To Wed A Wild Scot

by Bradley, Anna

  “No,” he said, his tone clipped. “I don’t want you involved in this.”

  Juliana worried her lower lip. She could see argument was useless. She hadn’t been with Logan long, but she already recognized that stubborn set to his lips. “It is…dangerous?”

  Logan reached forward and gently pulled her lower lip free of her teeth. “Don’t harm it. I may want to bite it myself later.”

  He gave her that slow, seductive smile that usually distracted her, but this time Juliana held onto her wits. “I don’t like this, Logan.”

  His face softened. “You don’t need to worry for me, Ana. I’ll be fine.” He hesitated, then added, “But I’ll be late getting back to Graystone Court. I hope to return tonight, but it might be early tomorrow morning.”

  Tomorrow morning? What kind of business would take him away for an entire day and night?

  She opened her mouth to ask, but Logan pressed a finger to her lips to hush her. “You’ll have your hands full with Grace today. I’ve just come from seeing her, and the doctor was right. It’ll be difficult keeping her in bed. Take care of her, and I’ll be back before you’ve even missed me.”

  He raised her hands to his lips, then rose and went to the door.

  She watched him, a chill rushing over her skin. She had the strangest feeling once he walked out that door, she’d never see him again. “I will miss you.”

  Logan stopped and turned back to her. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I will miss you. I always do.”

  Logan heaved in a breath, then let it out again. He gazed at her, his blue eyes soft. He looked as if he was struggling to find the right words to tell her something, but when he did speak he said only, “I’ll miss you too, bhean ghràdhach.”

  Then he was gone, and Juliana was left alone.

  * * * *

  Logan had been right about Grace. By mid-afternoon there wasn’t a single storybook, game, or toy left in all of Graystone Court that could distract her. She fretted and squirmed and whined like a regular demon imp until Juliana was nearly driven to distraction.

  Grace was generally a sweet, cheerful child, but her aching arm and the long, dull day spent in her bed had driven her right into a temper. By the time the sun set at last, she’d worked herself into such a state there was nothing left for her to do but burst into a flood of tears.

  “Where’s Grandpapa? Why hasn’t he come to see me?”

  Juliana sighed. She’d explained to Grace her grandfather had died, and she knew Grace understood this meant he wasn’t coming back, but understanding a thing and feeling it in one’s heart was not the same thing. “Your grandfather is in heaven now Grace, with your papa and mama. We won’t get to see him anymore. We’ll miss him, but we can still love him even though he’s not here, and he’ll always love us and watch over us.”

  Tears stained Grace’s cheeks, and her lower lip was trembling. “You mean he won’t be able to play with me anymore?”

  “No, Gracie. He won’t. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  Juliana gathered Grace against her and soothed her with kisses and whispered words until at last Grace cried herself into exhaustion. Juliana tucked her snugly into bed and pulled the coverlet up to her chin.

  “We’re not going to live here anymore, are we?” Grace stared up at her with big, fearful dark eyes.

  “No, darling, we’re not. We’re going to go live at Rosemount. You remember Rosemount, don’t you?” Juliana had taken Grace there a few times in hopes her niece would grow to love the place as much as she did. “There’s a stream with a little bridge over it, and the prettiest little walled garden.”

  “The one with the yellow flowers?”

  Juliana smiled. “Daffodils, yes, and dozens of other pretty ones.”

  “Are there bluebells there?”

  Juliana cocked her head. “Hmm. I’m not sure, but we’ll certainly go searching for them next spring. Would you like that?”

  Grace didn’t answer. She was fussing with her coverlet, twisting the corner between her fingers. “Is Mr. Logan coming to Rosemount with us?”

  Juliana stilled. It made her chest ache to see how much Grace already loved Logan. Grace’s heart was so open, so loving, just as her mother’s had been. But Grace had already known so much loss. If she’d learned to love Logan only to have him leave, how would she bear it? How much loss could Grace endure before her heart closed?

  “Aunt Juliana? We won’t go without Mr. Logan, will we?”

  Juliana didn’t know what to say. Grace was carefully avoiding her gaze, as well—a sure sign the answer mattered very, very much to her.

  But Juliana didn’t know the answer.

  Logan had been wonderful yesterday. If it hadn’t been for his quick actions, Grace’s injuries would have been much worse than they were. Juliana hadn’t any doubt Logan loved Grace as much as Grace loved him.

  After last night, she would have sworn Logan loved her, too—that he was as deeply in love with her as she was with him. But if he loved her as she thought he did, why was he still keeping secrets from her? She’d been asking herself that question all day, and as afternoon and early evening wore on without his return, she grew more and more disillusioned.

  With every hour that passed, it became harder for Juliana to believe he’d remain in England with her. He’d have to give up everything to stay with her and Grace. Scotland, and his home and his clan. He was laird now, and Juliana knew better than anyone how devoted he was to his people, how seriously he took that obligation.

  Their marriage was never meant to be forever. She was his wife now, yes, but she had no real claim on him. If Logan chose to return to Scotland, she had no right to stand in his way.

  “Mr. Logan is coming to Rosemount with us, isn’t he?”

  Tears were filling Grace’s eyes again, as if she dreaded hearing the answer, and it tore Juliana apart to see them. Grace had given her heart to Logan as surely as Juliana had. It would be such a cruel turn of fate if she lost him, too.

  But Juliana had never once lied to Grace, and she wouldn’t start now. “I don’t know if he’ll come to Rosemount, Grace, but I hope he does.”

  Grace’s face twisted, but she raised her chin bravely and held back her tears. “I hope he does, too.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you love him, Aunt Juliana?”

  Juliana reached for Grace’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I do. Very much.”

  Grace sighed, and her eyes fluttered closed. Juliana thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she felt Grace’s little fingers wrap tightly around her hand. “I do, too.”

  * * * *

  Logan didn’t return to Graystone Court that night. He’d warned Juliana he might not, but as the hours dragged on, she found that to be little comfort.

  She remained beside Grace’s bed long after the child had fallen asleep. She must have slept herself, because at some point she woke with a start. The room was dark, and it took a few moments before Juliana could make sense of where she was.

  Grace’s bedchamber. Grace had had an accident, had broken her arm, and—

  Everything else came flooding back then.

  Just last night, she’d sat in this same chair with Grace’s hand in hers. She’d tried to talk to Logan, to tell him what was in her heart. Had she failed? He’d come to her last night, but then he’d left her again this morning without explaining where he was going, or why.

  She patted at Grace’s sleeping form until her hands found the child’s forehead. Grace’s skin was cool, and she was sleeping soundly. She was healing quickly, just as the doctor had promised. Perhaps tomorrow Juliana could let her leave her bed for a brief walk in the garden.

  Or maybe it was already tomorrow?

  Juliana rose and fumbled through the dark to the window on the other side of the room. She drew the drapes back to peek outside.
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br />   It was dark still, but the moon had sunk low, and the sky was already lightening. Juliana watched as the moon sank from view, giving way to the first tentative rays of the sun.

  It was tomorrow, and Logan still hadn’t returned.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The blood was going to be a problem.

  It was everywhere. His chest, his arm, his face—even his hair was matted with it. Damn it, there was no way he could hide this much blood from Juliana.

  A blood-soaked husband wasn’t the sort of thing a wife overlooked.

  Logan hadn’t realized how gruesome he was until he wandered into the stables and the lad who was mucking out the stalls caught a glimpse of him. The boy’s face turned white, and the rake in his hand slipped through his fingers and landed in the hay.

  “Zooks, sir, ye look like ye been in a right dust up!” He gaped at the bloodstains on Logan’s shirt, his eyes wide.

  Logan winced. If the stable boy was shocked at his appearance, Juliana was going to fall into a faint when she saw him. Or worse, she might burst into a flood of tears. Logan shuddered. He’d rather take another knife wound than see Juliana cry.

  It would be less painful.

  “Ye been in a brawl, sir?” The stable boy was young enough to think any brawl was good sport, but particularly such a wonderfully bloody one.

  “It was something like that, ah…what’s your name, lad?”

  “James, sir.”

  “James. Would you be so kind as to take my horse?” Logan handed over the reins. “He’s been out all night, so make certain he’s rubbed down and well fed.”

  James took the reins, but he was assessing Logan’s injuries with the narrow-eyed fascination of a devoted follower of the fancy. “That yer blood, or ’is?”

  Logan looked down at his shirt. “Mine.”

  “Oh.” James looked disappointed, but he added generously, “I’m sure ye done well enough, just the same.”

  Logan couldn’t help but grin at that. Boys were bloodthirsty savages. He’d been no different at James’s age. “I may be bloody, lad, but I was the only one of the two of us left standing by the end of the brawl.”

  “That right, then? Plant ’im a facer?” James rubbed his hands together with unmistakable relish. “Sounds like a right good mill.”

  “Good enough.” If it weren’t for the blood running down his arm, Logan would consider last night’s visit with Lord Cowden a resounding success. Then again, what were a few drops of blood compared to ninety-six acres of fertile land in Perth? Nothing at all. Not even worth thinking about.

  Still, his wounds stung like the devil, and they were the least of his problems. His blood-soaked shirt would frighten the wits out of Juliana if she happened to catch sight of him, and that was to say nothing of the uproar that would follow if Grace saw him.

  Well, then. He’d simply have to make sure that didn’t happen. Graystone Court was a large estate, with dozens of doors. How hard could it be to sneak inside without being seen? “Tell me, James. Have you seen your mistress yet today?”

  “Yes, sir. She were out a bit ago with Miss Grace, walking in the garden, but they went back inside.” James leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Ye’ll want to avoid ’er, I ’spect, ladies not being keen on blood. No gennelman wants that sort o’ mill, does ’e?”

  “Not if he can avoid it.” Logan knew he wouldn’t be able to hide his wounds from Juliana forever, but it would be far better for them both if he could wash and change before she saw him.

  James nodded wisely. “Well, I can’t say fer sure, ye see, but I ’spect her ladyship is with Miss Grace, in Miss Grace’s bedchamber. If ye go ’round the back to the music room and go up that staircase, I doubt she’ll see ye.”

  Logan breathed out a sigh of relief. “You’re wise beyond your years, James.”

  “Ye sure ye can make it all that way yerself, sir? Begging yer pardon, but ye’re looking a bit peaked.” James nodded at Logan’s arm. “Yer bleeding all over yerself.”

  Logan glanced down at his arm, his brows drawing tight at the fresh spurts of blood staining his shirt. It had soaked through the white linen sleeve, and was now doing its best to ruin a perfectly good pair of buckskin breeches. He’d tied his cravat in a tight knot above the gash, but it must be deeper than he’d realized. Clean, too, with smooth edges. A sharpened six-inch blade would do that.

  Damn thing would take ages to heal.

  His other injury wasn’t nearly as bad, though it stretched from under his arm all the way across the left side of his chest. It was a shallow cut, but bloody enough. For all that it wasn’t much more than a nasty scratch, it looked as if someone had sliced his chest in two and torn his heart out through the gap.

  Very well. Taken together, it was more than a few drops of blood.

  “I’ll be fine, but be a good man, James, and help me into my coat.” The brawl with Cowden’s manservant had left him bathed in sweat, and he’d been foolish enough to take his coat off. Later, when he’d been riding home and he’d become chilled from the blood loss he’d tried to put it on again, but his arm had grown so numb and stiff from the injury he hadn’t been able to manage it.

  “Yes, sir. Good thinking, sir. Yer coat will hide most of them bloodstains, eh?”

  “That’s the idea, James.”

  James held up the coat so Logan could slide into it, but it was tightly fitted to his arms and shoulders. Squirming into the cursed thing turned out to be a more painful business than Logan had anticipated. Worse, it opened up the wound in his chest, which started bleeding like the devil again.

  “P’haps this weren’t such a good idea after all, sir.” James eyed him doubtfully. “Ye looked like ye been drubbed when ye came in, and ye look even worse now. Bloodier, I mean.”

  Logan didn’t doubt it. These weren’t the worst injuries he’d ever sustained, but they were bad enough to disorient him. By the time he’d got within a few miles of Graystone Court he was shivering with cold, and so dizzy he was obliged to brace himself to keep from toppling off his horse.

  He drew his arm free of the coat with a grunt of pain. “Kind of you to say so, James.”

  “Beg pardon, sir. Mayhap I should help ye inside? Ye don’t look steady-like.”

  Help him? If he dallied any longer, James would have to carry him. “No, no. I’m fine. Thank you, James.”

  “Aw right, sir.” James grimaced as Logan swayed unsteadily. “If yer sure, sir.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Logan had been sure too, right up until he reached the house and tried to climb the stairs to his bedchamber. If they’d cooperated instead of tilting under his feet it might not have been such a challenge, but no amount of cursing would make them be still. By the time he’d staggered to the top he’d broken out into a cold sweat, and his vision had gone blurry.

  No sign of Juliana or Grace, though, and salvation was mere steps away.

  He stumbled down the hallway, found his bedchamber door, and managed to get inside and close it behind him without falling to his knees. He rang a servant, then went to the looking glass to assess the damage while he waited for someone to appear.

  His eyes widened when he saw his reflection.

  It was…a bit worse than he’d thought.

  Cowden’s servant had succeeded in landing a meaty fist on his jaw before Logan had felled him. It was now swollen to twice its size, and it had turned a disturbing shade of mottled red.

  As for the blood…

  Mo Dhia. How was he still standing?

  The first swipe of the blade had caught him in the upper arm, and his entire shirt sleeve from the shoulder to the wrist was soaked in blood. His chest was a mess as well, the stark white linen smeared with streaks of red gore. And on the side of his head, was that a…?

  Damn. How had he not noticed until now that the blackg
uard had tried to slice his ear off? He hadn’t succeeded, thankfully, but not from lack of trying. There was enough dried blood on Logan’s temple and in his hair for him to see it had been a near thing.

  Ah, well. Wagering was an ugly business, and here was the proof of it.

  Cowden had welcomed Logan into his home the evening before with the same apparent pleasure he always did, and he was as solicitous of Logan’s comfort as he ever was. Nothing but the best port and the most comfortable chair nearest the fire would do for Mr. Blair. Cowden couldn’t have been more charming if Logan had been Prinny himself.

  Right up until the moment Cowden began to lose money, that is.

  Lord Cowden was skilled at cards, and careful with his wagers. He didn’t drink while he played, his attention never wandered, and he didn’t let his nerves affect his strategy.

  Again, not until he began to lose. When Logan took several hundred pounds off him in one game, Cowden’s charming smile had dimmed. When the hundreds turned to thousands, his forehead had beaded with sweat. That was when his lordship’s icy control began to desert him.

  Just as Logan had predicted it would.

  He’d been watching Cowden over the past few days, carefully assessing his strengths and weaknesses. There weren’t many chinks in Cowden’s armor, but he had the one failing common to those addicted to wagering.

  As so often happened with gamers, a big loss led to panic. Panic led to recklessness, and recklessness led to even greater losses. When Logan offered Cowden a chance to win back the thousands he’d lost with a single high-stakes game of piquet, Cowden hadn’t hesitated.

  He’d wagered, and he’d lost.

  As it turned out, Lord Cowden wasn’t a gracious loser.

  He hadn’t wielded the blade himself. Knife fights weren’t gentlemanly, and they tended to be messy, what with all the blood. No, Cowden had sent a manservant after Logan instead. He was a big, hulking fellow, the sort who was handy in a brawl.

  Not as handy with a knife, though. Much too slow. Likely as not the man rarely had to resort to the blade, given the size of his fists. He was skilled enough to have drawn Logan’s blood, but if Cowden had sent the fellow after him to retrieve the paper he’d been obliged to hand over to Logan at the end of the evening, his man had not, alas, been skilled enough to accomplish it.