Your loving wife
Wearing a shirt, loose trousers, and an unabashed grin, he entered the hall. His men sat assembled about the long table.
Logan cleared his throat. “Good morning.”
All heads swiveled to face him. They regarded him in silence for a moment. And then, to a one, they rose to their feet and broke out in spontaneous applause.
“Huzzah.”
“At last!”
“Take a bow, then.”
Logan waved off the teasing, but he couldn’t bring himself to put a stop to the merriment. He knew this was a landmark of sorts for them, too.
Lannair was truly home now. For all of them. That was something to celebrate.
He looked around the High Hall with a new perspective, noting any crack in the plaster that needed patching, any bit of paneling that had dulled with time. The men were well on the way to completing their own cottages. Starting today, Logan could turn his attention to making this castle a home.
He would have to do something about those steep stairs before any bairns came along.
The mere thought of fatherhood was dizzying, in all the best and worst ways.
“Took you long enough, but I expect it was worth the wait.” Rabbie came forward and punched him on the shoulder. “Good work, Captain. And not a moment too soon. After last night, Callum has his eye on one of the village lasses. Now he can court her proper.”
Callum’s face colored. “I’m not courting any lasses.”
“I saw how you looked at her all saft--eyed. I give it a week.”
Logan had endured the ribbing with good humor, but he couldn’t ignore the gnawing worry in his gut for long.
“Have you seen my wife?” he asked.
“Mrs. MacKenzie’s in the kitchen.” Munro threw him a wink before settling back to the plans.
The kitchen?
Bemused, Logan made his way down to the castle’s ancient kitchen, with its lofty ceilings and massive hearth.
Even before he’d entered the room, a familiar scent assaulted him—-a sharp, metallic tang. He rounded the doorway to find a scene that stopped him cold.
Maddie stood in the center of the room, wearing a woeful expression and an apron smeared with blood.
“Good God. Maddie, are you—-”
“I’m fine!” she hastened to assure him. “None of it’s mine. I’m fine.”
“What the devil happened? Has someone been murdered?”
“No.” With her wrist, she wiped her brow and then dislodged a stubborn lock of hair with a huff of breath. “I’m making haggis. Grant’s helping.”
She tilted her head toward the corner, where the big man sat chopping onions and mumbling to himself.
After a stunned pause, Logan broke out laughing. She was making haggis, of all things? It seemed the most adorable confession in the world.
“I know, it’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever done. And when it comes to me, that’s saying something. But I gave Cook and Becky the day off, after all their hard work yesterday. I found a recipe book, and I thought I could fill in, since my aunt left this morning.”
“Aunt Thea left?”
She nodded. “The carriage was already readied and packed, so I asked her to go ahead. She’s going to break the news of our marriage to my father and invite them all for a late--summer holiday. It’s been far too long since we were all together, and now there’s nothing to keep us apart. I can’t wait for Emma and Henry to meet you.”
Logan found himself eager for that to happen, too.
She smeared a red fingerprint on the page of the recipe book. “Do you have any idea what’s in this?”
He nodded. “Sheep’s heart, lungs, and liver, all stuffed in its stomach . . . plus oats, and a bit of gravy.”
She gave him a blank look. “And yet you still eat it.”
“As often as I can get it.” He peered into the pot at the lumpy, misshapen haggis. “This doesna look half bad.”
“Truly?”
“Let’s have a look at your tatties, then.”
She blushed and crossed her arms over her chest. “What? Now? Here?”
“Not those. Your tatties. The potatoes, mo chridhe.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I did think it was a bit early in the day for all that.”
He caught the back of her apron and gave her a wicked look. “Trust me, it’s never too early in the day for all that.”
As she reached for the potatoes, she fumbled one in her slippery fingers. It squirted out of her hands and nearly hit him in the head. Only his quick reflexes saved him.
“Oh! Sorry.”
“Let’s have you out of the kitchen before someone gets hurt.” He unlaced the apron tied at the back of her waist and pulled it over her head. Then he picked up a towel, moistened it with water, and wiped her hands clean, one delicate finger at a time. “I canna fathom what possessed you to take this on this morning.”