When a Scot Ties the Knot

With a little shriek of alarm, Maddie moved to rise from the bed.

 

His arm tightened around her. “Stay right where you are. It’s hardly the last time the servants will catch us in bed together. She might as well grow accustomed to it.”

 

“I’m the one who’ll need to grow accustomed to it.” Maddie felt a blush creeping up her throat already. But she didn’t move.

 

If Logan wanted her at his side, that was where she would stay.

 

Always.

 

When the maid entered, Maddie remained curled up at Logan’s side. “What is it, Becky?”

 

To her credit, the maid took it in stride. “I . . . I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But there’s a caller for you.”

 

“A caller?”

 

“Yes, Mrs. MacKenzie. And it’s a man.”

 

“A man?” Rising up on her elbow, Maddie exchanged a surprised glance with Logan. “Are you expecting someone?”

 

“Not unless you are.”

 

“Did this gentleman give his name?” she asked Becky.

 

The maid shook her head. “I forgot to ask. Oh, Mrs. MacKenzie. He looks ever so—-”

 

“Big?”

 

“No. Strange.”

 

Now Maddie was completely at a loss. “Please show him into the parlor, Becky. And ask Cook to prepare some tea. I’ll be down in a trice.”

 

Once the maid left, Maddie gave Logan a bemused shrug. “I can’t imagine who it might be.”

 

“Do I need to be jealous?”

 

“Well, I must warn you, the last time I had an unexpected gentleman caller . . .” Smiling, she glanced down at their linked hands on his chest. “This happened.”

 

“That’s it.” Logan released her hand and sat up in bed. “I’m going down there with you.”

 

“Logan, I was only teasing. You should stay in bed. There’s no need.”

 

“I’m going down with you,” he repeated in his most stern, commanding tone. He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, wincing as he worked one arm through the sleeve. “Just in case this unnamed strange gentleman tries something untoward.”

 

“And if he did, what would you do about it? Bleed on the man?” She laughed.

 

He didn’t.

 

He gave her a solemn look. It wasn’t the look of an invalid but of a warrior. “I’d have to be dead in my grave before I stopped fighting for you, Madeline. Even then, I’d move six feet of earth to find a way.”

 

Oh. Be still her heart.

 

“Very well, then.”

 

What else could she do when he said such things? Maddie knew better than to try talking him out of it. If his mind was set on rising from his sickbed, there was no further benefit to arguing. And to be honest, she felt comforted to see him healthy and on his feet.

 

They went slowly. She buckled his fèileadh beag about his waist and helped him pull the shirt down over his bandaged torso. Despite his boyish protests that he could do it himself, she insisted he sit while she attacked his wild hair with a comb.

 

When he was presentable, they made their slow journey down the corridor, arm in arm.

 

The identity of the man in the parlor came as a true surprise.

 

“I’m Mr. Reginald Orkney,” he announced.

 

Becky was right; the man looked every bit as out of place in her parlor at eleven o’clock in the morning as Maddie had felt in Lord Varleigh’s ballroom. He was dressed in a tweed coat, dark--blue trousers, and thick--soled boots. When they entered the room, he launched from his chair, whipped the hat from his head, and greeted them with a deep bow.

 

“Good morning, Miss Gracechurch.” He bowed again in Logan’s direction. “Captain MacKenzie.”

 

“Actually,” she said, “it’s now Captain and Mrs. MacKenzie.”

 

“Is it, then? Well!” Mr. Orkney clapped his hands together in surprise. Unfortunately, the gesture flattened the hat he was still holding in one hand. He awkwardly tossed the thing to the floor and kicked it under a chair. “My felicitations to you both.”

 

And then he showed no signs of saying anything further.

 

After a moment’s silence, Madeline prompted, “Mr. Orkney, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

 

“Oh. Yes, that. I’m not sure the visit has a purpose now, strangely. You see, Miss Gracechurch—-or Mrs. MacKenzie, I should say—-I confess, I came hoping to engage you.”

 

The tension in the room leapt to a new level.

 

“You came to propose?” Logan sounded wonderfully envious.

 

Mr. Orkney looked mildly terrified. “Not engage her as a wife,” the man quickly amended. “Lovely as she might be, I have a wife of my own. Oh, dear. I seem to be making a muddle of things.” He cleared his throat and began again. “Mrs. MacKenzie, I had come hoping to engage your ser-vices. As an illustrator.”

 

Logan relaxed. “There’s no reason you can’t commission my wife’s work. Even though we are newly wed, she intends to continue illustrating.” He looked down at her. “Don’t you?”

 

“Certainly,” Maddie said.