Logan reached out to his friend again. Explained, again, that they were safe in Scotland. Promised, again, to take him to Ross--shire tomorrow to see his wee ones and his nan.
How many times must he have made those same assurances, Maddie wondered. Hundreds? Perhaps thousands? He must have the patience of a saint.
“And who’s she?” Grant nodded at Maddie.
“I’m Madeline.” She held out her hand.
“You’re the sweetheart what wrote him all those letters?”
“Aye,” Logan said. “And now she’s my wife.”
Grant chuckled and dug his elbow into Logan’s side. “You lucky bastard.”
Yes, Maddie thought. Grant was still her new favorite person. Faulty memory or no, she was going to enjoy having him around.
In fact, she was contemplating giving him a kiss on the cheek, when the hall flashed white, then dark. The entire castle shook with a mighty— Crash.
“Madeline, get down.”
When the lightning struck, Logan’s heart took a jolt. And for the first time in years, his initial impulse wasn’t to soothe Grant or protect his men.
His attention went solely to his bride.
He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her to his chest and pulling her toward the floor, lest something above them shake loose and fall.
Once the chandeliers had stopped swaying and the danger had passed, he leaned close to speak to her. “Are ye well?”
“Yes, of course. The crash only startled me.”
She was still trembling.
And Logan didn’t think it was only because of the storm. Through the entire ceremony, her unease had been palpable. She’d grown more and more pale, and by the time they’d spoken their vows, her eyes had refused to focus on his.
She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said she disliked social gatherings. And this was a mere dozen -people in a castle in the remotest part of the Highlands. How much worse would it have been for her in a crowded London ballroom?
He had been accustomed to thinking of her as spoiled or petulant for inventing a sweetheart the way she had. But now he was starting to wonder if there hadn’t been something more to it.
Damn. He was wondering about her again.
The wondering ended tonight.
And it didn’t matter if she’d had motives of self--preservation. The task of preserving her was his now. He’d just pledged as much before his men and God, and despite this marriage being a convenient arrangement, he wasn’t one to take those vows lightly.
He helped her to her feet, acutely aware of how small she was, how delicate. Every wash of pink on her cheeks or labored breath was suddenly a matter for his concern.
Which didn’t make a bit of sense, considering he was the villain in her life. He’d just forced her into a marriage she didn’t want, and now he was obsessed with protecting her? It was laughable.
But no less real.
As he helped her to her feet, he asked, “Are you well?”
“Just a bit shaky. Perhaps from standing so long.”
The men would be expecting a celebration. Music, food, dancing. Logan had asked the castle’s cook for a feast and wine. “Come along, I’ll take you upstairs.”
“Just go slowly, if you will,” she whispered to him. “So I can keep pace.”
“That won’t be necessary. I mean to carry you.”
“Like a sack of oats?”
“Nay, lass. Like a bride.”
He hefted her into his arms and carried her out of the hall, to his men’s cheers and her aunt’s evident delight.
Once they’d made it out of the hall, however, Logan realized he had no idea where he was going. “How do I get to your rooms?”
She gave him directions. The directions involved a great many stairs.
“You walk up all of these steps each evening?” he asked, trying to hide the fact that he’d grown a bit winded.
“Usually multiple times a day.”
That was the problem with Scottish tower houses, he supposed. They were built tall and narrow for greatest protection from siege—-and inside, they were all stairs.
“The original lairds would have housed the servants all the way up here. Why don’t you use a room on one of the lower floors?”
She shrugged. “I like the view.”
Her bedchamber, once they reached it, was warmly furnished and cozy. The spaces under the sloping gabled ceilings were filled with rows of books and small curiosities. It wasn’t at all the way he would have expected an English heiress’s room to be—-but having read Maddie’s letters, he could recognize it as entirely her.
His eye was drawn to a pair of miniatures on the dressing table, depicting two fair--haired children, one boy and one girl. Logan knew them at once.
“That’s Henry and Emma,” he said.
“Yes. How did you know?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I recognized them from your letters.”
The truth was, not only did he recognize the children but he also recognized Maddie’s hand at work in the miniatures.
A strange sense of intimacy overtook him.
Fast on its heels came an inconvenient wave of guilt.
He set her down.
“Thank you for carrying me.”