When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(23)

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.”

“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.”