"That's it. Can you feel water circulating about your legs?"
She nodded.
"Then you're doing it right. Keep it up. Perhaps even a bit faster. It would be best to have your legs free before . . ."
"Before what?" Maddie asked.
Heavy raindrops splattered her face and shoulders.
"Before that."
Wonderful. Now she would be wet and chilled from both sides.
She rocked with renewed vigor and was rewarded with a bit more breathing room. "What do I do now?"
"Lean back a touch," he directed. "As though you're going to float atop the bog."
"But--"
"Just do it."
He lay on his stomach behind her, reaching forward with both hands. As she reclined, he caught her under the arms.
"I have you," he whispered in her ear. "And I'm not letting go."
She swallowed hard. "What next?"
"Whichever of your legs feels the loosest, keep wriggling it side to side. And pull it up."
"I'm confused. Am I supposed to move it side to side, or up?"
"Both."
Dear Lord. What was next? Do this all while juggling torches and smoking a pipe? She wasn't certain she had the coordination for this. London ballrooms, Highland bogs . . . was there no place in the world that was safe for an awkward English spinster?
She worked on her right leg first, shaking it beneath the surface of the mud as she slowly drew it upward. The incremental progress was agonizing, but at last her knee emerged from the muck.
"Good," he said. "Now the other. This time, you wriggle. I'll pull."
"I'm trying."
And she was trying, but it wasn't enough. The mire was quickly closing on her again, drawing on her leg. She was suddenly, sharply aware of how fortunate she was to have Logan nearby. If Maddie had been on her own, she never could have worked herself free.
Even with him here, it didn't seem a certainty.
"One last time," he said. "Move your leg back and forth, with as much vigor as you can manage. I'm going to pull on the count of three."
She nodded.
"One . . . two . . ."
She gritted her teeth.
"Three."
His arm muscles flexed. As he pulled, she felt a terrible wrench in her hip joint. Maddie knew she would pay for that later. She'd be sore for days.
But a full year of soreness would still be better than one more minute spent stuck in that bog.
At last, she was free.
Breathless and panting, she crawled a few feet up the slope and flopped onto a bit of damp turf. She was caked with mud below the waist and soaked with rain everywhere else.
Logan seemed winded, too. He collapsed beside her.
"Life is so strange," she said, swiping a strand of hair from her rain-spattered face. "When I invented a Scottish sweetheart, it was with the aim of avoiding humiliation. Look at me now. How do I get myself into these things?"
"By wishing for them, mo chridhe." He rolled to face her, propping himself on his elbow. "It's everything you asked for. A remote castle in the Highlands and an officer in a kilt. Be glad you didna manage to kill me off, or you'd still be stuck in that bog alone."
There he went again, accusing her of murderous intent. He couldn't seem to let go of that idea. And every time he brought it up, he spoke with an edge of resentment in his voice.
"Logan, I'm sorry if I hurt you."
He made a dismissive noise. "You didna hurt me."
Right. How could a little Englishwoman possibly hurt a hulking Scottish warrior? Naturally, he would never admit to that.
"For what it's worth," she said, "my true fantasy was not a Highland castle and a man in a kilt. I just wanted to be understood, accepted. Loved." Her gaze fell to her damp tartan sash and that heart-shaped lie pinning it together. "Don't worry. I've learned my lesson."
"I canna say much about love and acceptance, but I do understand you. I understand you just fine."
"You really don't."
"Oh, I do." His eyes roamed her face. "You're deceitful, fanciful, clever, unbiddable, generous, talented with a drawing pencil . . ." He smeared his muddy thumb down the slope of her nose. " . . . and dirty. Verra, verra dirty."
"I'm no dirtier than you."
She pressed her hand flat to his face. It left behind a starburst of five muddy fingerprints . . . and one unamused Scot. Added to his intense blue eyes and unshaven jaw, the markings gave him the look of an ancient Highland warrior, painted for battle.
Ready to strike.
His big, muddy hand went to her waist, tangling in the damp gray wool of her frock.
"If it's dirty you want . . . ?" He tugged her close, startling a gasp from her. "It's dirty you'll get."
His mouth fell on hers, hot and masterful. His hands were everywhere, smearing even the cleaner parts of her frock with mud. All Maddie could do was cling to his coat while the forbidden sensations swamped her.
His tongue swept into her mouth. Seeking, demanding. She could taste the frustration in his kiss. Whether it was left over from last night, this morning, or the entirety of the past decade, she couldn't guess. Whatever the cause, he obviously meant to avenge it with this sensual onslaught.
And Maddie could not bring herself to object.
She loved the rough, possessive way he was touching her. His hands roamed her breasts, her hips, her backside. Her nipples came to tight points, as if they recalled last night's attentions and were ready to beg for more. When his thumb found one of the aching peaks and teased it, she moaned with helpless pleasure and relief.
She let her head fall back, and he lavished soft kisses on the vulnerable skin covering her pulse. His gentleness and thoroughness made her feel cherished. Precious.
Wanted.
She'd never dreamed she could feel this desired by anyone. It was almost . . .
Oh, how ironic. It was almost a dream come true.
No, she told herself. Don't be a ninny. She couldn't let herself think that way.
She'd been struggling to keep her foolish heart out of this, keeping him at arm's length with conditions and rules. It was too dangerous to do otherwise. All too easily, she could create a story in her mind. Spin a tale of devotion that would be just another lie--one she told herself. She didn't want to imagine that Logan could care for her.
He didn't care for her.
But he wanted her.
This heat between them was real. This grappling kiss was the truth. And the hot ridge of his arousal pressed against her thigh was far too big to be any trick of her imagination.
He lifted his head and looked down at her. "Maddie."
When he whispered her name, the cold was forgotten. So was the mud, his teasing, the pain in her leg. The rain kept falling, pushing her further into the shelter of his embrace. Melting her will to resist.
She touched a hand to his cheek. Gone was the fierce Highland warrior. The rain plastered his hair to his brow and dotted his face, giving him a wet-puppy look: lost and in need of love. Every bit as confused as she felt inside.
"Oh, Logan."
And now, despite all her best attempts to avoid it, here it came.
Her heart started telling her a dangerous, dangerous tale. The story of a decent, loyal man who'd treasured her letters, dreamed of her nightly, survived battles and marched across continents to come home--not to a castle or a glen but to her. And even now, when he held her in his arms, he lacked the words to explain all the emotion in his heart.
It was nothing but a silly fiction.
It had to be.
But she couldn't block it out any longer. She put her arms around his neck and wove her fingers into his hair, pulling him close.
Chapter Thirteen
Logan should have pulled away. They needed to seek shelter.
But he couldn't bring himself to let her go.
The rain had plastered her frock to her skin, leaving little to his imagination. He saw all of her, in perfect
contour--her pale skin, her puckered nipples, the blue tint to her quivering lips. She was vulnerable and trembling.
She needed warmth.
And he needed this.
To hold her. Guard her. Feel her pounding heart pressed close to his and know she was alive.
Because, though he would die before he'd admit it, he'd been frightened for a moment there, when she'd been caught in the mire.
He'd drawn her close to reassure himself. He'd kissed her because she'd seemed to want him to.
But now his shy, timid bride was kissing him, and he'd lost control of everything.
Her fingers sifted through his damp hair. Her sweet, tentative tongue stroked his. The longing pierced him to the core. He felt faint with it.
He tightened his grip in the back of her dress, pulling her body flush against his. She sighed into the kiss, wriggling closer still. Her belly brushed over the ridge of his cock. A tremor moved through his thigh muscle.
God, he wanted her.
This was madness. They were both caked with peat and mud below the waist. There was no way he could take her virtue here, on the ground in the rain and cold.
But he couldn't bear the growing tension anymore. His cock throbbed in vain, trapped beneath the wet woolen folds of his plaid. He was desperate for some kind of contact. Resistance. Touch. Heat.
He had to take control.
In a swift motion, he rolled her onto her back, wedging himself between her thighs. When his cock finally found the friction it craved, he groaned with pleasure.
She cried out in pain.
Logan pulled onto his elbows immediately. He searched her startled expression. "What's the matter? You're hurt."
"It's just my leg. I . . . I wrenched it coming out of the mire."
Jesus. She'd been wounded all this time? And here he'd been mauling her on the hillside as if she were a lamb and he were the last Highland wolf.
"Dinna be worried. I'll have you back to the castle at once."
He loosened the extra folds of tartan draped over his shoulder. Tucking her close to his chest, he wrapped the plaid around Maddie's body to warm her.
Then he hefted her into his arms.
"I hope you know, you're ruining your chances in the bedroom," she said. "It's impossible to despise you when you keep kissing me like that and sweeping me off my feet every day."
He set his jaw grimly. "You can learn to hate me again tomorrow. You're not walking anywhere today."
When they arrived back at the castle, wet and muddy and chilled through, Logan began barking orders before he'd even set Maddie down.
He directed Becky to bring blankets.
Cook was ordered to start heating water for a bath.
And he insisted that Munro, his field surgeon, have a look at Maddie's leg.
"It's nothing," she assured the surgeon once she'd been wrapped in an old quilt and deposited on the chaise longue in her bedchamber. "I've only wrenched it. I was stupid enough to step in a bog."
Munro wiped the mud from her limb and gingerly turned her foot this way and that, testing. "The swelling is mild. It doesna look serious."
"That's what I tried to tell Logan. But he doesn't listen to me."
"If you wanted to walk on it now, I wouldna stop you."
She nodded. "I'm sure you sent soldiers back into the fray with far worse."
"But you are no soldier." His graying eyebrows rose. "If your injury is delicate yet, I could tell the captain you need some rest. And that he needs to keep the honeymoon waiting for a few days."
Yes.
This was just the stroke of luck she needed. She'd take any excuse to hold Logan at bay for a few more days.
"Now that you mention it, my knee is quite tender. I do think the rest would do me good."
Maddie smiled to herself as the surgeon packed up his examination bag. Logan was not going to be happy with her, but he was the one who'd insisted on a doctor's opinion. He couldn't ignore medical advice.
As the surgeon unrolled the cuff of his sleeve, she glimpsed a gnarled, misshapen scar on his right forearm.
She winced. "What happened there?"
"Oh, that? A bayonet. It's not as bad as it looks. It would have healed better, but you know what they say. The cobbler's children run barefooted, and the field surgeon goes without proper stitching."
"I suppose from time to time even the doctor needs healing."
He nodded. "And from time to time, even the commander needs to be told what to do. Sometimes the captain could do with a bit of being ordered around." He gave her a sly wink. "You dinna need to be timid with him, lass."
Maddie smiled. "Thank you for the advice."
Once Munro left her, Becky came in with two ewers of steaming water, which she added to a deep tub for Maddie's bath.
Ah, a bath.
Here was one of Logan's commands she had no desire to countermand. After the mud and the chilly rain today, a hot bath was just what she needed.
She used old towels and rags to scrub as much of the peat from her body as possible so as not to muddy the bathwater. For once, she made use of one of Aunt Thea's purchases, adding a healthy dollop of a lavender-scented liniment to the bath. Then she twisted her hair into a giant knot atop her head and lowered her body into the steaming tub.
An involuntary moan eased from her throat as the hot water enveloped her to her neck.
So lovely. It was almost as soothing as a warm hug.
The tension in her muscles began to unknot.
All her relaxation was ruined, however, when Logan flung open the door with a crash.
Maddie gasped and flinched, sinking lower in the bath and using her arms to cover her most secret bits. "Did you never hear of knocking?"
"Not in my own house, no."
She cast a longing glance at the towel at the end of her bed. Too far away for her to reach for it without exposing herself.
"According to Munro," he said testily, "I'm not to touch you. For days."
"Oh?" She tilted her head at an innocent angle. "What a pity."
"Stop playing as though you didna ask him to say it."
"You are the one who insisted he examine me. You can't ignore his advice." She ran the sponge down her arm, squeezing lather from it as she went. "Since we are forbidden from any strenuous activity, I think it would be best if you used the bedchamber Becky made up for you."
"That will not be necessary. I'll be damned if I'll sleep down the corridor." He exhaled gruffly. "I'm leaving."
"Leaving?"
"Dinna sound so hopeful. It's only temporary. I need to order timbers for the new cottages, so I'm traveling to Fort William. The journey should take me two or three days. When I return, I expect you'll be in perfect health."
He gave her a pointed look, and his meaning was perfectly understood. Despite the warmth of the bathwater, gooseflesh rippled down her arms.
When he returned, his patience would be at an end. Maddie would have no further tactics for delay.
At the end of three days, she would either be free of him . . .
Or she would be his wife.
Chapter Fourteen
Maddie didn't suppose Logan had been foolish enough to leave them behind, but if those letters were anywhere in this castle, she was determined to find them before he returned.
She was coming to care for him too much, too foolishly. She couldn't repeat the same mistake she'd made when she was sixteen. Pitching those letters into the fire was her only hope if she didn't want to spend the rest of her life caught in a lie of her own making.
Unfortunately, after many dusty hours of searching, she hadn't found so much as a clue. Over the past two days, she'd opened every drawer in every piece of furniture--checked behind and beneath them, too. Now she'd turned her gaze to the walls themselves.
This afternoon, she stood back and surveyed the Long Gallery, a room on the castle's top floor that stretched the full length of the tower. The oak paneling featured a molded ledge where the
wall met the ceiling. From where Maddie stood, it didn't look deep enough to hide a packet of letters . . . but there was no way to be certain other than to check.
She pulled a straight-backed chair to the edge of the room and climbed atop it, standing on tiptoe to reach her fingers into the cobwebby, linty crevice.
Nothing . . .
Nothing . . .
She stretched in an effort to reach the corner.
Noth--
"What's all this, then?"
Maddie nearly fell off the chair. After regaining her hold on the paneling and securing her footing, she turned to face the intruder. "Oh. Good afternoon, Grant."
"How do you know my name?" He searched the gallery, wary. "What's this place?"
His hand went to his hip, as though he were reaching for the weapon he expected to be there. Maddie was suddenly aware of how large he loomed, and how small she was in comparison.
And how alone they were right now.
Her heart began to beat a little faster. If she didn't manage to calm him, this situation could grow dangerous indeed.
Maddie stayed very still and held up both empty--if dusty--hands. She repeated the words she'd heard Logan and his comrades say so many times. "The war's over, Grant. You're back home in Scotland. This is Lannair Castle, and you've been staying here for almost a week. Callum, Rabbie, Munro, Fyfe . . . they're working just outside, collecting stone."
His brow creased. "Who are you?"
"I'm Madeline. Captain MacKenzie's sweetheart who wrote him all those letters. We're married now." She motioned toward her plaid sash and the luckenbooth.
"Are ye?"
She nodded.
The man's face relaxed. "He's a lucky bastard, then."
"Thank you. And you're my favorite person."
He grinned. "Then I'm a lucky bastard, too."
Maddie couldn't help but smile. This man must have been quite the charmer once, when he'd been healthy of body and mind.
His gaze shifted about the room uneasily. "Do you know where my wee ones are? Have we been to Ross-shire? I'm keen to see the bairns."
She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't know."
"I'll ask the captain if we can go tomorrow."
Her heart broke for the poor man. Again and again, he woke from that fog obscuring his mind, looking for his children. And every time, Logan put him off.
Well, Maddie couldn't take him to Ross-shire. But perhaps she could help him in some other way.