Chapter Five
Logan entered The Dozing Stag, sorely tempted to seek his chamber and indulge in a long nap. After another sleepless night and rising before dawn again today, sand scraped across his eyes each time he blinked his millstone weighted eyelids.
Later returning to the village than he’d intended, his hours exploring the acreage Findlay dowered Mayra had proved most satisfying. He’d found prime grazing lands, as well as several acres suitable for crops. A rocky crag tunneling along the property’s northern perimeter separating the dowered lands from the rest of Dunrangour’s needed further exploring too.
Da swore that piece contained copper and silver ores, though he never revealed how he’d come by the information.
Logan blinked drowsily, the movement sluggish and forced as he plowed his fingers through his thick hair in an effort to calm the wind-blown strands.
Head wooly from lack of sleep, he inclined his head at the smattering of patrons gawking to see who entered on such a blustery afternoon. A yawn escaped him as he scanned the common room.
Nae striking lass with moonlight gleaming in her silken hair, peaches tinting her cheeks or summer’s sky reflected in her winsome eyes sipped tea and nibbled shortbread.
Christ, Mayra even had his musings waxing poetic.
Must be the exhaustion causing the whimsical ramblings.
Had she come and gone already?
Disappointment, leaden and bitter, left a sour taste in his mouth.
He couldn’t ask someone.
Too obvious.
Coburn was bloody right about him—he usually was, the irritating, confident arse.
Logan was an imbecile, caught neatly in his own trap.
This skulking around was unworthy of him and Mayra. Rash and stupid to not tell her his real identity. And his ill-conceived impulse would make winning her more difficult. And each time they met and he continued the charade, it became harder to reveal he truth.
For God’s sake, she was his betrothed.
He ought to ride straight to the keep and claim her this instant. Except, his innocent boyhood vow yet echoed in his guilty conscience, and her repeated requests to have their betrothal ended intrigued as much as puzzled.
Mayra’s last troublesome letter raised the stakes treacherously high.
Perfectly impersonal politesse, nonetheless, her missive held a distinct accusatory tone and suggested his constant neglect surely indicated a lack of interest in pursuing their union. And therefore, it would behoove—her word—them to end the farce—again, her word—with the greatest of alacrity.
Where did she come up with her expansive vocabulary?
Exceptionally well-read for a female, it seemed.
And then, by Odin’s gnarly pointed teeth, she’d neatly—he imagined the clever smile twitching her lovely, kissable mouth—dropped the load stone.
Square on Logan’s unsuspecting head.
Mayra had written King George, too.
Saucy, brazen, unpredictable, vixen.
Could things get any more complicated?
Why was she so frantic? So determined?
Arranged marriages were common enough, and this union strengthened both clans.
Not that he was altogether keen on the concept of marrying a woman he didna ken. But since he’d been backed into a corner, he might as well look on the favorable aspects.
Truth to tell, since encountering her, his opinion toward the match had warmed several degrees.
And her beauty and wit haven’t at all influenced you?
Not to mention the swell of satiny breasts he’d glimpsed above her bodice when he’d held her that first day. Aye, any mon still breathing—dead too—would count himself fortunate to take such a bonnie lass to wife.
Nevertheless, Logan couldn’t quite reconcile the amiable woman he saved to the resolute lass who’d presumed to write the king. Some might even accuse her of imprudence or impertinence.
Shaking his head once, he skewed his mouth into a half-appreciative, half-cynical grin.
Suggesting to Logan he find a more suitable bride.
Damn, Mayra had a true Scotswoman’s pluck and initiative. They were well-matched in that regard.
In other ways as well.
Namely, their mutual physical attraction which multiplied each time he saw her.
His attention strayed outside—to the villagers rushing about spearing fretful glances to the ominous sky before he casually examined the men within the cozy taproom.
Had one of these men been Mayra’s beau before he arrived in the village?
Something queer occurred behind his ribs; almost like the time he’d fallen from a branch as a child. He couldn’t find his breath as an excruciating vice squeezed his chest. All he could do was wait for the terrifying sensation to pass.
Only this feeling wasn’t altogether terrifying—just unfamiliar and gut-wrenchingly uncomfortable. It spread thick, dark, and choking, like smoke, filling his lungs, stealing his breath, and muddling his reasoning.
He sucked in a long, stabilizing expanse of air.
His imagination was getting the better of him.
Surely the sensation couldn’t be possessiveness or jealousy.
Most assuredly not.
He wasn’t the jealous sort. At least… he hadn’t been until now.
His eyelids half-lowered, Logan, nonetheless, examined each patron in turn.
Not a mon present that he deemed worthy of his Mayra, and if any of these Scots was shy of their fortieth birthday, he’d gnaw his muddy, possibly manure caked, boots.
According to MacPherson—the innkeeper had proved a ready wealth of information—Mayra was always well-chaperoned when she came to Glenliesh. And not only did she regularly give to the unfortunates, evidentially, her many attributes also included an acute intellect. She’d acted as Dunrangour’s chief since her father’s death, until her younger brother was old enough to succeed.
Oh, aye, his intended was quite an unexpectedly, but delightfully, complex woman.
Or … artfully deceptive.
The unbidden sentiment wiggled its tenacious way into his contemplations.
Though MacPherson assured him Mayra was seldom out of her diligent chaperones’ sights, Logan kent too well, loyal and devoted servants could be manipulated.
Particularly, if they feared for their position.
What type of a mistress was Mayra?
As kind and sweet as his first impression indicated, or did she hide her true nature under false smiles and artificial demureness?
Rodena had.
Until she’d captured Da in her gossamer web, first sucking his integrity from him, bit by bit, and soon draining him of his joy, his pride, his money, and eventually, his will to live.
Livid didna begin to describe his stepmother’s reaction when he’d cut off her funds.
A satisfied grin pulled Logan’s mouth upward as he wended his way between tables. Nae wonder she’d hied off to Edinburgh. However, he’d continue to provide for Isla, despite her questionable heritage. After all, the lass couldn’t be faulted for her mother’s infidelity, and she believed Da her father and Logan her brother.
He wouldn’t add cruelty to his growing list of sins.
Finding a secluded corner table, he sank into the scratched chair, and after extending his legs, raised a forefinger and signaled MacPherson.
“A pint and verra strong tea if you have it.”
“Aye, Mr. Wallace.” MacPherson’s jowls trembled as he trundled to the bar. “Right away.”
Logan’s attention drifted to the activity outside once more. An odd yellow-green tint edged the pregnant clouds. Orange lightening flashed an angry, jagged steak, moments before the heavens grumbled loudly.
Would Mayra come as promised?
God, he hoped so, for he longed to see her again. But the petulant sky didna bode well, and she was almost certainly guaranteed a thorough soaking, and perhaps pelting from hail too.
Better for her to have stayed at the keep in this weather.
In the days since they’d met, his mind had continually wound its way to pleasant musings about her. A few rather erotic daydreams too. That caused him nae small amount of consternation.
In general, he didna indulge in lewd imaginings about women.
For years, he’d ignored her, unforgivably, and he shouldn’t be a bit surprised that his inattention piqued her.
A great deal from the tenor of her letters. Ready to kick him head over arse, from the tone of her last note.
In his defense, he hadn’t known of her many correspondences until he returned home.
Da confessed he’d been too distressed to forward them, afraid of Logan’s reaction when he discovered she was as opposed to the union as he. With the dowry gone, naught could be done now in any event.
Merely contemplating the ways Mayra’s partial dowry might have benefited his clan caused unbidden ire to scuttle up his chest and close his throat.
With a weighty clunk, MacPherson set the tankard before Logan, foam dribbling over the pewter edge. A steaming cup of tea, a bowl of mutton stew, a plate with cold meats, cheese, sliced apples, and hard brown bread followed.
“Ye look like ye could use a bite. My Maggi makes the best stew, she does. And she said ye missed breakin’ yer fast again t’day.”
Distinct curiosity rang in the last few words, but MacPherson wouldn’t ask why Logan left the inn before light each morn. Though outwardly a respectable establishment, he wouldn’t be shocked to learn a nefarious transaction or two took place beneath the inn’s gabled roof on any given day.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
Logan wrapped a hand around the cup and promptly burned his fingertips. He blew on the tea before taking a tentative sip.
Hot and strong. Just how he liked his.
Taking another drink, he relished the warmth seeping to his middle. He hadn’t realized how chilled he’d become, and welcomed the tea’s soothing heat chasing the nip away.
The door swung open, and a violent gust snatched the panel and slammed it against the wall.
Mrs. MacPherson uttered a startled squeak and wheeled toward the entrance, nearly dropping her full serving tray.
Cheeks and nose glowing, and her hair a tousled mess, Mayra charged inside. After wrestling the door closed, she secured the latch and offered a weak, apologetic smile.
“I’m so sorry. The wind tore the door right from my hands. I fear quite a storm is brewing. I’m not certain I’ll be able to make it home.”
“Not, to worry, lass,” Mrs. MacPherson assured her. “We’ve empty rooms. Lady Findlay would have my hide if I let ye even attempt such a thing. Did Reed see to old Horace for ye?”
Mrs. MacPherson bustled to a table and unloaded the foaming tankards to a trio of auld men hovering over a chessboard.
“Aye,” Mayra affirmed with a husky chuckle. “Horace actually trotted the last quarter mile, so eager was he to reach the village. I dinna remember the last time the auld laddie moved so fast.”
Vainly trying to secure the wayward spirally strands that had sprung loose from her coiffeur, she inspected the room. Her perusal halted when her bright azure gaze landed on Logan. A merry smile lit her eyes and tipped her mouth as she swept to him while removing her gloves.
Without waiting to be invited, she pulled out the chair opposite him. She gracefully sank onto the seat, her plaid and skirts billowing around her, and after plopping her rather worn gloves atop the equally well-used table top, continued to try to restore order to her hair.
Giving a small, abashed shrug, she explained. “I tried a new hair style. As you can see, it didna fare well in the wind. At least I was spared that.”
She pointed to the sheets of rain falling in torrents and lashing the windows.
Already, water had turned the street to mud and formed miniature rivers along its length.
“I think you look lovely, even with your hair tumbling down. I’ve never seen such a fair-haired Scot before.”
Indulging the urge to touch the shimmering tangles, Logan dared flicked a silvery curl teasing her shoulder.
Not wise.
A few patrons and Mrs. MacPherson watched him and Mayra with keen interest.
Arms raised, Mayra paused in taming her hair.
Her mouth parted, and her surprised, but definitely pleased, gaze scooted to his. Darker blue rimmed her irises today, possible the effect of her pretty gown or her jovial mood.
“You, sir, are either a practiced liar, or a true gallant. For I caught a glimpse of myself in the window before I entered and this”—she pointed to her wild hair—“would cause the nag, Cailleach, to gnash her teeth in jealousy.”
Mrs. MacPherson brushed the back of her hand across her brow. “Tea for ye, Miss Mayra? A Scotch pie too? I saved ye one.”
“Och, Maggi. You’re such a dear. Thank you. I’m chilled through. And then would you join us? If you can spare a few minutes.” Mayra gifted Mrs. MacPherson one of her brilliant smiles, and Logan’s heart, or something in that vicinity, swelled with a joyful heat.
The minx had captivated him already.
How could that possibly be?
Mrs. MacPherson’s curious gaze darted between Mayra and Logan.
Nae fool she.
“I’ll fetch them for ye, and glad I’d be to rest my sore feet and enjoy a cuppa. Especially with a handsome gentleman.”
She winked and hurried away.
“I believe she’s flirting with you.” Mayra chuckled, pushing one last pin into her hair. Winged brows peaked, she patted her head. “Do I look an absolute fright?”
“Nae such thing. You’ve managed to bring that bounty under control. Is your hair naturally wavy?”
Her father’s had been wavy, but nothing like the riot she’d just restrained.
“Aye, unfortunately,” she agreed with a resigned nod. “And it gives me fits. Bettie too. Mama said I was bald as an egg until I was almost two, but when my hair did finally grow, it took on a life of its own.”
She pulled a cute face. “I still remember them both trying to comb my tangles as a child. It took hours and hours. Or so it seemed.”
He searched past her to the doorway. Nae cocky brothers or stern maid today. “Did Bettie accompany you?”
“Nae, the poor dear’s still recovering, and my rascally brothers are confined to their chambers for hiding their tutor’s clothing.”
Logan laughed and pulled his earlobe. He and Coburn had pulled a few antics like that with their unfortunate tutors too.
Unpinning the brooch holding her arisaid in place, Mayra cast him a saucy sidelong look, her mouth curving into a proud smile.
“I came to Glenliesh on my own today.”
The brooch’s familiar blue stone glinted faintly as she laid the plaid over the chair beside her. She’s worn the Luckenbooth brooch, each time he’d seen her. A testament to everyone that she was affianced?
Assuredly not the behavior of a bint or an immoral lass.
Clutching the table’s edge with long slender fingers, Mayra leaned forward, her sapphire eyes sparkling. Lord, but she had the most expressive face and speaking eyes. A long tendril of hair she’d missed coiled across her nape.
“It’s the first time. Ever. Can you believe it? Me, nearly nineteen, and this is the only time I’ve been permitted the trip alone, even though Dunrangour is scarcely three miles away. I hope Mama will let me come by myself more often now.”
He did too, for his time in the village must eventually come to an end, and he must win her over before it did. All of his other attempts to arrange an encounter with her had met with failure. She was, well and truly, supervised.
Mayra gave her head a slightly disgusted, or perhaps frustrated, shake. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be constantly chaperoned? It’s bad enough that we so seldom get visitors. At times, I feel we live in a different country, for I have nae idea what happens elsewhere until months afterward.”
Guarded so closely, nae doubt she rarely spoke to a man alone, and yet the pleasure had been his, several times now. For whatever reason, for once, Fate seemed to have granted him favor.
He almost snorted aloud.
Was he actually giving Fate credit for any of this?
Fate whom he’d blamed and cursed soundly for decades about his lot in life?
Mayra’s enthusiasm over such a simple thing, being permitted a solitary trip to the village, both pleased and concerned him.
Had her life truly been so stark as result of their mandated betrothal?
Why had her parents been so overly strict?
Teasing the fringes of Logan’s hazy memory, a dim image emerged of Mrs. Findlay softly weeping into Mayra’s bundled chest while Roderick Findlay’s warrior-fierce glowers burned holes through Da and that other oily little man.
Logan remembered next to nothing of the king’s agent except his great, awful stench and big yellow teeth. Like an over-sized mountain hare.
Aye, the Findlays hadn’t been enthusiastic about the arrangement, and who could blame them? They’d been forced to sacrifice their firstborn, and as it turned out, only daughter to a monarch’s momentary fancy.
Da had never revealed why the king ordered the union. But given Mayra had been kept on a verra short tether, attended constantly, and allowed few of the social privileges a gently-bred woman was generally permitted, her parents must have been threatened with something calamitous to cause them to take such extremes.
A pang burgeoned, stabbing and burning in his chest.
He’d never considered Mayra’s plight in the arrangement, only selfishly rebelled at his life having been manipulated by others.
Holy hell, Logan hated being a human pawn, and so too must she. And yet, wasn’t he guilty as sin of doing the same thing this verra moment by not being forthcoming?
Mayra touched her forefinger and thumb to the dainty pearl earbobs hanging from each delicate earlobe, checking the small gold clasps. “I do love coming to town, and I’m so looking forward to Edinburgh. We leave the day after tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
Damnation.
He wasn’t ready to reveal the truth just yet.
Still, he had reason to be optimistic. His theory about a beau? Ground to powdery crumbs, and he couldn’t be happier about it.
Nae woman so thrilled about a solitary sojourn to town carried on illicit assignations.
Ridiculously pleased at his conclusion, Logan lifted the tankard and halted his burgeoning smile by taking a swig.
“And when will you return?” He’d use the time to look in on Lockelieth and explore that intriguing stretch of land supposedly hiding precious metals.
“Mama hasn’t said for certain, but I imagine it will be toward the end of April.”
That bloody long? He didn’t have that much time to waste.
A contented sigh lifted Mayra’s pert bosom, and giving a little wave, she smiled at an elderly man, half-asleep and smoking a pipe before the roaring stone fireplace. “He was our gardener until we couldn’t afford—”
Catching her blunder, she stopped abruptly. Pink tinted her cheeks, and she fiddled with her gloves, straightening the fingertips.
So, the tattle of Dunrangour’s financial woes was true.
That concerned him more than a little. Nevertheless, he changed the subject to avert her discomfort.
“That’s an unusual clasp.” He flicked a finger at the pin.
Would she tell him the truth of it? Why did her integrity matter when he was an unconscionable cur, lying to her?
Her attention followed his movements, and the joy drained from her face as her thick lashes fluttered closed for a fraction.
“It’s… It was a gift to me when I was verra small. Mama insists I wear it.”
Slowly, she lifted her eyes, hesitation and resolution reflected there and obvious in her partially raised chin.
“Mr. Wallace—”
“Call me Coburn, please.”
She sent a harried glance round the room and bent farther over, her bosom brushing the table’s worn edge.
Lucky piece of furniture.
Cool hardness crept into her wisp of a voice and pleated the corner of her narrowed eyes.
“Coburn, I think you should ken. As an infant, I was promised in marriage.”