But she didn’t say yes. Not at first. She didn’t say a word. She gazed at him for a moment, and then…
Then she did something he didn’t expect.
She reached up and laid her palms against his cheeks.
Logan stared down at her. Her hands were soft and warm. A shiver ran through him at her touch, but it was nothing compared to what he felt when she rose to her tiptoes and pressed her mouth to his. It was the briefest brush of her lips, so soft he might have thought he’d imagined her kiss if it hadn’t echoed inside him, setting fire to everything it touched.
Jesus, his knees went weak. “Juliana?”
She looked down, took his hand, and closed it tightly between her small ones. When she raised her gaze to his again, her green eyes were filled with tears. “Yes, I’ll be your wife. Thank you, Logan. Thank you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Stokes stood in front of the horse the stable boy had saddled for Juliana, his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t like it, my lady.”
Juliana sighed. No, Stokes wouldn’t like it, would he? Between her disappearance the night she’d followed Logan to Castle Kinross and the Robertson farm debacle the next day, Stokes had taken to muttering darkly every time Logan crossed his path. “I see that, Stokes, but I can assure you despite appearances to the contrary, Mr. Blair is perfectly trustworthy.”
“He doesn’t look trustworthy. He looks like a scoundrel.”
“Hush, will you?” Juliana peered around the stable door into the yard. Logan was waiting for her, ready to escort her to the Sassy Lassie to retrieve whatever letters might be waiting there. “He’ll hear you.”
“Don’t care if he does hear me. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
Juliana bit her lip, but she couldn’t help herself. “How does he look at me?”
Stokes scowled. “Like a thief looks at a silk purse.”
Did he, indeed? Juliana suppressed a shiver. “Nonsense. You’re being ridiculous. Mr. Blair is a perfect gentleman.”
Perhaps that was just a tiny exaggeration, but Juliana wouldn’t admit that to Stokes. He wouldn’t hesitate to kick up a dreadful fuss if he thought she was putting herself into a rake’s hands. Logan wasn’t a rake, of course, but that’s how Stokes would see it, especially if he knew about that kiss.
“I can fetch your letters just as easily as you can, my lady.” Stokes’s lips were pressed into a stubborn line.
“Yes, yes, of course you can, Stokes, but…”
But I’m going to marry the man, so there’s no sense in drawing the line at riding to Inverness with him.
She hadn’t mentioned the betrothal to Stokes yet. Not that she was hiding it from him, of course. No, nothing so devious as that. She’d tell him soon. Just as soon as…
As soon as she and Logan were wed, and it was too late for Stokes to object.
“But what?” Stokes regarded her for a moment with narrowed eyes, then threw his hands up in the air. “If you’re up to any tricks, my lady, you’d better ’fess up right now, or—”
“Lady Juliana?” Logan peered around the side of the stable door. “If we’re going to get back to Castle Kinross by this afternoon, we’d better go.”
“Did you hear that, Stokes? If you keep me here arguing much longer, Mr. Blair and I will be riding back at dusk. Alone.” Juliana lowered her voice, so only Stokes could hear her. “Surely that’s not what you want.”
Stokes shot a dark look at Logan. “Don’t want you riding with him at all.”
Stokes didn’t make any effort to lower his voice. Logan heard him and looked from Juliana to Stokes and back again, a sly grin lifting one corner of his lip.
That wicked little grin was not helpful. Juliana shooed Logan back into the stable yard with a wave of her hand before Stokes could see it. “Now then, Stokes. Mr. Blair is the duke’s brother. Do you suppose His Grace would let me ride off with him if he wasn’t a proper escort?”
Stokes cast another threatening look in Logan’s direction, but this was the right argument to make. Stokes had known Fitzwilliam for years, and he wouldn’t dream of questioning His Grace’s judgment. He relented, and helped Juliana mount Domino. “If you’re not back by the afternoon, I’m coming after you.”
“Yes, yes. Very well,” Juliana called, keeping her impatient huff to herself as she rode out to meet Logan.
Once they’d cleared the stable yard and turned down the road toward Inverness, Logan said with a grin, “You know, my lady, I have the oddest feeling your manservant doesn’t like me.”
For pity’s sake. Between Logan and Stokes she’d be driven to madness before she made it halfway to the Sassy Lassie. “He doesn’t. He thinks you’re a scoundrel.”
“Ah. Well, he’ll be delighted when I become your husband then, won’t he? It’s going to be a long journey back to England.”
“He’ll settle down once we’re wed.” A lie, of course, but she wouldn’t allow herself to think about that now. Her marriage would secure Grace’s safety, and that was all that mattered. As for everything else, well, it would all come right in the end.
Somehow.
“You’re a terrible liar, Lady Juliana.” Logan’s grin widened, but he didn’t argue further. As they rode along in a comfortable silence, Juliana’s spirits lifted. Logan Blair certainly knew how to hold his tongue when the occasion called for it. Surely that was a desirable quality in a husband?
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so unpleasant, being married to him.
He had other redeeming qualities, as well. He’d fished her out of Ruthven Burn, instead of letting her drown. He’d done his best to protect her by taking her to Widow Macaulay’s instead of leaving her at the mercy of Dougal Robertson’s wicked reputation. He’d saved her from the rats in the secret passageway. He’d even helped her get Fiona from the Robertsons’ farm to Castle Kinross. Surely these were all points in his favor?
He’d agreed to marry her…
Juliana glanced at him and her throat closed, just as it always did when she thought of that moment under the Laburnum Arch. She’d never forget the flood of relief and gratitude she’d felt when instead of refusing her, Logan asked her to be his wife.
Fitzwilliam had told her Logan was an honorable man. Juliana hadn’t believed it at the time, but over the past week she’d seen another side of Logan. Yes, he’d stolen her letters, but he’d done it for the most unselfish reason—to protect his clan. That didn’t excuse his actions, yet Juliana understood the sort of love that drove a person to do something they otherwise wouldn’t have done.
It was the kind of love she had for Grace.
In some ways, she and Logan Blair were very much alike. Whether or not it was enough to build a friendship on remained to be seen, but Juliana was determined not to dwell on the early rancor between them.
He was to be her husband. She hadn’t made a promise to love him or to remain with him forever, but she’d privately vowed she’d do her best to become his friend.
She could manage that much, couldn’t she? She’d been raised to be appealing to gentlemen, and for all his rough edges, Logan Blair was a gentleman.
He could even be downright charming when he chose to be. She liked the way he’d talked to her of that Scottish sweet, cranachan, and of Castle Kinross’s cook, Mrs. Craig. Perhaps if she could get him talking about his home again, they’d eventually become more comfortable with each other.
She turned to him with a determined smile. “Tell me, Mr. Blair. Do you ride often to Inverness?”
His eyebrows rose at this formal enquiry, and Juliana’s cheeks flushed. She sounded absurd, addressing him as if they’d just been introduced at a ball, but how else did a lady become more familiar with a gentleman, other than polite chitchat? “You’re well acquainted with the proprietor at the inn there.”
He nodded. “I’ve known Fergus si
nce I was old enough to ride to Inverness with my father. On very cold days, Fergus used to sneak a tiny splash of whisky into my teacup when my father wasn’t looking.”
Whisky, for a child? Juliana tried to hide her shock. “My goodness. What would your father have done, if he’d caught you?”
“Thrashed me, maybe. Or maybe he’d have thrashed Fergus.”
He smiled at the memory, and Juliana pushed on, encouraged. “What was your father like? Was he a very stern man?”
Logan’s brows drew together thoughtfully. “I never thought of him like that, but he was, in his own way. He was…it’s difficult to do justice to him in words, but I worshipped him when I was a boy.”
“And as a man?” Juliana asked.
“As a man, I loved him,” he said simply. “I miss him. I wish Fitz had had the chance to know him.”
Juliana thought of the Duchess of Blackmore, how cold she’d always been to Fitzwilliam, and a small sigh escaped her. “I’m sure he wishes it, too.”
“What about you, Lady Juliana? Did you drink whisky as a child?”
Juliana laughed. “Whisky? No, certainly not.”
“What, you mean you didn’t have some wicked uncle or other who used to slip whisky into your tea?”
“No whisky for me, I’m afraid. If I’d had an uncle perhaps he would have made the attempt, but neither of my parents had any siblings.”
“No uncles, or cousins?”
“Not one. It was just me and my brother Jonathan.”
He frowned a little, as if that answer troubled him, but all he said was, “I think your brother must have been a fashionable gentleman, and you the belle of your season.”
“No, indeed. If I’d been the belle of my season, I wouldn’t have had to come all the way to Scotland for a husband.” Juliana paused, confused at the note of bitterness in her voice. She’d meant to say that lightly, but it hadn’t come out that way at all.
“You came here for Fitz, Lady Juliana. It’s not the same thing.”
Logan’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, and Juliana jerked her gaze to his face. Did he pity her? That didn’t sit well with her, and she forced a tinkling laugh. “No, it’s not the same, I suppose.”
They rode on for some time after that without speaking. Juliana tried to distract herself by admiring the early-blooming heather growing wild on the green hills of the moors, but even those pretty splashes of purple color didn’t lift her spirits.
Before she could stem the rush of emotion, an aching sadness washed over her.
She’d never had a season—never had a chance to be a belle. She’d been betrothed to Fitzwilliam from her cradle, so her father had deemed a season unnecessary. She hadn’t minded it, really. She’d never aspired to be a ton darling.
Still, she hadn’t imagined it would be so very difficult to secure a husband. For all her supposed charm, she hadn’t been able to bring either of her suitors up to scratch. There wasn’t, it seemed, a single gentleman in England who wanted to marry her.
England, or Scotland.
She jerked her reins, impatient with herself. It was pure vanity to fuss over it. She cared for Fitzwilliam and Hugh very much, but she hadn’t been in love with either of them. Neither of them had broken her heart.
But then neither of them had been in love with her, either. Perhaps that did bother her just a bit, as selfish as it was. Losing one betrothed to another lady was bad enough, but two? That was enough to make any lady question her appeal.
Now here she was with her third betrothed—a man she’d had to beg to marry her—and the best she could hope for from him was that he might become a friend.
A friend with firm lips, and captivating blue eyes…
Never mind his eyes.
Juliana pushed the thought aside before she could begin thinking of all his other…pleasing attributes.
Like his broad shoulders and long legs, his muscular chest—
No, no. This wouldn’t do at all. At best, Logan would become her friend, and one didn’t dwell on the firmness of her friend’s chest.
Not that a friend was anything to sniff at. She’d welcome another friend right now. Jonathan was gone, and so was his wife, Emma, who’d been Juliana’s dearest friend since childhood. She had Grace, of course, and Hugh and his wife, Isla, but she didn’t see the two of them much, and now it looked as if Fitzwilliam didn’t intend to return to England.
And it was only a matter of time before her father…
Juliana set her face forward, ignoring the telltale sting behind her eyes.
The doting father she’d loved had slipped away so gradually she hadn’t realized it was happening until one day she woke up and discovered she didn’t know him anymore. The nightmare over Grace had begun soon after that, and since then she’d been so angry with him, she almost felt as if she’d already lost him.
Since then she’d told herself over and over again all she needed was Grace, but the truth was, she’d be grateful for the chance to have Logan as a friend.
She drew in a deep breath to steady herself. She wanted to know him better—to talk to him about whatever nonsense he liked—whisky, or the Robertson boys, or Mrs. Craig—it didn’t matter what.
She turned toward him, but the words stalled in her throat.
He was staring at her with darkened blue eyes, a flush of color on his high cheekbones. Juliana thought he’d glance away when she caught him staring, but he didn’t. Instead his gaze swept over her face, lingering on her eyes and lips.
All at once the kiss they’d shared in Widow Macaulay’s bedchamber came rushing back to her. The warmth of his mouth against hers, the surprising softness of his lips. His hands tangling in her hair, his hot tongue teasing and stroking hers. Intense heat washed over her, staining her neck and rushing into her cheeks.
He hadn’t tried to kiss her again since that night. Once or twice she thought she’d seen a heated expression in his eyes when he looked at her, but she’d dismissed it as her imagination.
If he did want to kiss her again, he was doing a wonderful job resisting temptation. He hadn’t even kissed her hand when they’d become betrothed. She’d kissed him, but it had been quick—no more than a peck, really—and he hadn’t tried to take it any further than that.
Perhaps he didn’t want to kiss her again. Perhaps she’d done it wrong, or made a mess of it, despite having kissed other gentlemen before. She’d kissed Hugh once, when they’d become betrothed, and Fitzwilliam half a dozen times, when they were much younger and trying to determine whether the affection between them was simple friendship, or something more.
But never before had she been kissed the way Logan Blair had kissed her that night at Widow Macaulay’s. If anyone had asked her she couldn’t have explained it, except to say his kiss had been commanding, possessive, as if he knew she’d been kissed before and wanted to erase the memory of every other man’s lips, so only he remained.
Kissing Logan had been like falling into Ruthven Burn. One moment all was firm and steady beneath her feet, and then in the next she was flying, struggling for purchase and finding nothing but air to cling to. It had been wild and terrifying and overwhelming, but exhilarating, too, until the water closed over her head and she wondered, in the split second before Logan pulled her free, if she’d ever surface again.
“When do you intend we should wed?”
Juliana jerked her attention back to Logan. “Soon.”
“How soon?”
Juliana glanced at him, surprised at the huskiness in his voice. His jaw was rigid, and his big hands were tight around his reins. Was it possible he was as nervous about their upcoming nuptials as she was? “At the end of the week, perhaps?”
“The end of the week? That’s ages from now!”
Juliana’s eyebrows shot up. “Ages? It’s four days, Logan.”
He clea
red his throat. “I thought you wanted to return to England at once.”
She did want to get back to Surrey as soon as possible, but at the same time every one of her maidenly instincts shied away from a marriage to a man she’d only known for a week. Surely it would be best if they could take another few days to get to know each other before she was obliged to turn herself, body and mind, over to Logan’s protection?
Well, not her mind. She fully intended to keep possession of that herself, but the rest of her person would legally belong to Logan once they were wed, and that didn’t seem quite…well, it was a bit intimidating to think…that is, she’d just as soon not—
“Four days feels like ages to me, beag bòidhchead.”
Beag bòidhchead…
Juliana didn’t know what the words meant, but his low, hoarse murmur drifted up her spine, leaving shivers in its wake. “But we haven’t even told Fitzwilliam yet.” She and Logan had agreed to take a day or two to get accustomed to the idea themselves before informing him of their betrothal. “I thought another few days to get to know each other would be welcome. If we could become friends—”
“Friends? We’re not going to be friends, Juliana. We’re going to be husband and wife.”
The last word lingered on his tongue like a rough caress, and another shiver darted up her spine. “I know, but—”
“Are you trying to delay the wedding night, lass? You’ll only become more nervous about it if you do.”
Juliana turned to him in alarm. How in the world had he known what she was thinking? “I didn’t…I wasn’t…how did you know I was—”
“Thinking about our wedding night?” He laughed softly. “You’re as red as a gooseberry, Juliana. Nothing else could make you blush like that.”
“Well, I was just thinking…that is, I wondering if we…it’s not as if we have to—”
“Consummate? Oh, we’ll consummate the marriage, bòcan.”
Juliana worried nervously at her lower lip. He seemed to be following her thoughts with distressing accuracy.
“It’s not legal otherwise,” he added.
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