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

Wherever you are, I hope you are sleeping well. Sweet dreams, Captain MacPillow.



July 17, 1811

My dear Highland laird and captain,

You have pulled off quite a trick for a man who is no more than a pillow stuffed with lies and embroidered with a hint of personality. You are going to be a landowner. Aunt Thea has convinced my godfather, the Earl of Lynforth, to leave me a little something in his will. That “little something” being a castle in the Scottish Highlands. Lannair Castle, it’s called. It is meant to be our home when you return from war. That is the perfect ending to this masterpiece of absurdity, isn’t it?

Dear Lord. A castle.



March 16, 1813

Dear captain of my heart’s true folly, Little Master Henry and Miss Emma are growing like reeds. I’ve enclosed a sketch. Thanks to their doting mama, they have learnt to say their nightly prayers. And every night—-my heart twists to write it—-they pray for you. “God bless and keep our brave Captain MacKenzie.” Well, the way Emma says it, it sounds more like “Cap’n Macaroni.” And each time they pray for you, I feel my own soul sliding ever closer to brimstone. This has all gone too far, and yet—-if I were to reveal my lie, they would despise me. And mourn you. After all, it’s been almost five years since we did not meet in Brighton.

You are part of our family now.



June 20, 1813

My dear, silent friend,

It breaks my heart, but I have to do it. I must. I can’t bear the guilt any longer. There’s only one way to end this now.

You have to die.

I’m so sorry. You can’t know how sorry. I promise, I’ll make it a valiant death. You’ll save four—-no, six—-other men in a feat of courage and noble sacrifice. As for me, I’m devastated. These are genuine tears dotting this parchment. The mourning I shall wear for you will be real, as well. It’s as though I’m killing off part of myself—-the part that had all those romantic, if foolish, hopes. I will settle into life as a spinster now, just as I always knew I would. I will never be married. Or held, or loved. Maybe if I write those things out, I’ll get used to the truth of them. It’s time to stop lying and put aside dreaming.

My darling, departed Captain MacKenzie . . .

Adieu.



Chapter One

Invernesshire, Scotland

April 1817

Blub.

Blub--blub--blub.

Maddie’s hand jerked.

Ink sputtered from her pen, making great blots on the wing structure she’d been outlining. Her delicate Brazilian dragonfly now resembled a leprous chicken.

Two hours of work, gone in a heartbeat.

But it would be nothing if those bubbles signified what she hoped.

Copulation.

Her heart began to beat faster. She set aside her pen, lifted her head just enough for a clear view of the glass--walled seawater tank, and went still.

Maddie was, by nature, an observer. She knew how to fade into the background, be it drawing--room wallpaper, ballroom wainscoting, or the plastered--over stone of Lannair Castle. And she had a great deal of experience observing the mating rituals of many strange and wondrous creatures, from English aristocrats to cabbage moths.

When it came to courtship, however, lobsters were the most prudish and formal of all.

She’d been waiting months for Fluffy, the female, to molt and declare herself available to mate. So had Rex, the male specimen in the tank. She didn’t know which of them was the more frustrated.

Perhaps today would be the day. Maddie peered hard at the tank, breathless with anticipation.

There. From behind a broken chunk of coral, a slender orange antennae waved in the murky gloom.

Hallelujah.

That’s it, she silently willed. Go on, Fluffy. That’s a girl. It’s been a long, lonely winter under that rock. But you’re ready now.

A blue claw appeared.

Then receded.

Shameless tease.

“Stop being so missish.”

At last, the female’s full head came into view as she rose from her hiding place.

And then someone rapped at the door. “Miss Gracechurch?”

That was the end of that.

With a blub--blub--blub, Fluffy disappeared as quickly as she’d emerged. Back under her rock.

Drat.

“What is it, Becky?” Maddie called. “Is my aunt ill?”

If she’d been disturbed in her studio, someone must be ill. The servants knew not to interrupt her when she was working.

“No one’s ill, miss. But there’s a caller for you.”

“A caller? Now that’s a surprise.”

For an on--the--shelf Englishwoman residing in the barren wilds of the Scottish Highlands, callers were always a surprise.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“It’s a man.”

A man.

Now Maddie was more than surprised. She was positively shocked.

She pushed aside her ruined dragonfly illustration and stood to peer out the window. No luck. She’d chosen this tower room for its breathtaking view of the rugged green hills and the glassy loch settled like a mirror shard between them. It offered no useful vantage of the gate or entryway.

“Oh, Miss Gracechurch.” Becky sounded nervous. “He’s ever so big.”

“Goodness. And does this big man have a name?”