Elias In Love

by Grace Burrowes

  Elias could contemplate a transatlantic flight much more calmly than he had before his wedding. Violet was an intrepid traveler, having spent too many years in thrall to her farm. She’d even mentioned opening a distillery as part of the farm’s five-year plan, and Cousin Magnus and his wife Bridget had all but threatened to back the venture.

  “I’m taking you to bed,” Elias said. “I wouldn’t mind another trip to Scotland later in the year, but for now, the only place I want to be is in your arms and in our bed.”

  “Do you miss home, Elias?”

  He set her on the bed, then lay down beside her. That particular question was one she hadn’t put to him previously, but it was time to ask it of himself.

  Violet crouched over him—no prevaricating or changing the subject allowed apparently. As usual.

  “You would have made a good Scot,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “You have the perspective, the tenacity, the wiliness. I thought that Scottish legacy was my greatest asset.”

  “The past is important, and I love your Scottish legacy.”

  Elias had taken to wearing his work kilts around the farm, mostly to please his wife. “Important, yes, but I know better now. My greatest asset is your love, and the present and future I can share with you. The past has value, but to make a life’s work out of enshrining the past would have been a mistake.”

  “And this way, nobody has to deal with Max Maitland or his big ideas. You are wearing too many clothes, Elias Brodie.”

  Violet set about remedying that situation with her customary dispatch, and soon Elias’s clothing was heaped on the floor, along with his schedule for the afternoon, and the list of suggestions he’d intended to email to Jeannie.

  Ah, well. Jeannie apparently had her hands full dealing with Maitland and his big ideas, a situation Elias would investigate when next he was in Scotland. For now, all he wanted was to please his wife, build their future, and guard their dreams as fiercely as he’d once guarded a certain Scottish castle.

  As fiercely as he loved Violet and was loved by her in return. Elias’s last thought as Violet commenced a kissing spree that went farther south on his person the longer she persisted, was that Auld Michael and his Brenna had founded an empire that had thrived for ten generations.

  At the rate Elias and Violet were going, the eleventh generation would soon be making an appearance, and in all the ways that counted, the castle would still be there for them. The castle was not stones and bricks and parapets, any more than it was acres of crops or a weathered barn.

  The best castles, the castles worth defending, were all built of love and always would be.

  THE END

  To my dear Readers,

  I like to think that somewhere not far from my bide-o-wee in western Maryland, Elias and Violet are raising their rain-resistant lavender, as well as some really cool chickens, and a wee bairnie or two. Dunstan and Jane drop by for eggs, or just to visit on the front porch, and the relatives (Liam and Louise, Niall and Julie, Magnus and Bridget), take turns vacationing in Damson Valley too.

  If you’d like to catch up with those fine people, Magnus Cromarty’s story—Tartan Two-Step—is part of a two-novel ebook duet with ML Buchman, Big Sky Ever After. Dustan and Jane’s RITA -nominated novella (Kiss and Tell) appears along with Liam’s story (Dunroamin Holiday) in the novella duet Two Wee Drams of Love. Niall’s story (Love on the Links) is paired with a tale for Scottish farmer Declan MacPherson (My Heartthrob’s in the Highlands) in the novella duet Must Love Scotland, and all four novellas have been bundled into one volume ( Four Wee Drams of Love), which is available exclusively on my website store (and is the best bargain, just sayin’).

  I love Scotland, and for the final story in the Trouble Wear Tartan series, you’ve probably guessed that Max Maitland will end up in Scotland, where he’s managing restoration of Castle Brodie with the help of Jeannie Cromarty… or despite her help. I expect to have that story available for publication later this year or in early 2018.

  You can keep up with all my new releases, sales, and illustrious doin’s by signing up for the newsletter, following me on Bookbub, or catching up with me on social media. I’ve include an excerpt below from Tartan Two Step, and also a short scene from my June 2016 release, His Lordship’s True Lady. Thanks for spending this time with Elias and Violet, and, as always…

  Happy Reading!

  Grace Burrowes

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  Tartan Two-Step by Grace Burrowes

  Magnus Cromarty and Bridget MacDeaver shared a lovely, unplanned encounter that neither of them thought could lead anywhere, but now they’re finding that lovely, stolen pleasure has lead straight to trouble’s doorstep….

  Magnus wrestled with the notion that the woman he’d glimpsed for half a second in the open doorway had borne a delightful resemblance to Bridget.

  A girl had stood by her side. A little sprite with what looked like spaghetti sauce on her cheek and a crust of bread in her hand.

  Then boom—literally—the enormous door had slammed shut.

  It opened again. “Excuse my sister for her unique sense of humor,” a tall blond man said. “You must be Mr. Cromarty. Welcome.”

  Bridget—had that been Bridget?—was nowhere to be seen, but two other tall blond men were in evidence, trying to smile.

  “I am Magnus Cromarty. Have I found the Logan Bar ranch?” The turnoff to the drive was well marked, with a timber sign anchored in native stone, but that had been several miles ago.

  “You have,” the official greeter said. “I’m Luke Logan, and these are my brothers, Shamus and Patrick. I’ll show you around your new home away from home, and if you have any luggage—”

  “I’ll show him around.”

  Bridget stood on a flight of steps leading from a truly impressive room. The American West was embodied in this room as a rugged, lovely, comfortable haven. The woman on the steps was furious, though, and nothing would protect Magnus from her wrath.

  Which made no sense.

  “Thank you,” Magnus said. “I wouldn’t want to put anybody to any bother.”

  Bridget descended the rest of the steps and clomped to the front door. “You won’t be any bother at all, I can guarantee you that, mister. Luke, fetch his gear. Patrick, see to your daughter. Shamus, you can start cleaning up supper before the cats get after the pepperonis.”

  These must be the infamous brothers, though they scurried off at her command like chastened puppies.

  “Bridget?” Magnus didn’t dare touch her, though he wanted to. She had clearly added him to the list of men with whom she was furious, and he had no intention of remaining on that list.

  “That would be me,” she said, rounding on him. “What sick sense of humor inspires a man to charm his way right into the enemy’s skivvies, Magnus? I don’t expect much from the male of the species, but that’s a new low in my experience.”

  “How did I become your enemy?”

  “We’ll discuss that later, when my brothers aren’t lurking in the bushes, thinking up more inspired ways to ruin my life.” She snatched a patchwork quilted jacket from a peg on the wall and flounced out the door.

  A gentleman didn’t argue with a lady, not when her expression promised to geld him at the first opportunity. Magnus followed Bridget across the driveway to a handsome stone and timber house with a roofed porch. Luke Logan followed with Magnus’s suitcase and carry-on.

  “Thank you,” Magnus said.

  “Your groceries got here a couple hours ago,” Luke said. “If you need anything, we’re just a—”

  “Beat it, Luke,” Bridget said. “Braveheart and I are due for a parley.”

  Luke’s gaze skittered from his sister to Magnus. “You two know each other?”

  “No,” Bridget said, just as Magnus answered, “We’re acquainted.”

  “That’s… that
’s good, I hope,” Luke said, taking himself down the steps. “Bridget, we’ll save you a slice of pie.”

  That was a warning of some sort, obvious even to Magnus, who had no siblings.

  “Inside,” Bridget said, producing a key from the pocket of her jeans. “Get inside and prepare to explain why in the hell I should give you the time of day much less a tour of my distillery.”

  Her distillery? “Because,” Magnus said, “if ever you should come to Scotland, I’d be happy to give you a tour of my facilities.”

  “I’ve seen your facilities, Magnus. I never want to tour them again.”

  * * *

  Bridget’s sense of betrayal was wonderfully righteous, and yet, a stupid corner of her heart hoped that Magnus hadn’t spent the night with her in anticipation of stealing her distillery. Then too, her rage felt a little too good, a little too handy.

  She had many, many reasons to be angry, and they weren’t all Magnus’s fault, even if he was in Montana to take her business from her.

  He leaned against the guesthouse kitchen counter, looking windblown and wary in his jeans and a flannel shirt. He also looked tired.

  “Are you hydrating?” Bridget asked.

  “Bridget, I’m not a sot.”

  Did anybody sound as offended as an indignant Scot?

  “The elevation here is nearly a mile above sea level,” Bridget said, opening the fridge. “If you’re used to living at lower altitudes, then you need time to adjust. You’re also probably not accustomed to how dry it can be here.”

  She filled a glass half way with organic raspberry juice—he could afford organic raspberry juice, of course—and topped it off with seltzer water.

  “Drink that.”

  He crossed his arms. “Not unless you join me, Bridget. You told your brother that you and I are due to parley. That means discussion, not you giving orders while the rest of the world scurries to do your bidding.”

  She took a sip of his drink, realized what she’d done—damn, it was good—then shoved it at him.

  “Nobody scurries to do my bidding, Magnus. That’s a problem I aim to fix. The Logan brothers suffer a deficit of scurry-ness, but they’re educable, given enough patience and a cattle prod.”

  “Right now, one of them is cleaning up the kitchen; the other is seeing to the child. Luke is making sure there’s a piece of pie waiting for you when you hop on your broomstick and rejoin them at the dinner table.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think they scurry better than you notice. This drink is exquisite.”

  Real men didn’t describe fruit drinks as exquisite, but Bridget had every reason to know that Magnus was a real man.

  She fixed herself a glass and put the juice and fizzy water back in the fridge. Magnus had ordered a crisper full of fresh veggies, several different kinds of cheese, artisan bread, butter, eggs, and…

  And Bridget was snooping, so she closed the door to the refrigerator and put on her trial-lawyer face.

  “You want to talk,” she said, “I’ll listen.” She’d hated the courtroom, but had found that out only after devoting three years of her life and all of her savings to law school.

  Magnus held a chair for her at the small round table by the window. Bridget pulled the curtains closed, lest any nosy brothers get to spying, and took a seat. Magnus sat across from her, and for a moment, she battled with the pleasure of simply beholding him.

  She’d parted from him yesterday morning, telling herself she’d stored up a fine little memory, but she’d also stored up a fine little heartache to go with it. She liked Magnus—or liked the Magnus she’d met at the Bar None—and had steeled herself against never seeing him again.

  Now, she wanted to know if there was a way to keep liking him without losing her distillery or her pride.

  Order your copy of Tartan Two-Step!

  And read on for a sneak peek from my June release, His Lordship’s True Lady…

  His Lordship’s True Lady by Grace Burrowes

  Lily Ferguson’s finishing governess had warned her that a young lady must appear pleasantly fascinated with scandals and engagement announcements, no matter that they bored her silly.

  “Aspic and small talk,” Lily muttered.

  They were equally disagreeable. Fortunately, the Earl of Grampion’s dinner party was lively and the general conversation loud enough to hide Lily’s grousing.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear?” Neville, Lord Stemberger, asked. Because his lordship apparently longed for an early death, he leaned closer to Lily’s bosom to pose his question.

  At the head of the table, a footman whispered in Lord Grampion’s ear. The earl was a titled bachelor with vast estates in the north. Thus, his invitations were coveted by the matchmakers.

  Then too, he was attractive. On the tall side, blond hair with a tendency to wave, blue eyes worthy of a Yorkshire summer sky, and features reminiscent of a plundering Norseman. Strikingly masculine, rather than handsome.

  Perhaps he had bad teeth, for the man never smiled. Lily would ask Tippy for details regarding the Kettering family, for Tippy studied both Debrett’s and the tattlers religiously.

  Lily had found Grampion a trifle disappointing when they’d been introduced. His bow had been correct, his civilities just that—not a spark of mischief, not a hint of warmth in his expression. Many handsome men were dull company, their looks excusing them from the effort to be interesting, much less charming.

  Lily’s musings were interrupted by the sensation of a bug crawling on her flesh. Lord Stemberger’s pudgy fingers rested on her forearm, and he remained bent close to her as if entirely unaware of his own presumption.

  At the head of the table, Grampion rose and bowed to the guests on either side of him, then withdrew.

  Excellent suggestion.

  Lily draped her serviette on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord. I’ll return in a moment.” Thirty minutes ought to suffice to fascinate Lord Stemberger with some other pair of breasts.

  She pushed her chair back, and Lord Stemberger, as well as the fellow on her right, half rose as she departed. So polite of them, when they weren’t ogling the nearest young lady or her settlements. Across the table and up several seats, Uncle Walter appeared engrossed in an anecdote told by the woman to his right.

  Lily made her way down the corridor, intent on seeking refuge in the women’s retiring room, but she must have taken a wrong turning, for a raised male voice stopped her.

  “Where the devil can she have got off to?” a man asked.

  A quieter voice, also male, replied briefly.

  “Then search again and keep searching until—Miss Ferguson.” The Earl of Grampion came around the corner and stopped one instant before knocking Lily off her feet. “I beg your pardon.”

  A footman hovered at his lordship’s elbow—a worried footman.

  “My lord,” Lily said, dipping a curtsey. “Has somebody gone missing?”

  “Excuse us,” Grampion said to the footman, who scampered off as if he’d heard a rumor about free drinks at the nearest pub.

  “No need for concern, Miss Ferguson, this has been a regular occurrence for the past week. My ward has decided to play hide-and-seek all on her own initiative, well past her bedtime, after promising me faithfully that she’d never, ever, not for any reason—I’m babbling.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I beg your pardon. The child will be found, I’ve no doubt of it.”

  This was the polite, chilly host to whom Lily had been introduced two hours ago? “How old is she?”

  “Almost seven, though she’s clever beyond her years. I found her in the hayloft last time, and we’d been searching for hours. The nursery maids don’t think she’d leave the house at night.”

  No wonder he was worried. Even Mayfair was no place for a lone six-year-old at night. “How long has she been missing?”

  His lordship produced a gold pocket watch and opened it with a flick of his wrist. “Seventeen minutes. The senior nurse
ry maid tucked the girl in at precisely nine of the clock—for the third time—and was certain the child had fallen asleep. She went back into Daisy’s bedroom to retrieve her cap precisely at ten, and the little imp wasn’t in the bed.”

  “You could set the guests to searching.”

  Grampion snapped the watch closed. “No, I could not. Do you know what sort of talk that would start? I’m supposed to be attracting a suitable match, and unless I want to go to the bother and expense of presenting my bachelor self in London for the next five Seasons, I cannot allow my tendency to misplace small children to become common knowledge.”

  Lily smoothed back the hair he’d mussed, then tidied the folds of his cravat, lest some gossip speculate that he’d been trysting rather than searching for this ward. He was genuinely distraught—why else would he be baldly reciting his marital aspirations?—and Lily approved of him for that.

  For resenting the burden and expense of a London Season, she sympathized with him, and for his honesty, she was at risk for liking him.

  And that he’d blame himself for misplacing the child… Lily peered up at him, for Grampion was a tall specimen.

  “Where is your favorite place in the house?” she asked.

  “I don’t have a favorite place. I prefer to be in the stables, if you must know, or the garden. When the weather is inclement, or I have the luxury of idleness, I read or tend to correspondence in my study.”

  His complexion was a touch on the ruddy side, the contours of his features a trifle weathered now that Lily could study him from close range. As a result, his eyes were a brilliant blue and, at present, full of concern.

  “Come with me,” Lily said, taking him by the hand. “That you found your ward in the stable is no coincidence. You say she’s been in your home for only a week?”