When a Scot Ties the Knot Page 7

  "I expect it's probably some man of business," Munro said. "Don't all English ladies have men of business?"

  "Do you see that team of bays?" Fyfe put in. "That's no working man's coach-and-four."

  Logan remained quiet. He didn't know who Maddie's visitor might be. But he meant to find out.

  "Lord Varleigh." Maddie dropped a curtsy. "Do come in. It's always a pleasure to see you."

  "The pleasure is mine, Miss Gracechurch."

  Miss Gracechurch.

  The words gave Maddie pause. Was she still Miss Gracechurch? Should she correct him?

  Maddie decided against it. It was too complicated to explain right now, and Lord Varleigh would likely be gone before Logan even noticed he was here.

  With any luck, she might never need to change her name to Mrs. MacKenzie at all.

  Lord Varleigh cleared his throat. "Might I see the illustrations?"

  "Oh. Yes. Yes, of course."

  Heavens. Would she never lose this awkwardness? She'd had enough conversations with Lord Varleigh over the past year to know he was an intelligent and thoughtful gentleman, but he was also rather an imposing one. Something about his dark, inquisitive eyes and groomed fingernails always made her a bit nervous.

  Focus on the work, Maddie. He's here for the illustrations, not for you.

  She gathered the folio and carried it to a wide, flat table to lay it open. "As we originally discussed, there are ink drawings for each species in different perspectives."

  She stood to the side as he paged through her work. Methodically and slowly, as any good naturalist would do.

  "What's this?" he asked, arriving at a watercolor near the end of the stack.

  "Oh, that. I took the liberty of combining some of the species and doing a few plates in color. I know they can't be printed in the journal, but I thought you might like to have them. If not, I'll keep them. They were mostly for my own amusement."

  "I see." He tilted his head as he looked at them.

  At last, Maddie could bear the suspense no longer. "Do the sketches not meet with your approval? If you don't like them or they're not right, there's still time. I can make changes."

  He let the folio cover drop shut and turned to her. "Miss Gracechurch, the sketches are remarkable. Perfect."

  "Oh. Good." Maddie exhaled with relief and just a touch of pride.

  For the most part, she illustrated for the love of it, and for the pleasure of contributing to knowledge--not for applause. Not that there were a great many people queuing up to applaud scientific illustrators, anyhow.

  But Lord Varleigh's praise meant something to her. It meant a great deal. He made her feel she'd done something right, despite spending yesterday dealing with a Highlander determined to punish her for her every youthful folly.

  "I'm hosting a gathering at my home next week to unveil the specimens," Lord Varleigh said, packing up her illustrations and the glass-boxed samples she'd worked from. "I've invited all the members of the naturalist society, Orkney included."

  "It's to be a salon, then?"

  "More of a ball."

  "Oh." A cold sense of dread washed over her. "A ball."

  "Yes. There will be supper and a bit of dancing. We must provide some amusement for the ladies, you see, or they will boycott the evening altogether."

  Maddie smiled. "I'm not much of a lady, then. I'm uninterested in dancing, but I would be fascinated by your display."

  "Then I hope you'll attend."

  "Me?"

  "I have a good friend who'll be visiting. Mr. Dorning. He's a scholar in Edinburgh, and he's compiling an encyclopedia."

  "An encyclopedia?"

  Lord Varleigh nodded. "Insects of the British Isles, in four volumes."

  "Be still my heart. I do love a book with multiple volumes."

  "Does that mean you're interested?"

  "Naturally. I should love to see the work when it's finished."

  He smiled. "Miss Gracechurch, we seem to be misunderstanding one another. I'm asking if you'd be interested in meeting my friend so that he might consider engaging your services for the project. As an illustrator."

  Maddie was stunned. An encyclopedia. A project of that size would mean steady, interesting work for months. If not years. "You'd truly do that for me?"

  "I'd consider it a favor to him, frankly. The quality of your work is exceptional. If you are able to attend our gathering next week, I should be pleased to make the introduction."

  She bit her lip. What a chance this could be for her, but . . .

  A ball.

  Why did it have to be a ball?

  "Could I not pay a call earlier in the afternoon?" she asked. "Or perhaps the following morning. It would seem a shame to interrupt your amusements with talk of work."

  "The work is the reason for the gathering. You wouldn't be an interruption." His hand brushed her wrist. "I'll look out for you, I promise. Do say yes."

  "I have a question," a deep voice interrupted. "Does this invitation extend to me?"

  Oh, Lord.

  Logan.

  After a brief, assessing pause in the doorway, he moved into the room. He was dressed for physical labor, it would seem, in his kilt and a loose homespun shirt. He must have just come in from the glen.

  Lord Varleigh looked faintly horrified, but also intrigued. His glance to Maddie sent an almost scientific question:

  Just what kind of wild creature is this?

  Without so much as a nod in the direction of manners or propriety, Logan crossed the room in firm, muddy strides. He drew near Maddie, but his gaze never left Lord Varleigh's.

  He casually draped his arm about Maddie's waist, then flexed it--yanking her to his side. The brisk morning air clung to his clothing, bringing with it the faintly green scents of heather and moss.

  "Good morning, mo chridhe. Why don't you introduce me to your friend?"

  Maddie's tongue went dry as paper. "B-but of course. Lord Varleigh, may I present Captain Logan MacKenzie."

  "Captain MacKenzie?" Lord Varleigh looked to Maddie. "Not the Captain MacKenzie. The one you . . ."

  "Yes," she managed.

  "Your intended?" His gaze darted to Logan. "Forgive me, sir. I was under the impression you were--"

  "Dead?" Logan supplied. "A common misconception. As ye can see, I'm verra much alive."

  "Extraordinary. I had no idea."

  "Well," Logan said smoothly, "now ye do."

  "I should have mentioned it earlier," Maddie said. "Captain MacKenzie only returned with his men yesterday. It was quite the shock. I'm afraid I'm still a bit scattered."

  "I can only imagine, Miss Gracechurch."

  "Miss Gracechurch is Mrs. MacKenzie now." Logan's hand slid to Maddie's shoulder in a gesture as baldly possessive as it was unsubtle.

  Mine.

  "Actually," Maddie interjected, nudging away, "I'm still Miss Gracechurch at the moment."

  "We exchanged vows last night."

  "In a traditional handfasting. But that's more of a formal betrothal. It's . . . well, it's complicated."

  "I see," said Lord Varleigh, although it was clear he didn't.

  Really, who could? This was madness. Any explanations she might attempt would only make it worse.

  When he spoke, Lord Varleigh's jaw barely moved. "As I've been telling Miss Gracechurch, there will be a ball at my home next Wednesday. I should be delighted to welcome you both." He collected his portfolio and bowed. "Until then."

  Even after Lord Varleigh left, Logan's arm remained on Maddie's shoulder. The room vibrated with quiet tension.

  She took a step in retreat.

  With unsteady fingers, Maddie gathered her folios and pencils from the table. "I need to return these to my studio."

  "Wait," he said. "Dinna move."

  Her knees went weak as he drew closer. It was tempting to blame her reactions on his raw masculine appeal, but Maddie knew better.

  He was the first--and likely only--man to pursue her this way
.

  She was curious. She was a romantic. And above all, she was lonely.

  Hunger, after all, was a more potent seasoning than salt.

  She waited, breathless, for Logan to make his move. But when he did, it wasn't the move she expected.

  His gaze focused on something just behind her left elbow. With lightning speed, he lunged forward and smacked the tabletop.

  Thwack.

  "There," he declared triumphantly, shaking out his hand.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Killing that disgusting insect before it jumped on you."

  "Killing a . . . ?" Maddie wheeled around. "Oh, no."

  There it was, on the carpet. A stag beetle. It must have fallen out of Lord Varleigh's specimen case.

  "Oh, what have you done?" She fell on her knees to the carpet.

  "What have I done? Most lasses like it when a man kills the bugs. Along with reaching high places and giving sexual pleasure, it's one of the few universally popular qualities we have on offer."

  She scooped up the remnants of the beetle into her hand. "This particular bug was already dead."

  And now it was flattened.

  She needed to take it back to her studio and put it under glass at once, lest any further harm befall it.

  He followed her down the corridor. "Don't walk away from me. I'd like some answers here. Whose invitation did I just accept, and what does that slimy prig want of you? And why do I come third in your affections behind the slimy prig and a squashed beetle?"

  "Lord Varleigh owns an estate in Perthshire. We are professional acquaintances. He's a naturalist."

  "A naturalist? You mean one of those people who scorns clothing and runs about the countryside bare-arsed?"

  "No," Maddie said calmly. She slowed and turned to face him. "No, those would be naturists. A naturalist studies the natural world."

  "Well, that one seemed to be mostly interested in studying your breasts."

  "What?"

  He closed the distance between them and lowered his voice to a growl. "He had his hand on you."

  A frisson skipped down her vertebrae, practically unlacing her corset as it went. Just those few words, and she was unraveled. Everything about the night before returned to her. She recalled his breath on her neck. His mouth on her skin.

  His hands everywhere.

  The wanting hit her with such force, so hot and overwhelming, that it threatened to push her brain out through her ears.

  This was terrible.

  At last Maddie was on the cusp of a career, amassing accomplishments of her own. Imagine, the chance to illustrate a book.

  Not just a book but an entire encyclopedia.

  Four whole volumes.

  Bliss.

  And now this could ruin everything. Couldn't he have waited one more week to come back from the not-truly-dead?

  "I can explain it better, but I'll need to show you." She put her hand on the door latch behind her. "Come this way."

  Her heartbeat quickened as she opened the door.

  She never allowed people in her studio. Especially not male people. It was her sanctuary of curiosities--odd and secret and entirely her. Vulnerable.

  Opening this door for Logan felt like throwing her heart on the floor and inviting him to tread on it. But she needed to explain Lord Varleigh somehow, and perhaps this time the sheer strangeness would work in her favor.

  It just might cure him of the desire to be married to her at all.

  Chapter Seven

  Holy God.

  Logan found himself in a veritable chamber of horrors. The rumors about these old castles were true.

  He followed her up a narrow flight of stone stairs. Candles in sconces lit the passageway, but they weren't bright enough to shed light into the corners. It was the corners he worried about. Probably crawling with bats or rats or . . . newts. Maybe dragons.

  They emerged into a square room that must have been meant as a cell of some sort. It featured only a single narrow window.

  He turned to have a look around, then started in alarm. A stuffed owl sat perched on a shelf, not a foot from his face.

  The rest of the chamber wasn't much better. The room was lined with shelves and tables displaying all manner of seashells, coral, bird nests, shed snakeskins, insects and butterflies pinned to boards, and--worst of all--strange mysteries sealed up in murky jars.

  "It's ice-cold up here," he said.

  "Yes. It needs to be for Rex and Fluffy."

  "Rex? And Fluffy?"

  "The lobsters. I thought I mentioned them last night."

  "You have lobsters named Rex and Fluffy."

  "Just because I lack any normal pets like cats or dogs doesn't mean the pets I have can't have proper names." She smiled. "I do enjoy the way you say 'Fluffy.' It sounds like 'Floofy.' They're in here."

  She waved him toward a tank in one corner of the room. The water within it smelled of the sea.

  "Are they for dinner?"

  "No! They're for observation. I've been commissioned to illustrate the full life cycle. The only problem is, I keep waiting on them to mate. According to the naturalist who hired me, the female--that's Fluffy--first needs to molt. And then the male will impregnate her with his seed. The only question remaining is what, exactly, that will look like. I've drawn up several possibilities."

  She moved to a wide, cluttered worktable and rifled through a stack of papers. On each page was a sketch of lobsters coupling in a different position. Logan had never seen anything like it. She'd created a lobster pillow book.

  He looked around at her desk--the piles of paper, bottles of ink, rows of pencils at the ready. Here and there a drawing of a thrush's nest or a locust's wing.

  Logan lifted a sketch of a damselfly and held it so that the light would shine through, illuminating every inked contour.

  She'd been deft with sketching ever since she'd begun writing him. But he'd never seen her produce anything like this in all the margins of her scores of letters.

  It was beautiful.

  When he lowered the paper, he noticed that she'd been studying him just as closely as he'd been studying the page. Staring, with dark-eyed intensity. He was struck by a sudden feeling of self-consciousness.

  "That's only a preliminary sketch," she said, biting her lip. "It needs work yet."

  "Looks damn near perfect to me," he said. "Ready to fly off the page."

  "You truly think so?"

  Her face was so serious and pale. As though she were worried about his opinion. Surely with work of this quality and friends like Lord Varleigh, she didn't need a Highland soldier to tell her she had skill. Nevertheless, the vulnerability in her eyes made him want to try.

  He wished he knew something clever to say about art. How to compliment the lines or the shading. But he didn't, so he just said what came to mind.

  "It's lovely," he said.

  She exhaled, and color rushed back to her cheeks. A small smile curved her mouth.

  Logan knew a small, quiet sense of triumph. After years of destruction on the battlefield, it felt good to build something up.

  "How do you do it?" he asked, genuinely curious to know. "How do you draw a creature so faithfully?"

  "Oddly enough, the trick isn't to draw the creature itself. It's to draw the space around it. The hollows and shadows and empty places. How does it bend the light? What does it displace? When I start to draw an animal--or anything, really--I look carefully and ask myself what's missing."

  He thought of her a few moments ago, studying him intently. As though she were wondering about his missing elements. "Is that what you're doing, then? When I catch you staring at me?"

  "Perhaps."

  "I suggest you not waste your time, mo chridhe."

  She crossed her arms and cocked her head, gazing at him. "I've spent years studying all sorts of creatures. Do you know what I've noticed? The ones that build themselves the toughest, strongest shells for protection . . . inside, they're nothing but squis
h."

  "Squish?"

  "Goo. Jelly. Squish."

  "You think I'm squish inside."

  "Perhaps."

  He shook his head, dismissing the notion. "Perhaps there's nothing inside me at all."

  He turned his attention to a map of the world mounted on the wall. The continents and countries were littered with stickpins.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  "I place a pin in the appropriate country for every exotic specimen I'm commissioned to draw. I always wanted to travel myself, but between the wars and my shyness, it never seemed possible. This is my version of the Grand Tour."

  Logan tilted his head and looked at the map. He saw a smattering of pins in India, Egypt . . . several in the West Indies. But one particular area had the largest concentration of pins, by a wide margin.

  "You've drawn a great many creatures from South America, then."

  "Oh, yes. Insects, mostly. That brings us back to Lord Varleigh, you see. He recently returned from an expedition to the Amazon jungle, where he collected nineteen new species of beetles. I did the drawings, and he's going to present the specimens to his colleagues next week."

  "So your work for him is concluded, then. Good."

  "I didn't say that." She took the sketch from his hands and set it aside. "In fact, I hope to do a great deal more illustrations, and not only for Lord Varleigh."

  He shook his head. "I dinna think you'll have the time."

  "But you said we would not interfere in each other's interests and occupations. That you would have your life, and I would have mine."

  "That was before."

  "Before what?"

  He waved toward the stairs, in the direction of Lord Varleigh's exit. "Before I knew 'your life' included that jackass."

  "You needn't be angry just because he made an invitation. He was only being polite, to start. To continue, I was never going to accept. You already know I dislike social engagements."

  "I should have accepted his invitation for us both."

  She laughed.

  "No, truly. I'd take you to that ball and make certain that Lord Varleigh and every last one of those naturists--"

  "Naturalists."

  "--every last one of those insects knows to keep their feelers off my wife."

  She shook her head. "He's a professional acquaintance. Nothing more."

  "Oh, he'd like to be more."

  "And I'm not your wife yet. Not properly."

  His hand slid to the back of her head, tilting her gaze to meet his. "You will be."

  "Logan, are you . . ." Her eyes searched his. "Surely you can't be jealous?"

  "He had his hand on you."

  "What if he did, Captain MacEnvy? You gave me a brooch with some other woman's initials on it."