When a Scot Ties the Knot

Maddie squirmed out from under him. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I know this is supposed to be physical. Impersonal. It’s only that I keep thinking of lobsters.”

He flipped onto his back and lay there, blinking up at the ceiling. “Until just now, I would have said there was nothing remaining that could surprise me in bed. I was wrong.”

Logan MacKenzie. Suddenly her not-­real suitor had a name. By the end of the afternoon, he had hair (brown), eyes (blue), a voice (deep, with a Highland burr), a rank (captain), and a personality (firm, but intelligent and kind).

My dear imaginary Captain MacKenzie, you are not real and never will be. I, however, am a true and eternal fool.

Here, have a drawing of a snail.

His hair was overlong (mostly brown, with hints of ginger), and his squared jaw sported several days’ growth of whiskers (mostly ginger, with hints of brown). Broad shoulders tapered to a trim torso. A simple black sporran was slung low around his waist, and a sheathed dirk rode his hip. Below the fall of his kilt, muscled, hairy legs disappeared into white hose and scuffed black boots.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. When the regiment had landed at Dover last autumn, they’d been greeted as triumphant heroes in London. Then they’d marched north. Home, to the Highlands. And he’d watched his men’s lives and dreams fall apart at the seams, one by one.

Callum wasn’t the only one. The men gathered around him represented the last of his discharged soldiers, and the worst off: the homeless, the wounded, the left behind.

They’d fought bravely, survived battle, won the war for England on the promise of coming home to their families and sweethearts—­only to find their families, homes, and sweethearts gone. Pushed off the lands they’d inhabited for centuries by the same greedy English landlords who’d asked them to fight.

And Logan couldn’t do a damned thing about it. Until today.

Maddie had always been different from other girls, and she had always known it. For example, she was certain she was the only bride to ever write the following to-­do list on her wedding day:
• Bath
• Coiffure
• Dress
• Lobsters

A realization struck her like a lightning bolt. She now had a confidant. A conspirator. Someone who knew everything. All her secrets. He didn’t love her for them, but he hadn’t run screaming from her, either.

This ruthless, kilted stranger she’d married might be the closest thing on earth Maddie had to a true friend.

“Were I a bird, I’d sing for thee.
Were I a bee, I’d sting for thee.
Were I a peak, I’d tower for thee.
Were I a tree, I’d flower for thee.
Were I a flute—­”

The reading was interrupted as Callum began to cough with alarming violence. Rabbie slapped him on the back with vigor.
“Do I need to stop?” Logan asked. “Are you dying?”

Callum shook his head.

“Because I wouldna mind it if you were dying.”

“No, no.” At length Callum looked up with a reddened face and choked out, “Dinna mind me. Do go on.”
“Were I a flute, I’d play for thee.
Were I a steed, I’d neigh for thee.”

And now, despite all her best attempts to avoid it, here it came.
Her heart started telling her a dangerous, dangerous tale. The story of a decent, loyal man who’d treasured her letters, dreamed of her nightly, survived battles and marched across continents to come home—­not to a castle or a glen but to her. And even now, when he held her in his arms, he lacked the words to explain all the emotion in his heart.
It was nothing but a silly fiction.
It had to be.

Rabbie hunched over to whisper. “She’s got to see him with his kit off. Shirt, plaid, all of it.”

A coarse whoop rose up from the men.

“No, I mean it,” Rabbie said, standing up. “Here’s how it goes. You rise early one morning, Captain. Choose a misty one, when the gloom’s settled like a blanket over the valley.”

He waved his flattened hand before them like an artist painting a landscape. “You strip down to your skin, and then you have a dip in the loch. Wait until she comes looking for you. Because she will. They always do. But pretend not to notice when she does. And then—­just when she’s close enough to see and she’s been watching for a while, you rise up out of the water. Like a dolphin. Or a mermaid. Shooting up through the mist and pushing your hair back with both hands”—­Rabbie thrust both hands through his hair to demonstrate—­“with all the little beads of water trickling down over the ridges of your shoulders and chest.” He danced his fingers down his belly. “Like so.”

My dear imaginary Captain MacKenzie, you are not real and never will be. I, however, am a true and eternal fool.
Here, have a drawing of a snail.

“A caller? Now that’s a surprise.”
For an on-the-shelf Englishwoman residing in the barren wilds of the Scottish Highlands, callers were always a surprise.
“Who is it?” she asked.
“It’s a man.”
A man.

“So . . .” she said, “this means . . . you . . . I . . . gack.”

“You’ve got to be the Rob Roy of her imaginings. Are you calling her a ‘bonny lass’? The Englishwomen’s hearts go all a-flutter at that.”
“What do you know about the hearts of Englishwomen?”
“He’s got the right of it,” Rabbie put in. “ ‘Bonny lass’ is good. ‘Wee bonny lass’—well, that’s even better.”
“ ‘Yer wee bonny lassie,’ ” said Callum, taking the improvement one step further. “Throw in lots of ‘och’ and ‘aye’ and ‘dinna fash yerself,’ too.”

“You stare at me. You’re fascinated.”
“It’s just the kilt.”

Oh, Lord. Now he was not only an impoverished orphan but an impoverished, unloved orphan with a passion for books.

"My dear, silent friend,
It breaks my heart, but I have to do it. I must. I can't bear the guilt any longer. There's only one way to end this now.
You have to die."

"You strip down to your skin, and then you have a dip in the loch. Wait until she comes looking for you. Because she will. They always do. But pretend not to notice when she does. And then - just when she's close enough to see and she's been watching for a while, you rise up out of the water. Like a dolphin. Or a mermaid. Shooting up through the mist and pushing your hair back with both hands" - Rabbie thrust both hands through his hair to demonstrate - "with all the little beads of water trickling down over the ridges of your shoulders and chest". He danced his fingers down his belly. "Like so."

Because, you see, you are mad for me. Utterly consumed with passion after just a few chance meetings and walks along the shore. You made me a great many promises. I was reluctant to accept them, knowing how our nascent love would be tested by distance and war. But you assured me that your heart is true, and I . . . And I have read too many novels, I think

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.”

“Is this the moment where you warn me that if I hurt her, you’ll slip poison in my tea?”
“No, no. What I have to say is much worse. If you’re Maddie’s husband, that means I’m going to mother you.” She gave him a quick, tight hug before releasing him. “And you’ll just have to endure it.”