When a Scot Ties the Knot (21 page)

His free arm slid around her waist, and he gathered her close. His erection pressed against the small of her back. Impressively hot and rigid, even through the layers of chemise, corset, frock, and heavy kilt.

He kissed her ear now, tracing the ridges with his tongue and catching the nub of her earlobe between his teeth. His thumb found her nipple, and he rubbed it back and forth. Just lightly teasing. The torture was exquisite.

“Logan. Please.”

She tried to turn to face him. He put his hand on her waist, forbidding it.

“Not just yet.”

“But . . . when?”

“Soon,
mo chridhe
. Soon.”

His hands went to the closures of her frock. He fumbled and cursed as he yanked them free. His difficulty with the buttons let her know he wasn't quite as collected and in control as he would have her believe.

He was every bit as eager as she was. Perhaps even anxious.

Desperate.

When he'd loosed the hooks and buttons and laces sufficiently to allow her frock to slide to the waist, he spun her around to face him, pressing her to the door once again as he took her mouth in a possessive kiss. His hands tugged at her frock and her stays. She tried to help as best she could, pulling her arms free and then getting them out of the way by lacing her hands behind his neck.

He cupped her bared breast in one hand, lifting and kneading. She sifted her fingers through his soft, heavy hair as they kissed. He moaned against her mouth, and she tasted the lingering fire of whisky and his own unique, elusive sweetness. He kept that sweetness hidden from the world, but she knew how to draw it out.

She savored it.

Impatient, she began to tug at the fabric of his shirt, pulling it loose from the belted waist of his kilt and gathering it in rough handfuls. When she'd managed to work the hem high enough, he broke their kiss long enough for her to yank the garment over his head and toss it aside.

And when they kissed again, his bared chest met hers for the first time.

The sensation was bone-­melting in its intensity.

All that skin on skin. Heat on heat. His solid muscles shaped her softness. The light hairs on his chest teased her nipples.

His heart pounded against hers.

“Lift your skirts,” he muttered, sliding his tongue down her neck.

Merciful heavens.

Given her choice of any three words to hear from Logan's lips, Maddie probably would have chosen
I love you
. But she had to admit,
L
ift your skirts
had an undeniable appeal.

Her softest, most secret parts quivered.

She obeyed, gathering the silk in rough handfuls and hiking it until the hem reached her knees.

His hands slid to her backside, and he lifted her off the ground and against the door, wedging his hips between her thighs and locking her stockinged legs around his waist.

She gave a little shriek of laughter.

Then his mouth found her nipple, and her laughter became a languid sigh.

The rough surface of the door scraped against her bare back, but she couldn't be bothered to care. His lips and tongue were working magic on her breasts, and the hard ridge of his arousal was just where she wanted it. He rolled his hips, and a pure, bright joy swept through her. She let her head fall to the side and clung to him, riding the waves of bliss.

After he'd treated each of her breasts to a through pleasuring, he gathered her to him and turned her away from the door, carrying her toward the bed.

“Be careful,” she whispered, still gasping and giggling. “It's so dark. It would be a shame if you—­”

Thunk.

He bashed his head against the overhanging part of the bedframe.

He cursed. Together they tumbled to the mattress. Maddie scrambled to assess his wounds.

She pushed the hair back from his brow, skimming her fingertips over his temple and crown. “Are you all right? Are you bleeding? Do we need to stop?”

He didn't answer right away.

She caressed his scalp again. “Logan?”

“I'm fine,
mo chridhe
. I'd have bashed my head like that days ago if I knew you'd touch me like this.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing first the backs of her fingers.

Then her palm.

Then that sensitive bracelet of flesh at her wrist.

And from that moment on, everything between them was a little less frantic and a great deal more tender. As he moved above her, rolling the stockings down her legs and helping her free of her gown, she felt treasured. Precious.

Loved.

Once she was bared, he laid her flat on the bed and began to caress her everywhere. His palms swept over her breasts, her legs, her hips, her belly.

Her own fingers itched for their turn.

She wanted to touch him.

In all their previous encounters, Logan had been very much in control. He'd decided when and where to touch her. Or even when and where she should touch herself. This time, Maddie was determined to be an equal participant. Even if she felt timid or unsure, she wouldn't allow herself to be deterred. Not if she knew what she wanted, and she did.

She went straight for the kilt.

He helped her with the fastenings in front, and then the heavy pleats of plaid fell slack. Pushing the fabric aside, she reached eagerly for the man beneath.

And she didn't have to search long to find him.

His erection all but sprang into her hand, filling her grip with hard, heated flesh. She stroked up and down his length the way she'd watched him stroke himself that night, and he groaned with helpless pleasure. His skin was softer than she'd imagined it could be. Like ridged velvet. She circled her thumb around the broad, smooth crown, then stretched her fingertips to explore the thick root of his cock and the vulnerable sac beneath.

She was just beginning to enjoy herself, when Logan pulled her hand away.

“That'll have to be enough for now,
mo chridhe.
Or this will be over before it starts.”

“But—­”

“Later.” He caught her hands in his and pushed back, pinning her arms against the mattress on either side of her head. “I canna risk unmanning myself. I've waited too long for this.” He lavished kisses along her neck. “Days. Weeks. Years.”

Holding her arms pinned to the mattress, he licked and kissed his way down the center of her body. When he reached her navel, he paused.

“I mean to taste you,
mo chridhe.
Try not to kick me in the head this time.”

Despite the warning, her hips still bucked when he laid his tongue to her most intimate place.

Oh, he was good.

Verra . . . verra . . .
verra
good. Within moments, he had her writhing beneath him. He explored every fold and hollow with his tongue, circling her bud before sliding down to dip his tongue inside her.

“Logan, please. I'm too close to—­”

He showed no signs of stopping. Or even acknowledging her pleas. To the contrary, he redoubled his efforts, nuzzling and licking her to a fierce, sudden climax.

“That's unfair,” she pouted between labored breaths. “You wouldn't even let me touch you.”

He released her arms and sat back on his haunches.

“It's better this way. The joining will go easier for you if you've already found your peak.” He caressed her cheek. “I've no wish to hurt you.”

As he settled himself between her thighs, she slid her hands up his bare arms, enjoying the contours of his strength.

“Ready?” he asked, positioning himself on his elbows.

“Yes.”

Yes.

When he pushed inside her, it did hurt. Maddie had to bite her lip to keep from crying out. He nudged deeper in patient strokes, and she felt her body slowly stretching to accommodate his.

When at last he was fully seated within her, he remained motionless for a long moment. Just holding her, as she held him. Her body began to relax.

“Are you well?” he asked.

She nodded.

He carefully withdrew a fraction, then pushed back in, reaching a new depth within her. They both groaned.

“You're so tight,” he murmured, sounding concerned.

“I think it's more that you're so big,” she said. “But you don't need to worry. I'm fine.”

He went slowly at first.

But slowly didn't last long. Soon a more urgent rhythm took hold as his thrusts increased in both speed and intensity.

The force of his passion took her breath away, but Maddie would be damned before she'd ask him to stop. She loved feeling just how much he wanted her, just how desperately his body needed hers to be complete.

He began to murmur words she didn't understand. Little sweet promises in Gaelic, or so she flattered herself to think. Even though she couldn't decipher their meaning, there was no mistaking the tone in his voice. It was one of raw emotion. She was certain she heard a few familiar phrases in the mix:

Maddie.

Mo chridhe.

Na tréig mi.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and clung to his shoulders, holding him as tight as she could.

Then he reached a point where there were no more words. He braced himself on one elbow and slipped the other arm beneath her waist, drawing her body tight against his. When he thrust, his cock reached a place so deep inside her that she felt him
everywhere
.

After a few final thrusts, he shuddered and groaned. He slumped atop her and buried his face in her neck. She put her arms around his shoulders, hugging him close.

They lay there together, just breathing.

Her heart had never been so full.

All too soon, she began to hear noises from the lower floors of the tower. The men and the servants were returning from the bonfire.

“Perhaps I should go down to meet them.” She started to rise from bed.

“No, no. Where do you think you're going, Mrs. MacHasty?” He grabbed her arm and pulled.

She laughed as she tumbled back to the bed. “What did you call me?”

“I believe . . .” He rolled to face her and gazed at her wonderingly. “I called you my wife.”

“Are we fully married this time?”

“Of course we're married.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You're verra, verra sure?”

“We've just consummated the relationship, Maddie. I warned you, once I held you this way . . .” His eyes grew intense. “You can't ask me to let you go.”

“Oh, Logan. I'm not asking that. I want to be your wife. More than anything. I was only teasing when I asked if you were sure.” She brushed the hair back from his brow. “I'm so sorry.”

His stormy expression didn't clear.

She skimmed a touch down his bare chest, nestling close. “Believe me, there's nowhere I'd rather be than here. With you.”

The men downstairs would have to fend for themselves.

She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, then slid her tongue down his neck, willing the corded tendon there to relax.

It had been thoughtless of her to tease him that way, knowing what she knew now about his childhood. It might be months, even years, before those nightmares ceased and he stopped worrying she'd abandon him the moment he gave her the chance.

Tomorrow she would commence finding other ways to reassure him.

For tonight, she hoped kisses would make a good start.

 

Chapter Twenty-four

I
n the morning, Logan woke alone. He knew a moment of bleary-­eyed, unreasoned panic—­until he found a note on the pillow beside him.

My dearest Captain MacSleepy,

Forgive me. I didn't want to disturb your well-­earned rest. When you wake, your breakfast will be waiting downstairs.

Your loving wife

Wearing a shirt, loose trousers, and an unabashed grin, he entered the hall. His men sat assembled about the long table.

Logan cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

All heads swiveled to face him. They regarded him in silence for a moment. And then, to a one, they rose to their feet and broke out in spontaneous applause.

“Huzzah.”

“At last!”

“Take a bow, then.”

Logan waved off the teasing, but he couldn't bring himself to put a stop to the merriment. He knew this was a landmark of sorts for them, too.

Lannair was truly home now. For all of them. That was something to celebrate.

He looked around the High Hall with a new perspective, noting any crack in the plaster that needed patching, any bit of paneling that had dulled with time. The men were well on the way to completing their own cottages. Starting today, Logan could turn his attention to making this castle a home.

He would have to do something about those steep stairs before any bairns came along.

The mere thought of fatherhood was dizzying, in all the best and worst ways.

“Took you long enough, but I expect it was worth the wait.” Rabbie came forward and punched him on the shoulder. “Good work, Captain. And not a moment too soon. After last night, Callum has his eye on one of the village lasses. Now he can court her proper.”

Callum's face colored. “I'm not courting any lasses.”

“I saw how you looked at her all saft-­eyed. I give it a week.”

Logan had endured the ribbing with good humor, but he couldn't ignore the gnawing worry in his gut for long.

“Have you seen my wife?” he asked.

“Mrs. MacKenzie's in the kitchen.” Munro threw him a wink before settling back to the plans.

The kitchen?

Bemused, Logan made his way down to the castle's ancient kitchen, with its lofty ceilings and massive hearth.

Even before he'd entered the room, a familiar scent assaulted him—­a sharp, metallic tang. He rounded the doorway to find a scene that stopped him cold.

Maddie stood in the center of the room, wearing a woeful expression and an apron smeared with blood.

“Good God. Maddie, are you—­”

“I'm fine!” she hastened to assure him. “None of it's mine. I'm fine.”

“What the devil happened? Has someone been murdered?”

“No.” With her wrist, she wiped her brow and then dislodged a stubborn lock of hair with a huff of breath. “I'm making haggis. Grant's helping.”

She tilted her head toward the corner, where the big man sat chopping onions and mumbling to himself.

After a stunned pause, Logan broke out laughing. She was making haggis, of all things? It seemed the most adorable confession in the world.

“I know, it's the most absurd thing I've ever done. And when it comes to me, that's saying something. But I gave Cook and Becky the day off, after all their hard work yesterday. I found a recipe book, and I thought I could fill in, since my aunt left this morning.”

“Aunt Thea left?”

She nodded. “The carriage was already readied and packed, so I asked her to go ahead. She's going to break the news of our marriage to my father and invite them all for a late-­summer holiday. It's been far too long since we were all together, and now there's nothing to keep us apart. I can't wait for Emma and Henry to meet you.”

Logan found himself eager for that to happen, too.

She smeared a red fingerprint on the page of the recipe book. “Do you have any idea what's
in
this?”

He nodded. “Sheep's heart, lungs, and liver, all stuffed in its stomach . . . plus oats, and a bit of gravy.”

She gave him a blank look. “And yet you still eat it.”

“As often as I can get it.” He peered into the pot at the lumpy, misshapen haggis. “This doesna look half bad.”

“Truly?”

“Let's have a look at your tatties, then.”

She blushed and crossed her arms over her chest. “What? Now? Here?”

“Not those. Your tatties. The potatoes,
mo chridhe
.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I did think it was a bit early in the day for all that.”

He caught the back of her apron and gave her a wicked look. “Trust me, it's never too early in the day for all that.”

As she reached for the potatoes, she fumbled one in her slippery fingers. It squirted out of her hands and nearly hit him in the head. Only his quick reflexes saved him.

“Oh! Sorry.”

“Let's have you out of the kitchen before someone gets hurt.” He unlaced the apron tied at the back of her waist and pulled it over her head. Then he picked up a towel, moistened it with water, and wiped her hands clean, one delicate finger at a time. “I canna fathom what possessed you to take this on this morning.”

“Can't you?” She looked up at him with a baleful smile. “I was excited about being Mrs. MacKenzie. Eager to slip into the role. But I don't know that I'll ever make a proper Highland bride.”

Logan cupped her cheek in his hand. He was on the verge of telling her she was the only wife he could ever want, proper Highland bride or no. But the words stuck in his throat just long enough for an explosive clatter to preempt them.

Bang.

Maddie gave a little cry of alarm and shrank close to him.

“Calm yourself,
mo chridhe
. It's only the haggis that's exploded.”

“I made an exploding haggis? Oh, Lord.”

He looked into the pot and tsked at the ruined pudding. “Before you put it in to boil, you need to give it a prick with a—­”

A savage roar echoed through the vaulted kitchen. Logan dropped the pot lid and wheeled around.

Jesus.

Grant had risen from the seat where he'd been chopping onions. The explosion must have startled him. He looked more wild-­eyed and terrified than Logan had seen him in months.

But one thing was different.

This time, Grant was holding Maddie. He had her wrapped in one arm, and with the other hand he held the kitchen knife to her throat.

“Where are we?” he asked. “What's happened? What's this place? Where are my bairns?”

Logan caught Maddie's eye.

“I'm all right,” she said softly. “I'm not afraid. He doesn't want to hurt me. He's only confused.”

Logan wished he could feel so certain of that. Between the explosion and the smell of blood hanging in the room, he could only imagine the hellish places Grant's mind might have taken him to, or what kind of enemy he might believe Maddie to be.

“Easy, Grant,” he said. “You're home in Scotland. The war's over.”

“No.” He swung his head back and forth. “No, no, no. Dinna give me that tale, Captain. Not again. Day after day it's the same. We'll go to Ross-­shire tomorrow, you tell me. Always tomorrow, never today.”

Logan swallowed a curse. Of all the times for Grant to stitch together a few pieces of his shredded memory. “Easy,
mo charaid
. Let's just calm ourselves, and sit down to a nice glass of—­”

“I want to know now!” Grant shouted, holding the blade's edge to Maddie's pale throat. “You tell me the truth, MacKenzie.”

“First, let the lass go. She doesna know anything.” Logan moved toward him, open hands raised. “I'll tell you the truth, but you must let her go.”

Grant shook his head, keeping Maddie in a tight grip. “Where are they? I want my children. My family. I want the truth.”

“Just tell him,” Maddie whispered. “Please.”

Logan steeled himself and looked his friend in the eye. “They're dead. They're all dead.”

“That's a lie.”

“No. We went there together, months ago. The wee ones perished of typhus a good year back. What remained of the village had been evicted. The houses were all burned out, and the survivors had been sent to Canada. Their ship sank in rough seas. There's nothing left.”

“No.” Grant pressed the knife to Maddie's throat. “No, you're playing me false. I'd remember that.”

“You saw their graves,
mo charaid
. To the side of the old kirk, beneath the rowan tree. I stood by your side as you wept and prayed for them.”

Grant's face contorted with anguish. The big man sobbed, and his grip on Maddie went slack.

Logan made eye contact with her. “Go.
Now
.”

She ducked under Grant's arm and escaped to the side of the room.

Before Grant could reach for her, Logan stepped in his way. “I'm the one you're angry with. Turn the knife on me.”

The big man gave an inhuman howl and did just that, charging forward and swinging the kitchen blade in a wide arc. Logan ducked fast enough to put himself out of harm's way, but he heard the swish of steel pass all too close to his ear.

“Logan!” Maddie cried.

Then Grant changed direction, charging again. Logan scrambled backward over the table, putting a barrier between them. They circled round it as Grant chased and Logan stayed on retreat.

Logan kept his voice even. “Madeline, leave the room.”

“No.”

“I said
go,
Maddie.”

“I'm not leaving you alone with him. Not like this.” Out of the corner of his eye, Logan saw her reach for an oversized wooden spurtle and lift it like a cricket bat.

Then his attention swung back to Grant.

From the other side of the table, the battered soldier leveled the knife with a trembling hand. “What's happened to my mind, Captain? I canna hold onto the days. They slip through my fingers. The last thing I properly recall, we were on the battlefield.”

“It was a mortar at Quatre-­Bras.”

“My head was ringing. It's still ringing. All the time, the ringing. The blood.” He struck himself with an open palm to the temple. “I told you to leave me. You should have left me.”

“I—­”

“You should have left me to die. Then I'd be with them now, not stuck in this hell. Feeling them die again and again. This is your fault.”

“I couldna leave you,
mo charaid
. We're brothers. Kin.
Muinntir
. We dinna leave one another behind.”

Grant's voice became a roar. “I told you . . . to leave me. Why did you not leave me?”

With his free arm, Grant lifted the short end of the table and overturned it, rushing forward. Logan was swept up in the momentum and smashed against the stone wall. He felt the swift burn of the blade slashing his flesh, but he couldn't let it slow him down. Gathering his strength, he caught Grant by the shoulders and shoved him back.

The big man tripped over the upturned table leg, and together they tumbled to the floor. Logan had the advantage now. He straddled Grant's torso, pinning his arms at his side. Holding him still.

“Breathe,
mo charaid
. Just breathe.”

He held his friend there, immobile, until a familiar cloudiness overtook his eyes.

And then, just as he had a thousand times since that mortar blast, Grant startled back to life.

“What's all this, Captain? Where are we?”

Logan almost choked on a wave of relief. “The war's over, Grant. We're home in Scotland. Safe.”

“Oh. Well, that's bonny.”

“Aye. So it is.” Panting, Logan moved to the side. When he moved to stand, he winced at the pain in his chest. He'd likely broken a few ribs when Grant had smashed him against the wall.

He turned, seeking Maddie. There she was, holding the spurtle like a weapon. Fully prepared to bludgeon her favorite person on Logan's behalf.

Sweet lass.

“Be easy,” he told her. “All's well now.”

She lowered the spurtle, but her face remained pale and wary. “Logan, you should be seated.”

“I'm fine. Just a bit shaken up.” He winced. “I might have a broken rib or two. Nothing that willna mend.”

“Logan, please. Sit down at once.”

Her voice was so cold and serious.

Even Grant kept staring at him.

“What is it?” he asked. “Have I grown a second head?”

Then again, it wasn't his head that seemed to be holding them rapt but something several feet lower. He followed Maddie's gaze downward.

Ah. So that's what had her so concerned. Grant's knife was embedded in his thigh. To the hilt.

Strange, that. He had been so focused on the ache in his ribs that he hadn't even noticed.

He stared down at it, feeling like a detached observer of his own body. When he spoke, his voice sounded distant to his own ears. “I expect Munro will want a look at that.”

He blinked. Twice.

And then the world went dark.