' "

  "Oh, far better than that. When your first letter reached me, I wasn't a captain. I was a private. Lowest rank in the army. Undisciplined, uninterested. Too poor to afford shoes. Here came this letter to Captain Logan MacKenzie. What a joke. They teased that I must have chatted up a girl before leaving, made myself out to be more than I was." He pushed a hand through his hair. "Before long, they were calling me 'captain' whenever my back was turned. My sergeant had me whipped for putting on airs."

  "And you blamed me."

  "Of course I blamed you. You were to blame. I'd read your letters. I knew they were nothing but fancies for a spoiled English debutante who didna fancy a turn about Almack's that season. But the letters kept coming. The mockery, too. And after a while, I started to wonder . . . could I not make captain? That wo
uld show them all."

  "That sounds very like you. Ambitious. Determined."

  He snorted. "It was absurd. Do you have any idea what a stupid notion it is for an enlisted private with no money and even fewer connections to set his sights on making captain?"

  "But you did it."

  "Aye. I did it. It took me four years, but I did it, one promotion and field commission at a time. The address on the envelope became the truth. The men's teasing became respect. And the letters inside, they were changing, too. They were . . . kinder. Thoughtful. Bloody odd, but thoughtful. You sent me news of wee Henry and Emma. Here were children praying for me every night, as though I were part of their family. You canna understand, Maddie. I spent my youth in the byres, or huddled beneath my tattered plaid on the ground. I'd never had that. Never in all my life. I felt like a fool for it. But I started to pray for them, too."

  "Logan . . ."

  "And then there was you. This strange, sweet woman that wouldna recognize me in the street but told me all her secrets--and made more of me than I could have made of myself. Someone who was dreaming of me, wishing to hold me in her arms. It felt . . ." His voice caught. "It felt as if I'd tugged on a loose thread of God's tartan, and a world away, someone tugged back. What was lies and foolishness to you was more than that to me. Your letters gave me the dream I didn't know how to imagine for myself. They brought me to life. And then you left me for dead."

  Maddie pressed a hand to her mouth. "Logan, I'm so sorry. I cared for you. What you felt . . . I felt it, too. I never would have kept writing for so long otherwise. I knew it was real somehow."

  "Dinna say that." He seized her by the arms and gave her a little shake. "Dinna tell me I was real to you and then you walked away to never think of me again. That only makes it worse."

  "Then tell me how to make it better."

  "It's no use." He shook his head. "There's nothing you could say."

  She touched her hand to his cheek. "Not even I love you?"

  The words rocked him. He refused to let her see.

  "No. I dinna want to hear that."

  "Well, I want to say it. Now, when there are no obligations. No threats hanging over my head. No lies to protect. I love you, Logan. Somehow . . . It began before I knew you."

  "That doesna make any sense."

  "I know it doesn't." She smiled. "But it's true."

  "No." He caught her face in his hands and held her tight. "It isna true, and you know it. I've had enough of falsehoods."

  "I love you, Logan. That's not a lie."

  He clenched his jaw. "Those words are always a lie."

  Perhaps those words weren't false for everyone. But they were always a lie when spoken to him. Everyone who'd ever claimed to love him had deserted him. Disclaimed him. Left him for dead.

  And she was no different. She'd given him a false demise on the battlefield, and when he'd forced his way back into her life, she'd found another way to worm out of his grasp.

  Right this moment, her trunks were packed. She was planning to leave him in the morning.

  And now she dared to chase after him and tell him this?

  He bent his head and pressed his brow to hers. "Stop."

  "You don't think I've tried stopping? For that matter, I tried mightily not to start in the first place. Neither strategy succeeded." Her fingertips grazed his jawline. "I can't help it. And I can't deny it any longer. I love you. Whether anything comes of it or not, I want you to know."

  He would not let those words into his heart. He would not believe them.

  But he would use them to his advantage, any way he could.

  She kissed his mouth, so softly. Then his cheek. Then his temple.

  "Remember the first night we made love?" she whispered, sliding her arms around his waist. "It was Beltane. Everyone was gathered around the bonfire, and we slipped away in secret."

  "Aye." The word slipped out as a moan. He could feel himself giving in to the sweet warmth of her. "I remember."

  "Remind me what happened next. Did we spread your plaid on the heather and make love beneath the stars?"

  He shook his head, nuzzling her throat. "We almost did. It was tempting. But I wanted our first time to be in a proper bed."

  "Oh, that's right. I recall it now."

  She stared up at him, waiting.

  Enough with teasing. He needed to know.

  Logan made his voice grave. He framed her face in his hands and gave her a mild shake to be sure she was paying attention. "If you dinna want this, tell me now. I know you're curious. I know you have desires. And if a bit of exploration's all you're after, there's no shame in that. But that's not what will happen if we do this tonight."

  Her lips parted, but she didn't speak.

  "I mean to make you mine, mo chridhe. Touch all of you. Taste all of you. Learn you from the inside out. Once I've held you like that, I'm not going to let go. Ever."

  And in response, she spoke a single word:

  "Good."

  Very well. He'd tried to warn her. He'd given her every chance to demur. She'd asked for this.

  He did what he'd been threatening to do since the very first night. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of oats.

  And carried his bride home.

  To bed.

  It might have seemed strange, Maddie supposed, for a woman who was currently slung over a Scotsman's shoulder with her hair and feet dangling in the night wind to claim that moment as any sort of triumph.

  But victory was exactly what she felt.

  At last, she was getting the man of her dreams. On her own terms. And unless her Highland lover meant to expose himself as a shameless liar . . .

  Tonight was going to be verra, verra, verra good.

  The castle was completely dark. Every fire had been extinguished. Moonlight got them as far as the courtyard, then Logan was forced to set her down. They gathered a candle and flint from the table in the entry hall and, after a bit of cursing and fumbling in the dark, managed to light it.

  The small yellow light glowed like a promise.

  It wasn't a spark carried home from the bonfire, but it was one they'd created themselves.

  A new flame. A fresh start. Nothing in the past mattered any longer. There was only the future now.

  And the future was theirs for the taking.

  Maddie placed the candle in a holder, and together they climbed the stairs to her bedchamber.

  Their bedchamber.

  Her heart began to pound harder with every step. She closed the door behind them and turned the key in the lock.

  Then she found herself pinned against the door.

  He caged her there with his body, using one hand to wind her loosened hair around his fist, pulling it up and away. Then his mouth, hot and hungry, descended on her neck.

  She gasped with the sweet shock of it. The firm tug on a thousand nerve endings. His tongue, running from her collarbone to her ear.

  Her knees wobbled.

  She braced her arm against the door.

  She slumped forward there, helpless to move as he covered every inch of her neck with kisses and possessive sweeps of his tongue. The rasp of stubble scraped against her skin, adding a deliciously sharp contrast to the soft heat of his mouth.

  Soon her whole body felt aflame. Beneath her bodice, her nipples pressed to hard points, craving touch. Craving his mouth. And his kisses kindled a low, hollow ache between her thighs.

  She'd been biting her lip to keep from crying out. But when he reached to cup her breast, she couldn't hold back any longer. She abandoned that last shred of self-consciousness and moaned with pleasure.

  The sound only seemed to encourage him. He responded with a low groan of his own.

  His free arm slid around her waist, and he gathered her close. His erection pressed against the small of her back. Impressively hot and rigid, even through the layers of chemise, corset, frock, and heavy kilt.

  He kissed her ear now, tracing the r
idges with his tongue and catching the nub of her earlobe between his teeth. His thumb found her nipple, and he rubbed it back and forth. Just lightly teasing. The torture was exquisite.

  "Logan. Please."

  She tried to turn to face him. He put his hand on her waist, forbidding it.

  "Not just yet."

  "But . . . when?"

  "Soon, mo chridhe. Soon."

  His hands went to the closures of her frock. He fumbled and cursed as he yanked them free. His difficulty with the buttons let her know he wasn't quite as collected and in control as he would have her believe.

  He was every bit as eager as she was. Perhaps even anxious.

  Desperate.

  When he'd loosed the hooks and buttons and laces sufficiently to allow her frock to slide to the waist, he spun her around to face him, pressing her to the door once again as he took her mouth in a possessive kiss. His hands tugged at her frock and her stays. She tried to help as best she could, pulling her arms free and then getting them out of the way by lacing her hands behind his neck.

  He cupped her bared breast in one hand, lifting and kneading. She sifted her fingers through his soft, heavy hair as they kissed. He moaned against her mouth, and she tasted the lingering fire of whisky and his own unique, elusive sweetness. He kept that sweetness hidden from the world, but she knew how to draw it out.

  She savored it.

  Impatient, she began to tug at the fabric of his shirt, pulling it loose from the belted waist of his kilt and gathering it in rough handfuls. When she'd managed to work the hem high enough, he broke their kiss long enough for her to yank the garment over his head and toss it aside.

  And when they kissed again, his bared chest met hers for the first time.

  The sensation was bone-melting in its intensity.

  All that skin on skin. Heat on heat. His solid muscles shaped her softness. The light hairs on his chest teased her nipples.

  His heart pounded against hers.

  "Lift your skirts," he muttered, sliding his tongue down her neck.

  Merciful heavens.

  Given her choice of any three words to hear from Logan's lips, Maddie probably would have chosen I love you. But she had to admit, Lift your skirts had an undeniable appeal.

  Her softest, most secret parts quivered.

  She obeyed, gathering the silk in rough handfuls and hiking it until the hem reached her knees.

  His hands slid to her backside, and he lifted her off the ground and against the door, wedging his hips between her thighs and locking her stockinged legs around his waist.