When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(47)

“Are you certain you’re applying yourself?” Callum asked.

Logan gave him a sharp look.

“You’ve got to be the Rob Roy of her imaginings. Are you calling her a ‘bonny lass’? The Englishwomen’s hearts go all a--flutter at that.”

“What do you know about the hearts of Englishwomen?”

“He’s got the right of it,” Rabbie put in. “ ‘Bonny lass’ is good. ‘Wee bonny lass’—-well, that’s even better.”

“ ‘Yer wee bonny lassie,’ ” said Callum, taking the improvement one step further. “Throw in lots of ‘och’ and ‘aye’ and ‘dinna fash yerself,’ too.”

Rabbie shook his head. “You’re all missing the obvious answer.”

“What’s that?” Munro asked.

Logan was glad Munro had asked, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to. But truth be told, he was coming to the end of his patience. If he didn’t have her soon, he was going to go mad with wanting. At this point, he was willing to listen to any idea, no matter how ridiculous—-even if it came from Rabbie.

Rabbie hunched over to whisper. “She’s got to see him with his kit off. Shirt, plaid, all of it.”

A coarse whoop rose up from the men.

Logan rolled his eyes and stabbed his meat with his knife.

“No, I mean it,” Rabbie said, standing up. “Here’s how it goes. You rise early one morning, Captain. Choose a misty one, when the gloom’s settled like a blanket over the valley.”

He waved his flattened hand before them like an artist painting a landscape. “You strip down to your skin, and then you have a dip in the loch. Wait until she comes looking for you. Because she will. They always do. But pretend not to notice when she does. And then—-just when she’s close enough to see and she’s been watching for a while, you rise up out of the water. Like a dolphin. Or a mermaid. Shooting up through the mist and pushing your hair back with both hands”—-Rabbie thrust both hands through his hair to demonstrate—-“with all the little beads of water trickling down over the ridges of your shoulders and chest.” He danced his fingers down his belly. “Like so.”

Munro snorted. “So he’s supposed to go down to the loch at half--crack o’ the morning, paddle about in the frigid water for an hour or two, and then emerge? I’m finding it difficult to believe she’d see anything impressive.”

Everyone laughed. Even Grant.

“You lot can laugh,” Rabbie said, “but mark my word, Captain. Get your kit off. The next time you have her in your arms, she won’t be able to resist.”

“I’ve been married,” said the habitually silent Fyfe. “I’ll tell you what she wants. She wants your secrets. She wants your soul. You’ve got to crack yourself open and find that broken, shameful piece of your heart that you’d hide from the world and God Himself if you could manage it. And then serve it up to her on a platter. They won’t settle for anything less.”

The mood around the group grew solemn.

“Well, I like my idea better,” said Rabbie, winking at Logan. “Try it first.”

“I might,” Logan muttered.

Even if he was willing to crack himself open, he would find little there to offer her.

“You’re all making this too complicated,” Munro said. “She’s a lass. Bring her flowers. Take her dancing. Give her an excuse to put on a pretty frock. That’s all it takes.”

“But Madeline’s different. She doesna like those things,” Logan said.

“Trust me. They all like those things.”

Logan rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. Perhaps Munro was right. In the village, Maddie had said the same.

Women are women, Logan. Every girl needs a bit of luxury and a chance to feel pretty now and then.

Wasn’t that what her letters had been about? She didn’t think she could ever be a success at a party or an assembly. And her dream had been a man who would want her anyway.

He didn’t want to be her dream man. But maybe he could play the role for one night.

Perhaps all Madeline Gracechurch had ever needed was a bit of everyday courting. The same sort of attention any girl her age would receive. And she deserved that much and far more.

Logan knew exactly what he had to do.

“Bloody hell,” he said. “I’m going to have to attend the Beetle Ball.”

“You want to attend Lord Varleigh’s ball?” She replaced a pen in its inkwell and turned to face him. “Logan, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s impossible. For a dozen reasons.”

She folded her arms over her ink--stained work smock. She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth. And that single fingertip went to her collarbone again, tracing back and forth. Driving him wild with wanting.

He crossed his arms and jammed his own hands in his oxters. It was the only way he knew how to keep from reaching for her. “Tell me the reasons. One at a time.”

“Firstly, we already declined the invitation. I told Lord Varleigh we weren’t attending.”

“Easily mended. You write a message telling him we’ve changed our minds. I’ll dispatch one of the men to deliver it this afternoon. Next reason.”