When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(40)

“Oh, Lord. That’s it. I’ll die here. I don’t know how to dance.”

He chuckled. “Lass, the bog doesna know that.”

She did as he directed, swaying back and forth. She felt like a clock’s pendulum moving in treacle. At first, she could only move an inch or two to either side, but after a few minutes’ effort, she could manage a reasonable sway.

“That’s it. Can you feel water circulating about your legs?”

She nodded.

“Then you’re doing it right. Keep it up. Perhaps even a bit faster. It would be best to have your legs free before . . .”

“Before what?” Maddie asked.

Heavy raindrops splattered her face and shoulders.

“Before that.”

Wonderful. Now she would be wet and chilled from both sides.

She rocked with renewed vigor and was rewarded with a bit more breathing room. “What do I do now?”

“Lean back a touch,” he directed. “As though you’re going to float atop the bog.”

“But—-”

“Just do it.”

He lay on his stomach behind her, reaching forward with both hands. As she reclined, he caught her under the arms.

“I have you,” he whispered in her ear. “And I’m not letting go.”

She swallowed hard. “What next?”

“Whichever of your legs feels the loosest, keep wriggling it side to side. And pull it up.”

“I’m confused. Am I supposed to move it side to side, or up?”

“Both.”

Dear Lord. What was next? Do this all while juggling torches and smoking a pipe? She wasn’t certain she had the coordination for this. London ballrooms, Highland bogs . . . was there no place in the world that was safe for an awkward English spinster?

She worked on her right leg first, shaking it beneath the surface of the mud as she slowly drew it upward. The incremental progress was agonizing, but at last her knee emerged from the muck.

“Good,” he said. “Now the other. This time, you wriggle. I’ll pull.”

“I’m trying.”

And she was trying, but it wasn’t enough. The mire was quickly closing on her again, drawing on her leg. She was suddenly, sharply aware of how fortunate she was to have Logan nearby. If Maddie had been on her own, she never could have worked herself free.

Even with him here, it didn’t seem a certainty.

“One last time,” he said. “Move your leg back and forth, with as much vigor as you can manage. I’m going to pull on the count of three.”

She nodded.

“One . . . two . . .”

She gritted her teeth.

“Three.”

His arm muscles flexed. As he pulled, she felt a terrible wrench in her hip joint. Maddie knew she would pay for that later. She’d be sore for days.

But a full year of soreness would still be better than one more minute spent stuck in that bog.

At last, she was free.

Breathless and panting, she crawled a few feet up the slope and flopped onto a bit of damp turf. She was caked with mud below the waist and soaked with rain everywhere else.

Logan seemed winded, too. He collapsed beside her.

“Life is so strange,” she said, swiping a strand of hair from her rain--spattered face. “When I invented a Scottish sweetheart, it was with the aim of avoiding humiliation. Look at me now. How do I get myself into these things?”

“By wishing for them, mo chridhe.” He rolled to face her, propping himself on his elbow. “It’s everything you asked for. A remote castle in the Highlands and an officer in a kilt. Be glad you didna manage to kill me off, or you’d still be stuck in that bog alone.”

There he went again, accusing her of murderous intent. He couldn’t seem to let go of that idea. And every time he brought it up, he spoke with an edge of resentment in his voice.

“Logan, I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

He made a dismissive noise. “You didna hurt me.”

Right. How could a little Englishwoman possibly hurt a hulking Scottish warrior? Naturally, he would never admit to that.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “my true fantasy was not a Highland castle and a man in a kilt. I just wanted to be understood, accepted. Loved.” Her gaze fell to her damp tartan sash and that heart--shaped lie pinning it together. “Don’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“I canna say much about love and acceptance, but I do understand you. I understand you just fine.”

“You really don’t.”

“Oh, I do.” His eyes roamed her face. “You’re deceitful, fanciful, clever, unbiddable, generous, talented with a drawing pencil . . .” He smeared his muddy thumb down the slope of her nose. “ . . . and dirty. Verra, verra dirty.”

“I’m no dirtier than you.”

She pressed her hand flat to his face. It left behind a starburst of five muddy fingerprints . . . and one unamused Scot. Added to his intense blue eyes and unshaven jaw, the markings gave him the look of an ancient Highland warrior, painted for battle.

Ready to strike.

His big, muddy hand went to her waist, tangling in the damp gray wool of her frock.

“If it’s dirty you want . . . ?” He tugged her close, startling a gasp from her. “It’s dirty you’ll get.”