He’d given her time. She’d had her opportunity to rest. He wasn’t sleeping on the damned floor tonight.
A bleary--eyed footman let him in the side stairway. Logan felt as weary as the manservant looked, but instead of going straight up to bed, he stopped on the first landing and peeked into the High Hall. There he did a silent count of the men as they slept. It was an old habit from his days of watching over cattle and sheep as a youth, and one he’d never abandoned as a commander of troops. He’d never lost a lamb or calf, and he’d never left a soldier behind, either.
One, two, three, four. . .
He counted twice and still came up one short.
Grant was missing.
Christ.
His weary heart kicked into a faster rhythm, and he crossed the length of the hall. When he found out who’d shirked his duty tonight, that someone’s bollocks were getting a sharp twist.
But truly, Logan had no one to blame but himself. He never should have left them on their own. After tonight, he ought to start posting a man as sentry. This was a bloody castle, after all. A military fortress. Perhaps he ought to be running it that way.
As he searched the nearest rooms, he sent up a silent prayer. Grant couldn’t have wandered far, could he? Hopefully he hadn’t wandered out into the night. If he lost his way on the moors and his mental slate wiped clean . . .
A soft noise reached his ears.
A voice, murmuring.
No, voices.
He followed the low, soft rumble of indistinct conversation down the corridor to where it ended with a flight of steep stairs. The voices were coming from the kitchen.
As he crept down the stairs, the murmuring grew more distinct, and the knot of worry in his chest began to loosen. He recognized Grant’s voice.
“Squeal louder, lass. Squeal louder.”
And then a ripple of soft feminine laughter.
When he turned the corner, he saw them there. Grant and Maddie. Seated together at the table, huddled around two mugs and a single lamp.
Logan braced himself against the archway as the emotions pummeled him. He was relieved and incensed at the same time. He’d been worried that Grant could have harmed himself. Now he knew it was even worse—-he could have harmed Madeline.
“Good evening,” he said.
Her head whipped up. “Logan. You’re home.”
God. The words set his world spinning. She almost sounded happy to see him. And those words.
Logan. You’re home.
He’d never expected to hear those words. Not in all his life.
And damn, she looked lovely. She was wearing only a dressing gown wrapped tight over her nightrail. Her hair was a loose plait draped over one shoulder. Soft, dark tendrils worked loose, framing her face with curls.
But something else drew his gaze and held it.
Her braid was tied not with a scrap of plain muslin but with a bit of plaid.
His plaid.
It was all too much. His sense of relief at finding them both safe. The softness in her eyes, the welcome in her voice. That swatch of his tartan in her hair. He’d traveled long and hard to be here tonight, and it all just made him feel he might collapse.
And what was he going to do? Take her in his arms and tell her he’d missed her every moment he’d been gone? Tell her how jealous he was that Grant could make her laugh with that stupid joke, when Logan hadn’t managed it once?
Of course not. Because those things would be reasonable, and he couldn’t hold on to a shred of sense around her. Because when someone so blithely offered him the one thing he’d been denied all his life and had sworn to never crave, his first impulse had to be distrust. And anger.
Stupid, unreasoned anger.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
“We’re just talking,” Maddie said. “Are you hungry? I could get you some—-”
“No.”
“She’s making me a sketch of the bairns.” Grant lifted the paper and showed it to him proudly. “Look at that. It’s just like ’em the day I kissed ‘em good--bye. I suppose they’ve got bigger now.”
Logan took the paper and examined it. He didn’t have his spectacles on, but even without them he could see the skill in her drawing. Two fair--haired children, one boy and one girl, holding hands beneath a rowan tree.
“Say, can we go to Ross--shire tomorrow?” Grant asked. “I’m keen to see them for myself.”
“Aye, mo charaid. Tomorrow. For tonight, it’s time to sleep. Go on, then. The others are just up the stairs.”
Grant nudged him with an elbow as he moved past. “Do you know you’re married to her?” he asked, tilting his head toward Maddie.
Logan gave her a look. “Yes.”
The big man reached out and ruffled Logan’s hair. “Lucky bastard.”
Once Grant had left, Maddie quietly rinsed the teacups and put them away. She moved the lamp to a hook, wiped the table clean, and hung the towel to dry. All in silence.
She was avoiding him.
Very well, then. Logan would wait. He had all night.
When she finally turned to him, he lifted the sketch of Grant’s children. “What is the meaning of this?”