by Tessa Dare
She climbed down from the stepstool and clapped the dust from her hands. The letters search would have to wait for another time. Logan had probably taken them with him in that black knapsack. She hadn't been able to find it, either.
She crossed the room and took Grant by the arm. "Do your children like shortbread?"
"O'course they do. Never seen the bairn what doesna like shortbread."
"Let's go down to the kitchen. I think Cook has prepared some fresh this morning, and I could do with a cup of tea. And while we eat, I'd love for you to tell me all about them."
It was hours past nightfall when Logan finally reached the glen. He hadn't intended to travel by night, but the moon was near full, and the prospect of camping on the damp heath didn't particularly appeal.
Not when there was a warm bed waiting for him at Lannair Castle.
He'd given her time. She'd had her opportunity to rest. He wasn't sleeping on the damned floor tonight.
A bleary-eyed footman let him in the side stairway. Logan felt as weary as the manservant looked, but instead of going straight up to bed, he stopped on the first landing and peeked into the High Hall. There he did a silent count of the men as they slept. It was an old habit from his days of watching over cattle and sheep as a youth, and one he'd never abandoned as a commander of troops. He'd never lost a lamb or calf, and he'd never left a soldier behind, either.
One, two, three, four. . .
He counted twice and still came up one short.
Grant was missing.
Christ.
His weary heart kicked into a faster rhythm, and he crossed the length of the hall. When he found out who'd shirked his duty tonight, that someone's bollocks were getting a sharp twist.
But truly, Logan had no one to blame but himself. He never should have left them on their own. After tonight, he ought to start posting a man as sentry. This was a bloody castle, after all. A military fortress. Perhaps he ought to be running it that way.
As he searched the nearest rooms, he sent up a silent prayer. Grant couldn't have wandered far, could he? Hopefully he hadn't wandered out into the night. If he lost his way on the moors and his mental slate wiped clean . . .
A soft noise reached his ears.
A voice, murmuring.
No, voices.
He followed the low, soft rumble of indistinct conversation down the corridor to where it ended with a flight of steep stairs. The voices were coming from the kitchen.
As he crept down the stairs, the murmuring grew more distinct, and the knot of worry in his chest began to loosen. He recognized Grant's voice.
"Squeal louder, lass. Squeal louder."
And then a ripple of soft feminine laughter.
When he turned the corner, he saw them there. Grant and Maddie. Seated together at the table, huddled around two mugs and a single lamp.
Logan braced himself against the archway as the emotions pummeled him. He was relieved and incensed at the same time. He'd been worried that Grant could have harmed himself. Now he knew it was even worse--he could have harmed Madeline.
"Good evening," he said.
Her head whipped up. "Logan. You're home."
God. The words set his world spinning. She almost sounded happy to see him. And those words.
Logan. You're home.
He'd never expected to hear those words. Not in all his life.
And damn, she looked lovely. She was wearing only a dressing gown wrapped tight over her nightrail. Her hair was a loose plait draped over one shoulder. Soft, dark tendrils worked loose, framing her face with curls.
But something else drew his gaze and held it.
Her braid was tied not with a scrap of plain muslin but with a bit of plaid.
His plaid.
It was all too much. His sense of relief at finding them both safe. The softness in her eyes, the welcome in her voice. That swatch of his tartan in her hair. He'd traveled long and hard to be here tonight, and it all just made him feel he might collapse.
And what was he going to do? Take her in his arms and tell her he'd missed her every moment he'd been gone? Tell her how jealous he was that Grant could make her laugh with that stupid joke, when Logan hadn't managed it once?
Of course not. Because those things would be reasonable, and he couldn't hold on to a shred of sense around her. Because when someone so blithely offered him the one thing he'd been denied all his life and had sworn to never crave, his first impulse had to be distrust. And anger.
Stupid, unreasoned anger.
"What's going on here?" he demanded.
"We're just talking," Maddie said. "Are you hungry? I could get you some--"
"No."
"She's making me a sketch of the bairns." Grant lifted the paper and showed it to him proudly. "Look at that. It's just like 'em the day I kissed 'em good-bye. I suppose they've got bigger now."
Logan took the paper and examined it. He didn't have his spectacles on, but even without them he could see the skill in her drawing. Two fair-haired children, one boy and one girl, holding hands beneath a rowan tree.
"Say, can we go to Ross-shire tomorrow?" Grant asked. "I'm keen to see them for myself."
"Aye, mo charaid. Tomorrow. For tonight, it's time to sleep. Go on, then. The others are just up the stairs."
Grant nudged him with an elbow as he moved past. "Do you know you're married to her?" he asked, tilting his head toward Maddie.
Logan gave her a look. "Yes."
The big man reached out and ruffled Logan's hair. "Lucky bastard."
Once Grant had left, Maddie quietly rinsed the teacups and put them away. She moved the lamp to a hook, wiped the table clean, and hung the towel to dry. All in silence.
She was avoiding him.
Very well, then. Logan would wait. He had all night.
When she finally turned to him, he lifted the sketch of Grant's children. "What is the meaning of this?"
"I beg your pardon." She frowned. "I gave that to Grant. It's his."
"He'll forget in ten minutes. He's not going to miss it."
"Perhaps not, but he's missing them. They're his children."
Logan shook the paper as he advanced on her. "This is not the way to help. What good does it do? It's only going to upset him, wondering where they are."
"Perhaps talking about the memories will help his mind to heal."
"It's been over a year. He's not going to heal. He needs consistency. A safe, familiar place where he won't be agitated all the time."
Maddie circled to his side of the table and leaned her weight on the edge. She crossed her arms over the front of her dressing gown and regarded him with that solemn, searching expression. Looking for his empty spaces.
"So this is why it's so important to you," she said, "for the two of us to keep up appearances. To be properly married. It isn't only about the land. If Grant believes you've had your happy homecoming with the sweetheart who sent you letters, you can keep him believing that his own happiness is just around the corner. That you'll take him to Ross-shire to see his nan and the wee ones. Always tomorrow. Never today."
Logan didn't try to dispute it. He wasn't ashamed. "I just want him to be at peace. As much as he can be."
"But you can't lie to him forever, Logan. What happens when he starts to get older? When he looks around to see that everyone's hair is gray, and his hands are spotted with age, and his friends have all married and had children--even grandchildren--of their own?"
Logan sighed heavily and pushed both hands through his hair. "We have years before that happens."
"But it will happen. You're telling yourself you can keep him safe. You can't." She took the sketch from his hand and set it aside. "I know what it is to live in a world built from lies, Logan. It's anything but comforting. It means living in constant fear. At any moment, the slightest thing could bring it all crashing down. It's not good for Grant, and it's not good for you, either."
"It's not your place to make that decision."
The mere mention of caring gave Logan's heart a kick and sent it spinning to some uncharted place.
"I can, and I will."
She huffed out her breath in silent disagreement.
He leaned in, bracing his hands on the table. "You shouldna be alone with him. He's a big man, with unpredictable moods and an addled memory. There's no telling what could happen. When I came around that corner and saw the two of you . . ."
She tipped her head to one side and looked up at him through that fringe of dark lashes. "You were worried for me. I know. It's sweet."
He clenched his jaw. "It isna sweet. I saw a dangerous situation. I reacted."
She dropped her eyes and touched the lapel of his coat. "I was worried about you, too. We expected you home yesterday, Logan. It's why I'm down here with Grant at all tonight. Passing the time."
Holy God.
Her fingertips touched a button on his coat. "It would be natural to be frightened."
"I wasna frightened. I'm angry."
"I can see that." Her eyes lifted to his. "But I don't understand why."
Logan didn't understand it, either. Any more than he understood how much he'd thought of her in the past three days. He was losing control, and he hated losing control.
And since he didn't seem to have any hope of regaining it, he'd decided he'd settle for making her lose control, too.
He leaned forward, capturing that lush, pink mouth in a possessive kiss. She didn't need any coaxing to kiss him back. Her lips parted beneath his, and when he slid his tongue deep, her tongue moved forward to welcome his.
Yes.
God, he wanted her.
He put his arms around her and gathered her to him, running his hands over the quilted velvet of her dressing gown and tugging at the knotted belt.
"What are you doing?"
He didn't answer. He just kept on doing, expecting his intent would become perfectly clear.
He pulled the belt loose and let the length of braided fabric drop to the floor. Then he slid his hands inside her dressing gown to meet the cool, crisp linen of her shift--and the soft, pink heat of her body beneath it.
He smiled against her mouth. She was only wearing one shift tonight.
With a low, weary groan, he dipped his head and began to draw a line of kisses down her neck. He skimmed one hand down the firm slope of her thigh, gathering the muslin and giving it an upward tug.
"Logan," she gasped.
If she meant him to stop, she was going about it all wrong. He loved hearing his name from her lips. It made his blood pound. His cock came to attention, hardening beneath the heavy weight of his kilt.
"You said you'd give me time," she said. "Time to find another solution. I can't let this happen."
"It's already happening." He reached beneath her shift, stroking the tantalizing curve of her calf and teasing the hollow of her knee. "You want this, mo chridhe. I know you do. Oh, you can try to deny it with words. But if I were to touch you, right now, is that the same tale your body would tell? Or would I find you hot and wet and trembling beneath my fingertips?"
He skimmed his touch higher, climbing the silky expanse of her thigh. She sighed, and her flesh quivered beneath his fingertips. So soft. So sweetly warm.
"Tell me you didn't miss me," he whispered. "Tell me you don't want my touch."
"Logan, I can't . . ."
When her voice trailed off, he kissed her, deciding to end the sentence right there.
No, you can't, lass. You can't tell me that because it isn't true. You want me every bit as much as I want you.
He had to believe that, or he'd go mad.
He ran a caress up her thigh and settled his touch at the heart of her. His fingertips slid easily up and down her crease. She was ready for him, just as he'd known she would be.
She gasped and clutched his arms with both hands. "Logan . . ."
"Just this, mo chridhe. Just touching."
In acquiescence, she let her head fall forward to rest on his shoulder. Her breathing had grown rough, needy.
He parted her folds with a gentle touch, slipping a finger into her heat. God, she was tight. So tight, and so wet. She gave delicious little gasps of pleasure as he slowly worked his finger in and out, delving deeper by incremental degrees. When he slid fully inside and the heel of his hand made contact with her mound, her hips bucked. He kept still, giving her a moment to adjust to the sensation, grinding his palm against her most sensitive place.
And then he went still, waiting.
Come along, then. You're a clever lass. You know what your body wants.
Soon enough, she began to roll her hips. Riding his finger. Rubbing her mound against the heel of his hand. Chasing the sensation, just as he'd known she would.
Her shameless pursuit of pleasure made him wild. His cock pushed against the rough weave of his plaid. Every whisper of friction sent a thrill to the base of his spine. He'd never craved release so desperately in all his life. Not even as a randy youth.
Small puffs of her breath caressed his neck. She lifted her head and looked up at him with those dark, sleepy, enticing-as-anything eyes. Her shy, pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.
He couldn't keep silent any longer. Words started to tumble from his lips. Tender words, crude words. Words he would disclaim when he recalled them in the morning. All in Gaelic, thankfully.
She would have laughed to hear him confessing how often he'd thought of her in his absence. She would have doubted when he said no other woman had made him this achingly hard. And if she ever heard him comparing her dewy lips to the first blush of heather on a Highland summer morn, it would ruin everything.
But he couldn't help himself.
She made his blood catch fire.
"Maddie a ghradh. Mo chridhe. Mo bean."
She lifted her arms and laced her fingers at the back of his neck. And then she drew him forward, drowning him in her kiss.
Her hips rolled, and he moved with her, adding a second finger as he plunged into her eager body again and again. Her tongue tangled with his, searching and desperate. Her fingernails bit into his neck.
Logan thought he might spend right then and there.
No sooner had he thought it than she shifted her weight, leaning back on the table. Her thigh came in contact with the aching curve of his cock. And even with the layers of velvet, linen, and wool between them--that, plus the pulsing heat enveloping his fingers, was enough to send him right to the edge.
He fought the urge to grind against her until he reached climax. He hadn't come into the folds of his kilt since he was a lad of fifteen, and he wasn't about to do it now. To lose control that way . . . it would be too much like surrender.
He was in command here.
"Come, mo chridhe," he whispered. "I need to feel you come for me."
Her body went rigid, save for a delicious tremor in her thigh that let him know her peak was near. He kept his rhythm steady, ignoring the soreness in his wrist and the ache of unspent need in his groin.
She bit her lip, and her eyes squeezed shut.
"That's it. Let it happen."
And then he felt it. Her body seizing around his fingers, shuddering with the bliss of orgasm. The cries of pleasure she made were timid and subdued, but no less arousing for it.
When she slumped against him, limp with pleasure and damp with sweat, he told himself the balance of power had been restored.
He slipped his fingers free of her body and pulled her shift back down over her knees.
"The other day," he said, caressing her back, "you told me Becky had made up a bedchamber for me."
She nodded drowsily against his chest.
"I'll sleep there tonight."
"No, no." She lifted her head. "Logan, you needn't be alon
e."
"You just told me you still wanted time."
"That's not what I mean." Her hand pressed against his chest. "There's more than one way to share pleasure, and there's more than one way to share a heart."
"I've told you--"
"And you lied. You loved someone once. Enough to want to marry her. Enough to carry a memento of her with you for years, through battle and worse." She pounded his chest with the flat side of her fist. "I know there's something in there, you stubborn creature. That beneath that hard exterior, you're nothing but squish. You're not fooling me."
He made his voice cold. "You're fooling yourself."
"Perhaps." She shrugged and looked away. "I suppose it wouldn't be the first time."
The truth of it was, he was a coward. Too afraid to admit that whatever remained of his dark, shriveled heart was growing involved.
Maddie had a great deal about him wrong, but maybe she was right about a few things. Perhaps Logan wasn't quite as empty inside as he'd wanted to believe. And that thought scared him. He didn't want to need her, not that way. If he needed her, that gave her power over him, and he'd danced long enough at the end of her string.
All those letters, all those years.
All that wanting and yearning she'd rekindled in him . . .
Only to be left for dead.
The senseless anger swirled in him. The urge to hold her, punish her, pleasure her, possess her. Tonight, he would be a greater danger to her than Grant could ever pose.
He gathered what willpower remained to him and stepped back. "Good night, mo chridhe. Take yourself up to bed. And when you get there, bar the door."
Chapter Fifteen
Over breakfast the next morning, Rabbie cocked an eyebrow at him. "Still no progress on the bedding front?"
Logan stared straight forward. He refused to acknowledge the question.
"That's a no, I take it."
"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."