When a Scot Ties the Knot by Tessa Dare Page B

exceptional. If you are able to attend our gathering next week, I should be pleased to make the introduction.”
    She bit her lip. What a chance this could be for her, but . . .
    A ball.
    Why did it have to be a ball?
    â€œCould I not pay a call earlier in the afternoon?” she asked. “Or perhaps the following morning. It would seem a shame to interrupt your amusements with talk of work.”
    â€œThe work is the reason for the gathering. You wouldn’t be an interruption.” His hand brushed her wrist. “I’ll look out for you, I promise. Do say yes.”
    â€œI have a question,” a deep voice interrupted. “Does this invitation extend to me?”
    Oh, Lord.
    Logan.
    After a brief, assessing pause in the doorway, he moved into the room. He was dressed for physical labor, it would seem, in his kilt and a loose homespun shirt. He must have just come in from the glen.
    Lord Varleigh looked faintly horrified, but also intrigued. His glance to Maddie sent an almost scientific question:
    Just what kind of wild creature is this?
    Without so much as a nod in the direction of manners or propriety, Logan crossed the room in firm, muddy strides. He drew near Maddie, but his gaze never left Lord Varleigh’s.
    He casually draped his arm about Maddie’s waist, then flexed it—­yanking her to his side. The brisk morning air clung to his clothing, bringing with it the faintly green scents of heather and moss.
    â€œGood morning, mo chridhe . Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”
    Maddie’s tongue went dry as paper. “B-­but of course. Lord Varleigh, may I present Captain Logan MacKenzie.”
    â€œCaptain MacKenzie?” Lord Varleigh looked to Maddie. “Not the Captain MacKenzie. The one you . . .”
    â€œYes,” she managed.
    â€œYour intended?” His gaze darted to Logan. “Forgive me, sir. I was under the impression you were—­”
    â€œDead?” Logan supplied. “A common misconception. As ye can see, I’m verra much alive.”
    â€œExtraordinary. I had no idea.”
    â€œWell,” Logan said smoothly, “now ye do.”
    â€œI should have mentioned it earlier,” Maddie said. “Captain MacKenzie only returned with his men yesterday. It was quite the shock. I’m afraid I’m still a bit scattered.”
    â€œI can only imagine, Miss Gracechurch.”
    â€œMiss Gracechurch is Mrs. MacKenzie now.” Logan’s hand slid to Maddie’s shoulder in a gesture as baldly possessive as it was unsubtle.
    Mine.
    â€œActually,” Maddie interjected, nudging away, “I’m still Miss Gracechurch at the moment.”
    â€œWe exchanged vows last night.”
    â€œIn a traditional handfasting. But that’s more of a formal betrothal. It’s . . . well, it’s complicated.”
    â€œI see,” said Lord Varleigh, although it was clear he didn’t.
    Really, who could? This was madness. Any explanations she might attempt would only make it worse.
    When he spoke, Lord Varleigh’s jaw barely moved. “As I’ve been telling Miss Gracechurch, there will be a ball at my home next Wednesday. I should be delighted to welcome you both.” He collected his portfolio and bowed. “Until then.”
    Even after Lord Varleigh left, Logan’s arm remained on Maddie’s shoulder. The room vibrated with quiet tension.
    She took a step in retreat.
    With unsteady fingers, Maddie gathered her folios and pencils from the table. “I need to return these to my studio.”
    â€œWait,” he said. “Dinna move.”
    Her knees went weak as he drew closer. It was tempting to blame her reactions on his raw masculine appeal, but Maddie knew better.
    He was the first—­and likely only—­man to pursue her this way.
    She was curious. She was a romantic. And above all, she was lonely.
    Hunger, after all, was