When a Scot Ties the Knot

He turned another page, less than a minute after turning the last.

 

“You,” she accused, “are a reader. Be honest.”

 

It made perfect sense, too. After all, who else would read and reread the rambling, silly letters of a sixteen--year--old ninny?

 

A devoted reader, that’s who. One stuck with nothing else for reading material.

 

“Fine,” he said. “So I read. It’s difficult to attend university without some practice in the habit.”

 

“You went to university, too?”

 

“Only for a few months.”

 

She lifted the coverlet and climbed into her side of the bed. “When you spoke about not having a home, I assumed you had grown up without the advantages of education.”

 

“I was born with no advantages at all.”

 

“Then how did you attend university?”

 

“When I was ten or so, the local vicar brought me into his household. He fed and clothed me, and gave me the same education as his own sons.”

 

“That was generous and kind of him.”

 

His lips gave a wry quirk. “Generous, perhaps. But kindness had nothing to do with it. He had a plan in mind. He called me ‘son’ just long and convincingly enough that when every family was compelled to send a son to war, he could send me. So that his own sons—-the real sons—-would be safe.”

 

“Oh.” She winced. “Well, that’s not so kind. It’s rather terrible, actually. I’m sorry.”

 

His gaze darted to his arm.

 

It was only then that Maddie realized she’d reached out to touch it.

 

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, withdrawing the touch.

 

He shrugged. The sort of gruff, diffident shrug boys and men made when they want to say, I don’t care at all about it.

 

The sort of shrug that had fooled no woman, ever.

 

“I got a bed, my meals, and an education from it. Considering what my life would have been otherwise, I canna complain.” He closed the book and set his spectacles aside.

 

No, he wouldn’t complain. But he was hurt, and it showed. He’d been given all the material benefits of a family, but none of the affection.

 

None of the love.

 

Oh, Lord. Now he was not only an impoverished orphan but an impoverished, unloved orphan with a passion for books. Her every feminine impulse jumped to attention. She was vibrating with the worst possible desires. The instinct to soothe, to comfort, to nurture, to hold.

 

“That pitying look you’re giving me,” he said. “I dinna think I like it.”

 

“I don’t like it, either.”

 

“Then stop making it.”

 

“I can’t.” She fluttered her hands. “Quickly, say something unfeeling. Mock my letters. Threaten my beetles. Just do something, anything reprehensible.”

 

Tension mounted as he stared at her.

 

“As you like.”

 

In an instant, he had her flipped on her back. His fingers went to the buttons of her nightrail.

 

And Maddie had absolutely no will to resist.

 

He gave her a wolfish look. “I trust this will do.”

 

She heard herself say, “Yes.”

 

Logan made short work of those tiny buttons guarding the front of her shift. He worked with brusque, ruthless motions. There was nothing of seduction in his intent.

 

This was her penalty for kindness. She had to learn that her sweet--tempered curiosity came with a cost. He would teach her to lay soft touches to his arm. To look straight into his soul with those searching dark eyes and have the temerity to care.

 

She’d asked for this.

 

He had undressed a fair number of women. But when he slipped loose the buttons of her chemise, he was trembling to see whatever lay beneath. He wasn’t choosy about breasts. Large ones, pert ones. Dark nipples or fair. Alabaster or freckled. So far as he was concerned, the most comely pair of breasts in the world was always the pair he was currently tasting.

 

But nothing had prepared him for this.

 

When he pushed the panels of linen to either side, he couldn’t believe the sight that awaited him. He’d been expecting an expanse of creamy, delicate skin.

 

Instead, he found a pale expanse of . . . more linen.

 

“I canna believe this. You’re wearing two shifts.”

 

She nodded. “I put the inner one on backward. Just as an extra layer of defense.”

 

That would explain why he couldn’t find another row of buttons.

 

“You didna trust me?”

 

“I didn’t trust myself,” she said. “It seems I was right not to. Look at me.”

 

Logan didn’t know whether to be offended by this strategy or impressed at her cleverness. She’d created her own virgin armor.

 

And he was tempted to play ravishing pirate. Seize the fabric in his hands and rend it down the middle, spilling her bosom free for his plundering.

 

But why go to that trouble when the linen in question was this fine, this supple and frail? He ran one hand upward, claiming the rounded swell of one breast.

 

She sucked in her breath. Her flesh quivered beneath his touch. He waited to see if she’d ask him to stop.

 

She didn’t.

 

“I told you it will be good between us,” he murmured.