When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(57)

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded.

Logan had no intention of stopping. He would stay like this—-kissing her, stroking her, worshipping her—-just as long as she needed him to.

That’s it, mo chridhe. Mo chridhe. Come for me.

Her fingers tightened in his hair. With a sharp cry, she convulsed around his finger. He felt the pleasure shudder through her whole body.

Then she slumped back against the dressing table, panting and spent.

Logan needed a moment to gather himself, too.

“See? You had no need of any rouge.” He settled her skirts about her. “Now there’s plenty of color on your cheeks. On your throat and bosom, as well. Everyone at the ball will see it. And because I’ve no intention of leaving your side, they’ll know just who put it there.”

She reached to straighten his cravat. Evidently he’d become a bit mussed.

He liked having her fuss over him.

Her eyes tipped up at him from beneath those dark lashes. And she said, as though it were the sweetest of endearments, “You are terrible.”

“If it’s an apology you’re wanting, lass?” He dropped a kiss on her brow. “You’ll be waiting a while.”

She’d be waiting for the rest of her life.

Because Logan had already made up his mind.

There wasn’t going to be any compromise. No bargain, no trade.

Madeline would have her dreams, and she would be his wife. Tonight, if there was any justice. And once he held her in his arms, he was never going to let her go.



Chapter Nineteen

When Maddie and Aunt Thea had purchased this coach in York, the carriage vendor had informed them that it seated four persons comfortably, six in a pinch.

Maddie supposed it might fit that many persons—-but only if none of those persons was a six--foot--tall Scotsman in full Highland dress.

As it was, the two of them made a tight squeeze.

He’d insisted on sitting across from her on the rear--facing seat so as not to crush her gown. Well, so as not to crush it further.

For what must have been the twentieth time in as many minutes, he ducked his head to peer out the carriage window. He’d only spared her the briefest glances, spending most of his time looking out at the road and countryside.

“We shouldna be more than a mile away now.”

“Indeed,” she said.

Stupid reply. All they’d exchanged since the inn were inanities. She didn’t seem able to string more than two syllables together, ever since . . .

Ever since.

Mercy. After the wicked things he’d done to her . . .

Never mind speaking. She scarcely knew how to look at him now. Whenever she recalled the sensation of his tongue on her flesh—-which was approximately seven times a minute—-she burned all over. Her legs went quivery beneath her petticoats. Perspiration gathered between her breasts.

The carriage jounced in a rut. His knee knocked against her thigh.

Logan’s eyes snapped to hers. “Are you well?”

“Indeed.”

She knew at once that his thoughts had been taking him to the exact same place—-underneath the tent of her splayed petticoats. For the first time since they’d left the inn, his eyes stopped roaming the hills and crags of the countryside and roamed her body’s curves instead. Slowly, with a raw, possessive hunger.

A low, simmering heat sparked and built inside her, feeding off that desire in his eyes the same way a flame fed off coal.

He’d once called her uncommonly pretty in conversation, and at the time she had been tempted to argue back. But tonight, for the first time in her life, she felt irresistible. Ravishing.

Truly beautiful. In his eyes, if no one else’s.

Oh, this was so dangerous.

The carriage rolled to a stop.

“We’re here,” he announced, still staring into her eyes.

“Indeed,” she answered.

Her ever--helpful nerves quickly pushed aside any other inconvenient emotions. By the time Logan alighted and extended his hand to help her down, sheer, dumb terror had replaced any lingering thrills.

He put his other hand under her elbow, being careful to support her weight as her slippers found the gravel drive.

At last she was able to look up at the scene before them.

So this was Varleigh Manor.

Good heavens.

The castle was an imposing spectacle of squared turrets, trimmed with an iced--gingerbread border. The entire surface had been veneered with rose--tinted harling, with small stones crushed in the plaster so that the fa?ade glittered in the dwindling twilight.

Lights gleamed in every window, large or small. And all around them, exquisite gardens perfumed the night. She hadn’t properly seen them yet, but the scent engulfed her senses and made her dizzy.

Maddie could do nothing but gape. She’d been expecting an impressive home. Perhaps even elegance. But this?

This was opulence, writ large.

Add in the crush of coaches surrounding them, the white--tie gentlemen and ladies bedecked in jewels and plumes . . .

“Oh, no,” she whimpered. She clutched Logan’s arm. “No, no, no. We can’t go in there. Just look at it. Just look at everyone.”

Just look at me.

The hastily altered silk gown that had looked quite passable in a dimly lit coaching inn now felt hopelessly dowdy and out of fashion. She ought to have worn her mother’s pearls. She ought to have bought new gloves.