When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(4)

“No. I mean, he must have a name, mustn’t he? But he didn’t say. Not yet. Your aunt thought you had best come and see for yourself.”

Well. This grew more and more mysterious.

“I’ll be there in a moment. Ask Cook to prepare some tea, if you will.”

Maddie untied her smock. After pulling the apron over her head and hanging it on a nearby peg, she took a quick inventory of her appearance. Her slate--gray frock wasn’t too wrinkled, but her hands were stained with ink and her hair was a travesty—-loose and disheveled. There was no time for a proper coiffure. No hairpins to be found, either. She gathered the dark locks in her hands and twisted them into a loose knot at the back of her head, securing the chignon with a nearby pencil. The best she could do under the circumstances.

Whoever this unexpected, nameless, ever--so--big man was, he wasn’t likely to be impressed with her.

But then, men seldom were.

She took her time descending the spiraling stairs, wondering who this visitor might be. Most likely a land agent from a neighboring estate. Lord Varleigh wasn’t due until tomorrow, and Becky would have known his name.

When Maddie finally reached the bottom, Aunt Thea joined her.

Her aunt touched a hand to her turban with dramatic flair. “Oh, Madling. At last.”

“Where is our mysterious caller? In the hall?”

“The parlor.” Her aunt took her arm, and together they moved down the corridor. “Now, my dear. You must be calm.”

“I am calm. Or at least, I was calm until you said that.” She studied her aunt’s face for clues. “What on earth is going on?”

“There may be a shock. But don’t you worry. Once it’s over, I’ll make a posset to set you straight.”

A posset.

Oh, dear. Aunt Thea fancied herself something of an amateur apothecary. The trouble was, her “cures” were usually worse than the disease.

“It’s only a caller. I’m sure a posset won’t be necessary.”

Maddie resolved to maintain squared shoulders and an air of good health when she greeted this big, nameless man.

When they stepped into the parlor, her resolve was tested.

This wasn’t just a man.

This was a man.

A tall, commanding figure of a Scotsman, dressed in what appeared to be military uniform: a kilt of dark green--and--blue plaid, paired with the traditional redcoat.

His hair was overlong (mostly brown, with hints of ginger), and his squared jaw sported several days’ growth of whiskers (mostly ginger, with hints of brown). Broad shoulders tapered to a trim torso. A simple black sporran was slung low around his waist, and a sheathed dirk rode his hip. Below the fall of his kilt, muscled, hairy legs disappeared into white hose and scuffed black boots.

Maddie pleaded with herself not to stare.

It was a losing campaign.

Taken altogether, his appearance was a veritable assault of virility.

“Good afternoon.” She managed an awkward curtsy.

He did not answer or bow. Wordlessly, he approached her.

And at the point where a well--mannered gentleman would stop, he drew closer still.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, anxious. At least he’d solved her staring problem. She could scarcely bear to look at him now.

He stopped close enough for Maddie to breathe in the scents of whisky and wood smoke, and to glimpse a wide, devilish mouth slashing through his light growth of beard. After long seconds, she coaxed herself into meeting his gaze.

His eyes were a breathtaking blue. And not in a good way.

They were the sort of blue that gave one the feeling of being launched into the sky or plunged into icy water. Flung into a void with no hope of return. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

“Miss Madeline Gracechurch?”

Oh, his voice was the worst part of all. Deep, with that Highland burr that scraped and hollowed words out, forcing them to hold more meaning.

She nodded.

He said, “I’m come home to you.”

“H--home . . . to me?”

“I knew it,” Aunt Thea said. “It’s him.”

The strange man nodded. “It’s me.”

“It’s who?” Maddie blurted out.

She didn’t mean to be rude, but she’d never laid eyes on this man in her life. She was quite sure of it. His wasn’t a face or figure she’d be likely to forget. He made quite an impression. More than an impression. She felt flattened by him.

“Don’t you know me, mo chridhe?”

She shook her head. She’d had enough of this game, thank you. “Tell me your name.”

The corner of his mouth tipped in a small, roguish smile. “Captain Logan MacKenzie.”

No.

The world became a violent swirl of colors: green and red and that stark, dangerous blue.

“Did you . . .” Maddie faltered. “Surely you didn’t say Cap—-”

That was as far as she got. Her tongue gave up.

And then her knees gave out.

She didn’t swoon or crumple. She simply sat down, hard. Her backside hit the settee, and the air was forced from her lungs. “Oof.”

The Scotsman stared down at her, looking faintly amused. “Are ye well?”

“No,” she said honestly. “I’m seeing things. This can’t be happening.”