"What's that?" Munro asked.
Logan was glad Munro had asked, because he sure as hell wasn't going to. But truth be told, he was coming to the end of his patience. If he didn't have her soon, he was going to go mad with wanting. At this point, he was willing to listen to any idea, no matter how ridiculous--even if it came from Rabbie.
Rabbie hunched over to whisper. "She's got to see him with his kit off. Shirt, plaid, all of it."
A coarse whoop rose up from the men.
Logan rolled his eyes and stabbed his meat with his knife.
"No, I mean it," Rabbie said, standing up. "Here's how it goes. You rise early one morning, Captain. Choose a misty one, when the gloom's settled like a blanket over the valley."
He waved his flattened hand before them like an artist painting a landscape. "You strip down to your skin, and then you have a dip in the loch. Wait until she comes looking for you. Because she will. They always do. But pretend not to notice when she does. And then--just when she's close enough to see and she's been watching for a while, you rise up out of the water. Like a dolphin. Or a mermaid. Shooting up through the mist and pushing your hair back with both hands"--Rabbie thrust both hands through his hair to demonstrate--"with all the little beads of water trickling down over the ridges of your shoulders and chest." He danced his fingers down his belly. "Like so."
Munro snorted. "So he's supposed to go down to the loch at half-crack o' the morning, paddle about in the frigid water for an hour or two, and then emerge? I'm finding it difficult to believe she'd see anything impressive."
Everyone laughed. Even Grant.
"You lot can laugh," Rabbie said, "but mark my word, Captain. Get your kit off. The next time you have her in your arms, she won't be able to resist."
"I've been married," said the habitually silent Fyfe. "I'll tell you what she wants. She wants your secrets. She wants your soul. You've got to crack yourself open and find that broken, shameful piece of your heart that you'd hide from the world and God Himself if you could manage it. And then serve it up to her on a platter. They won't settle for anything less."
The mood around the group grew solemn.
"Well, I like my idea better," said Rabbie, winking at Logan. "Try it first."
"I might," Logan muttered.
Even if he was willing to crack himself open, he would find little there to offer her.
"You're all making this too complicated," Munro said. "She's a lass. Bring her flowers. Take her dancing. Give her an excuse to put on a pretty frock. That's all it takes."
"But Madeline's different. She doesna like those things," Logan said.
"Trust me. They all like those things."
Logan rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. Perhaps Munro was right. In the village, Maddie had said the same.
Women are women, Logan. Every girl needs a bit of luxury and a chance to feel pretty now and then.
Wasn't that what her letters had been about? She didn't think she could ever be a success at a party or an assembly. And her dream had been a man who would want her anyway.
He didn't want to be her dream man. But maybe he could play the role for one night.
Perhaps all Madeline Gracechurch had ever needed was a bit of everyday courting. The same sort of attention any girl her age would receive. And she deserved that much and far more.
Logan knew exactly what he had to do.
"Bloody hell," he said. "I'm going to have to attend the Beetle Ball."
"You want to attend Lord Varleigh's ball?" She replaced a pen in its inkwell and turned to face him. "Logan, we can't."
"Why not?"
"It's impossible. For a dozen reasons."
She folded her arms over her ink-stained work smock. She tucked her bottom lip under her teeth. And that single fingertip went to her collarbone again, tracing back and forth. Driving him wild with wanting.
He crossed his arms and jammed his own hands in his oxters. It was the only way he knew how to keep from reaching for her. "Tell me the reasons. One at a time."
"Firstly, we already declined the invitation. I told Lord Varleigh we weren't attending."
"Easily mended. You write a message telling him we've changed our minds. I'll dispatch one of the men to deliver it this afternoon. Next reason."
"I . . . I have nothing to wear." She gestured at her frock. "I've been wearing half-mourning for years. All my gowns are gray wool."
"We'll find you a ready-made gown in Inverness tomorrow. Next problem."
"And I suppose you could wear your best uniform. An officer's dress is always acceptable attire. But you've invited everyone here for Beltane, and that's less than a fortnight from now."
"All the more reason to find you a new gown and give the skirts a spin or two. The lady of the castle canna welcome her guests in gray wool."
She sighed. "Lord Varleigh lives in Perthshire. It's too far to travel."
"I've heard they have these new things called inns. Often located near roads. We'll find one nearby to stay the night."
Now Logan was really starting to appreciate this idea. The Beetle Ball itself sounded like many-legged torture, but the prospect of spending a night with Madeline in a tiny room at a coaching inn, with an even tinier bed, away from his men and her aunt--now that sounded worth a few hours of anything.
It also sounded like the perfect way to finally make this marriage real.
"But it's a ball." She turned away from him, continuing the work of straightening her desk. "I don't go to balls. I'm miserable at them. I can't dance."
"Neither can I. Not that sort of dancing, at any rate." He came to stand behind her, lightly placing his hands on her waist. "We dinna have to dance, mo chridhe. We'll just go and listen to Lord Varleigh talk about his beetles. Most importantly, you'll be there to see your work unveiled."
"I don't really want that kind of attention." She tapped a pencil against the blotter on her desk. "But I confess, I would like a chance to meet a man who'll be there."
Now this made him take notice. "A man?"
"Logan, don't be jealous."
He tightened his grip on her waist. "You like it when I'm jealous."
"Very well, perhaps I do." He could hear a little smile in her voice. "Lord Varleigh told me of a scholar he knows in Edinburgh. One who'll be attending the ball. Apparently this scholar is planning an encyclopedia. Insects of the British Isles, in four volumes. He might be in need of an illustrator. Lord Varleigh promised to make the introduction."
He turned her to face him. "See? So you do want to attend."
She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. Now that Logan had removed the barriers, a pretty flush had started to warm her cheeks. Once he got her into a proper silk gown rather than this scratchy mourning attire, half the battle would be won.
"That's only six reasons so far," he pointed out. "You said there were a dozen. Hurry up, then, so I can remedy the rest."
"On second thought, perhaps there's only one more reason. But it's the biggest reason, and there's no remedy to be found for it."
"Try me."
"I can't leave the lobsters."
Holy God.
She moved toward the tank, peering into it. "Fluffy's become more active over the past day. It's a sign she might be ready to molt. I have to stay close, or I could miss the mating entirely. I've been waiting too long to let that happen. So has Rex, for that matter."
Curse it, couldn't she see that Rex wasn't the only frustrated male in this castle? If the bloody lobster ended up satisfying his natural urges before Logan did, he would be tempted to climb the highest tower of Lannair Castle and fling himself off it.
"Let me worry about the lobsters," he said.
"But--"
"Trust me." He put his hands on her shoulders. "I'm a captain, remember? I know how to set a watch, draw up a plan, command troops. We'll remove Rex to a separate tank for the night. My men will set up shifts for the lobster watch. If there's any sign of Fluffy molting, Rabbie will ride he
ll-for-leather to Varleigh's estate and let you know. You'll be home with plenty of time to put Rex and Fluffy together and watch the sparks fly."
She glanced at the seawater tank. "I'm not sure how many sparks will be involved."
"Watch the bubbles blub. Watch the antennae wave. Whatever it is that happens when lobsters make love, I swear on my plaid you willna miss it. I make no promises I canna keep."
She looked up at him with those calf's eyes. As usual, he could sense a whole world's worth of thought going on behind them.
Logan couldn't hold back anymore. He touched his thumb to her collarbone, sliding up and down the narrow ridge. Soothing her the way she would soothe herself.
Her skin was so soft. He was dying to touch her everywhere.
"Let me worry about everything." His voice was suddenly hoarse. "I just want you to enjoy yourself. You deserve this, Maddie."
She drew in a deep breath, then released it. "Fine."
Fine.
That wasn't exactly the overjoyed acceptance he'd been hoping to hear.
But he'd take it.
"Perhaps it's more than fine." She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "Perhaps it's perfect."
Perfect. Now that was better.
"Maybe this is the compromise we've been searching for."
Logan supposed maybe she'd been searching for one, but he had never been interested in compromise. "I want what I want, lass. That's all."
"I know. I do understand. That's what makes it perfect." She whirled away from him, as if powered by her own little breeze of excitement. "See, you have a dream."
"I told you, mo chridhe, I dinna--"
"You don't dream. Fine. Call it a goal, then. You want to give your men a baile here, in this glen. I have a dream, too."
"A dream with bugs."
"Exactly. A dream of all the insects in the British Isles. If Mr. Dorning hired me on for his encyclopedia, I would have a small, but steady, income to support myself. And then I would be established, with excellent prospects for more work thereafter. I wouldn't even need to live here."
Logan shook his head. "We've already discussed all this. A lease willna be acceptable, and I canna buy the land."
"Perhaps we can work out another sort of bargain. A trade."
"A trade? What kind of trade?"
"Your goal for mine."
He could only stare at her. She wasn't making sense.
"I could never think of attending a ball on my own," she said. "I'm shy, I'm awkward. I want to flee and hide. But maybe I won't be that way if you're near." A little smile played about her lips. "It's as if you make me so irritated, I forget to worry about myself. If you escort me to Lord Varleigh's ball, perhaps you can help me make a good impression on Mr. Dorning. And if he gives me the encyclopedia post . . ." She turned to face him. " . . . I'd give you this castle, and gladly."
What?
Logan couldn't believe that offer. He certainly didn't trust it.
"I didna ask for that," he said, "and I dinna want it. No one's ever given me anything. I've worked for everything I've ever had."
"I know. And you're going to work for this. Perhaps it doesn't seem equal if you look at it in terms of money or land. But to me, it will be an even trade. Your dream for mine."
He didn't know what to say. "You're certain?"
"I'm certain. Well, and there's one other thing." She bit her lip. "I'd need those letters back, too."
"Right," he said. "The letters. Of course."
That might be a wrinkle in this plan of hers, but Logan decided he would swim that loch when he came to it. He'd just make certain she signed her side of the papers before he handed his over to her.
She laced her arms around his neck, lightly swaying to and fro in a flirtatious manner. "And perhaps, if we're not playing this will-we-or-won't-we-consummate game any longer, we can enjoy a few lesser carnal pleasures."
Now she had his attention.
"You did say men are more creative than lobsters."
"Aye, lass. That we are."
"And you also said that I'm curious. Maybe you were right about that, too. Especially after last night."
Her hands flattened against his chest, soft and warm. Exploring. Enticing.
This plan of hers . . . well, it sounded nigh on perfect. Too perfect, he worried. Or at least it might have been if there hadn't still been one significant hurdle to clear.
He had just promised to take a lady to a ball--one hosted by a bloody earl, at which beetles would be the main topic of conversation--and make her a success.
And he didn't have the damnedest idea how.
Perhaps he could find something in a book.
Chapter Sixteen
When Maddie prepared for bed behind her screen that night, she emerged to find the most terrible sight yet.
"Oh, really, Logan. That just isn't fair."
He looked up from his reclined pose in her bedroom chaise longue, his face partly hidden behind a book bound in dark green leather. "What?"
"You're reading Pride and Prejudice?"
He shrugged. "I found it on your bookshelf."
Seeing him read any book was bad enough. But her favorite book? This was sheer torture.
"Just promise me something, please," she said.
"What's that?"
"Promise me that I'm not going to come out from around this screen one night and find you holding a baby." That seemed the only possibility more devastating to her self-control.
He chuckled. "It doesna seem likely."
"Good."
"While we're on the topic of books . . ." Logan rose from the chair and tossed the book to the side. "I have a question for you. If these are the kinds of stories you prefer, why did you invent a Scottish officer for your imaginary suitor? You could have created a Mr. Darcy type."
"Because Scotland is far away, and I needed you to be someone who'd never come around."
He gave her a half smile. "How did that work out?"
"Not quite as I'd planned. More's the pity." At the dressing table, she finished plaiting her hair and tied the ends with a bit of plaid. "Any further questions?"
"Aye. I have one."
She turned around and found him staring at her with unabashed desire.
"Why did you never send me a drawing of yourself?"
She paused, surprised. "I don't know. I suppose the idea never occurred to me. But are you saying the idea occurred to you?"
"Of course it did. I'm a man, amn't I?"
Yes. He most definitely was a man. And his manliness was on full display as he undid the cuffs of his shirt, exposing his bronzed, muscled forearms.
"Every time they delivered one of your letters," he said, "I'd have this swell of anticipation. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . this time there'd be a sketch of a woman in there." He pulled his shirt over his head and hung it over the back of the chair. "No such luck. All I got was moths and snails."
Maddie barely heard the last part of his speech. Aside from the usual stupor that accompanied the sight of him shirtless, her mind had seized on a word toward the beginning of his statement. The one that had sounded like . . . anticipation.
"You . . ." The word died on her tongue. She cleared her throat and tried again. "You looked forward to my letters?"
He answered her from the washing stand. "War is a brutal occupation, mo chridhe. It is also deadly boring and verra uncomfortable. Socks are cause for celebration. A toothbrush?" He held up the one currently in his hand. "Worth its weight in gold. Letters are manna from heaven."
After he rinsed his face, he crossed to the edge of the bed and slid one finger along her collarbone. "The slightest glimpse of this softness would have seemed a miracle."
He undid the top button of her shift, pushing the fabric to the side to reveal a small swatch of her skin. "Only one shift tonight?"
She nodded. "I trust you now."
With a heavy sigh, he leaned against the bedpost, his eyes never leaving her body. "Then s
ketch a picture for me. No pencil. No paper. Just you, right here, right now."
Maddie's pulse stuttered. His suggestion should have been unthinkable. But her body had ideas of its own.
She said, "Tell me how."
"Start by taking down your hair."
She reached for the scrap of fabric tying the end of her plaited hair. She pulled the knot loose and began to tease the strands of the braid apart, shaking her head gently to distribute them.
In this moment, she would do almost anything he asked. But she wasn't doing any of it for him. Oh, no. This was all for herself. She loved the way he was looking at her right now. She never wanted it to end.
"Now this."
He pushed the sleeve of her shift down her shoulder. She tensed.
"I just want to look, mo chridhe." His voice was hoarse. "Let me have this much."
He pushed the panel down to reveal her breast. With just the pad of his fingertip, he circled her pink areola. Her nipple tightened to an aching peak.
Maddie glanced up at him. The expression on his face was pure, unfiltered yearning. She never would have believed she could inspire that look in anyone, much less a man who'd been privy to her worst sins. He swallowed, and the hard bob of his Adam's apple was the most sensual, arousing thing she'd ever seen.
Her whole life had been an exercise in avoiding attention. Observing, rather than being observed. She'd mastered the art of hiding in plain view. And for the first time, she never wanted this attention to end.
She slipped her arm from the loosened sleeve entirely. Then she undid a few more buttons of the shift, pulled her other arm free, and let the cloud of white linen settle about her waist.
Her heart pounded in her throat.
"Lie back on the bed."
She followed his instruction, reclining against the bed. In an impulse of sheer wantonness, she pushed the wadded shift over her hips and peeled it down her legs. Leaving herself completely bare, from head to toe.
Her choice of position was instantly more fraught than she had anticipated. Should she lie on her back, or on her side? Bent legs or straight? And for heaven's sake, what should she do with her arms? Stretch them overhead? At her sides? One of each?
Her sincerest impulse was to flail them about in indecision, but that wasn't the erotic picture she hoped to present.
In the end, she lay on her side, crosswise on the bed. Legs together, bent gently at the knees. With one arm, she propped up her head. The other hand lay draped-- casually, she hoped--on her thigh.
He stared at her.