When a Scot Ties the Knot (Castles Ever After #3)(62)

In a lifetime of telling stupid lies, Maddie knew she had just told her stupidest.

But Logan looked too fatigued to question her, or perhaps simply too weary to care. His eyes were red with exhaustion, and his jaw had grown over with stubble again.

Her heart softened. He’d been working so hard for her.

“No luck on your end, either?” she asked.

He shook his head. “But we’re not giving up. Not if it takes all night and into morning.”

“You should rest. It’s just a lobster.”

“She’s not just a lobster. She’s your dream, and that was our bargain. Your dream for mine.”

“It’s over, Logan. It’s over. You saw the way Lord Varleigh treated me tonight. Even if he had introduced me to Mr. Dorning, it would have been for nothing. I’m a woman. That’s already a strike against me in most -people’s eyes. And if I’m newly married? They’d never hire me for a long project. They’d assume I’ll get pregnant at any moment and abandon the work.”

“Why are you speaking as though we’re married?”

“Because maybe we should be.” She forced herself to meet his gaze.

“You don’t want that.”

“Don’t I?”

“No. You don’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Aside from the fact that you’ve been telling me so, in no uncertain terms, ever since I arrived?” Heavy footsteps carried him closer. “The letters, mo chridhe. You’d spun a tale of a Scottish officer and a home in the Highlands. But that was just a story. Your true dream was in the margins. All those moths and flowers and snails. I’m not letting you give that up just because Lord Varleigh is a bastard and one lobster crawled away. It means something to you.”

Perhaps it did. But it meant everything to her that he understood.

“Maybe we could mean something to each other.”

“Maddie . . .”

She reached to touch him, grasping the lapels of his coat to draw him close. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she told herself to be brave.

He was ragged and weary, but she was weary, too. Exhausted from holding back this tide of affection and tenderness inside her. She couldn’t control her emotions for another moment.

She wanted to hold him. She wanted him to hold her.

“Don’t you see?” She slid her hands inside his coat, skimming over the rippled surface of his abdomen and reaching to encircle him in her arms. “If we could have a marriage that was real . . . one that meant something . . . Lord Varleigh and Fluffy and the encyclopedia wouldn’t matter. Nothing else would matter.”

“Don’t.” His voice was hoarse. “Don’t talk like this. We still have a great deal of castle to search.”

“Let the men search. Stay here with me.”

She sensed his will to resist weakening. His breathing grew ragged. She found the spot where his open collar gaped. She kissed the dark notch at the base of his throat.

“Stay with me, Logan.” Stretching onto her toes, she kissed his jaw, then his cheek. “Make love to me.”

She kissed him.

And any feeble, insincere protests Logan might have made were lost, washed away in the sweetness.

“Stay with me.” She pulled him toward the bed, and he followed. “It’s time to make this real.”

Together they fell onto the mattress. At last, she was under him. Soft and warm and welcoming. Spreading her thighs to make a cradle for his hips and tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Belowstairs, he could still hear the men thundering from one room to the next, shouting directions to each other in their lobster search.

“You’re . . .” When her hand slipped inside his shirt, he moaned against her mouth, “You’re certain you want this now?”

“Yes. Now. Always.” Her whispered words warmed his skin and inflamed his desire. “Make me feel like you did earlier, on the dressing table. Let me do the same for you.” She pushed up the fabric of his shirt and ran her hands over his bared chest. “Logan, I want you.”

Holy God. The words were like sparks dropped into whisky. In an instant, he was afire for her. Primed to explode.

She was a grown woman, he reminded himself. She understood what this meant, and she was making her own choice.

All he had to do was seize his prize.

She held him tighter, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. The edge of pleasure was keen. He clutched her to him, sinking into the kiss.

“Just do it,” she urged, reaching between them to pull up her skirts. “Hurry. Make me yours before I can . . .”

Her voice trailed off.

But she didn’t need to complete that statement. He knew what she’d almost said.

Make me yours before I can change my mind.

A whisper of guilt moved through him. He ignored it. Running headlong toward the fear, just as he’d always told his men to do in battle.

For a glorious moment, he believed he could conquer it.

And then . . .

In an instant, it simply became too much. There was no thought in his decision. No desire or conscious intent. Just the instinct: Pull away.

The flash of hurt in her eyes was immediate. And eviscerating.

He felt like he’d glimpsed paradise by peering between the bars just as the gates were closed on him forever.