Chapter Nine
Edinburgh
April 1720
Sitting at her dressing table, Mayra cracked the green wax seal. She managed to wait until she was alone in her chamber to read Logan’s most recent letter. If only he’d made this much effort to write her before.
The weeks apart hadn’t lessened her love for the rogue, more fool she.
The foolscap crackled softly as she unfolded the paper, then ran her fingertips over the crisp page. He’d touched this same surface with his strong, callused hands.
If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his fingers trailing across her cheek. She touched her mouth. And feel his firm, warm, wonderful lips upon hers.
Her eyes misted, and she released a ragged sigh as she slowly opened them.
My Dearest Mayra,
I pray this letter finds you well, at least in form, if not spirit. I’m not surprised you haven’t responded to my previous missives, but I willna give up so easily. I believe with all my heart we are meant to be together. Please allow me to prove myself to you.
I wrote you a poem. I ken women like such things.
My Love
Eyes the color of summer skye
Fair skin smooth and pearly white
Bowed lips, plump and strawberry red
Hair shimmering moonbeam bright
Your faithful, loving, humble servant,
L
A smile twitching the corners of her mouth, Mayra slowly refolded the letter before adding it to the growing stack in her dressing table’s drawer.
Poetry wasn’t Logan’s forte, but she adored him for the effort.
Skin pearly white, indeed.
A glass of sparkling wine in hand and one chainmail covered shoulder propped against a marble column, Logan adjusted his itchy black mask for the umpteenth time as he scrutinized the ballroom, paralleled on two sides by gold gilded mirrors.
Seeking Mayra, he gulped down the tepid wine and swung his gaze toward the doors leading to the garden.
Too cold to venture out there tonight, even if a smattering of spring color dotted the well-ordered beds.
Still, he had a groom with a white horse waiting before the mansion.
Just in case…
His gaze roved the crowd once more.
Where was she? Coburn said Mayra wore a medieval maiden’s gown of the palest blue adorned with silver netting.
Over four weeks had passed since she’d left Logan standing in The Dozing Stag, wondering if he’d truly destroyed his only chance at love and happiness. More than thirty sleep deprived nights, flopping about his lonely bed, pummeling himself with recriminations.
He’d written her twice weekly, something he should’ve done long before.
In those missives, he’d apologized over and over, told her of his love, his plans for their future, and he begged her to give them a chance, to forgive him. He’d even written a sorry excuse for a poem.
She hadn’t responded.
Not to a single correspondence.
Had she even received the missives?
He’d rather believe she hadn’t than that she’d ignored his letters.
As hers had been for months—nae years.
Finally, unable to lounge about Lockelieth any longer without going aff his heid from frustration, his mind constantly straying to Mayra, he decided on a new course.
One that might fail, but which wouldn’t have him twiddling his thumbs and moping about the keep. He must prove himself to her. Somehow convince her he’d never be so bloody stupid or deceitful again.
He searched the crowded room for the umpteenth time.
Guests in an enormous variety of costumes from creative to ridiculous—was Lord Fowler supposed to be a chicken or a turkey?—stepped in time to a Scottish reel or gossiped in small clusters, wine or punch glasses in their gloved hands.
Others—mostly shy wallflowers and drowsy elderly dames—perched in the chairs lining the room’s one end, and still more revelers wandered the perimeter, their countenances intense and searching.
Is that how he looked?
Almost desperate and yet hopeful too?
Did they, too, seek a beloved?
Or perhaps, their love unrequited, they merely sought a glimpse of the object of their affection?
Coburn swore he’d observed Mayra dancing a strathspey earlier, but although Logan had kept a hawk’s eye on the milling throng, he’d seen nary a glimpse of a female with moonlight threaded through her locks, an enchanting pixyish smile on her rosy mouth, and the sky dancing in her merry blue eyes.
“You’re mooning, cousin. I should dub you Sir Dour, Knight of the Gloomy Realm.”
Coburn chuckled as he once again eyed Logan’s costume up and down.
“I still canna fathom why you’re dressed as a knight. Every time you move, you clink and clank worse than a black tinker’s wagon. How do you propose to dance, or piss for that matter, in that contraption?”
He flicked a long finger at Logan’s armor, mirth cavorting in his merry gaze, visible through his mask’s eye slits.
A skeptical brow elevated, Logan eyed his cousin’s swashbuckler’s attire, his dark red hair held in place by a dashing blue scarf.
“At least I choose a respectable profession.”
“Ach, trust me, cousin, the lasses dinna always want a respectable chap. Sometimes they want a mon to scoop them into their arms and steal a kiss.” Smirking, he gave a wicked wink. “And sometimes sample a wee bit more of their bountiful charms too.”
“Ever the romantic. Some women do like being treated with respect and reverence, you ken.” Logan’s droll response earned him a whoop of laughter.
“Dear cousin, ye are completely, absolutely besotted.” Coburn’s grin couldn’t be described as anything other than gloating.
“Just you wait, Coburn. Your day may come yet, and if it does, I’ll be right there mocking you, rubbing your nose in your warmer affections.”
Coburn threw his hands across his chest in theatric horror. “Bite yer tongue. My day will never come. Unlike ye, I’m not obligated to produce an heir.”
“I assure you, my determination to win Mayra, despite my earlier stupidity, has nothing whatsoever to do with obligation.”
Casting his cousin a look just this side of exasperated, Logan craned his neck and scoured the crowd.
Probably look like a damned crane.
A burgundy and gold liveried servant passed by, and Coburn snatched two more glasses of wine. After passing one to Logan, he took a deep swallow, then made a face.
“Weak as milk. I ken for a fact, McCullough has a stash of whisky and French brandy in his study. What say we help ourselves to a tot or two?”
Logan surveyed the ballroom once more.
Nae Mayra.
Mayhap she’d heard he was here and had left?
His stomach and heart dove to his booted feet, heavier and swifter than an anchor shucked over a schooner’s side met the river’s bottom.
Still, he wasn’t ready to quit the field just yet.
“You go ahead. I’m going to wander around and try to find my betrothed.”
How he adored saying that, declaring she was his. Even if it were only true for a short while longer.
He’d ken her preference, one way or the other, tonight.
Unless Mayra had truly left already.
Odin’s toenails.
He should’ve considered the possibility. However, if she had indeed departed, he had his answer. Just not the one he wanted.
“Never thought the day would come, that you’d be ballocks over chin in love. And honestly, I’m utterly terrified that I too, may someday become so ensnared.” Coburn gave a much exaggerated shudder. “Aye, a stiff quaff is most definitely in order.”
With a jaunty wave, he headed toward one of the entrances, but halfway to his destination, he veered toward a raven-haired female pirate.
Logan pointed his gaze ceilingward, and shook his head, his lips twitching.
Mayhap sooner than you think, cousin.
Methodically strolling the ballroom’s border, he kept watch for a vision in blue and silver. Asking acquaintances if they’d seen her would only raise questions and possibly make things more awkward for Mayra, so he elected to keep his own counsel.
Nonetheless, he’d been here a full thirty minutes without a single glimpse of her, and that didna bode well.
He passed the terrace windows reflecting the glow of hundreds of candles, and after glancing through the panes and assuring himself nae one loitered outside, except for the willing groom paid verra well to stand with Logan’s noble steed, he continued on to the card room.
He swiftly perused the occupants.
Nae there either.
Hands on his hips, he blew out a frustrated breath.
Devil it. Where was his love?
In a carriage, trundling to the Windlespoons’ manor?
Was he truly too late?
The fine hairs on his nape stood up as if electrified, and he slowly turned around.
There Mayra stood, slightly uncertain, but beyond exquisite at the top of the fan-shaped stairway. Someone had tamed her wild mane, and it hung to her waist in silky waves. A circlet of diamonds graced her forehead and the choker at her neck.
A dozen swains rushed to the bottom riser, all jabbering and posturing for her attention.
A fleeting smile touched her mouth, but Logan didna miss the discomfiture in her eyes.
She was wholly out of her element.
Striding across the marbled floor, his boots clacking and his armor jangling, he never took his attention from her.
Upon hearing his rackety approach, she turned her head, and a radiant smile of relief blossomed across her face.
The bucks vying for her attention noticed her focus and turned disgruntled expressions his way.
One chap, dressed as a jester nudged another attired in… A frog costume? They both turned bland stares on Logan, smirking at his ill-fitting armor.
He pushed his way through her admirers, perhaps using his elbows a trifle more exuberantly than necessary.
A tall, striking Roman centurion sporting a beak-like nose and haughty countenance blocked the stairs. He sneered as he surveyed Logan’s over-sized breastplate.
“Looks like you had trouble finding a costume that fit. Last minute decision to attend?”
“You might say that.”
Logan shrugged, his full attention focused on the vision floating down the stairs, her gaze locked with his.
Beak-nosed man noticed and tried to step in front of him. “Who are you sir, that you so brazenly stair at our fair Miss Findlay?”
“I can answer that, Lord Strudwick.” Mayra’s musical, husky voice drew the men’s attention. “He is Logan, laird of Lockelieth Keep, and my betrothed.”
Hope sprang anew in Logan’s chest.
Did she mean it? He stepped forward and offered her his arm.
Resting her fingertips upon his forearm, Mayra swept the peeved men a winsome smile.
“If you’ll excuse us?” She bent her head at a conspiratorial angle. “We’ve wedding details to discuss.”
Grumbling their disappointment, the men wandered away.
Logan raised her hand and searching her eyes, kissed her fingertips.
“Never have I beheld such magnificence. I wanted to punch them all in the face for daring to look upon your loveliness.”
Head tipped, she searched his face. “I’m surprised to see you, Logan. You didn’t mention coming to Edinburgh in your letters.”
Ah, so she had received them. “I couldn’t stay away. I had to see you, to beg you again to forgive me.”
Her bright gaze strayed beyond him. “We’re garnering attention.”
He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “I dinna care. Did you mean what you said? That we’ve a wedding to plan?”
His heart stuttered in anticipation of her answer.
“Aye.” She blushed, pink tinting her cheeks. “Don’t mistake me. I’m still thoroughly miffed at you, but I love you. And given a choice of life with you and without, I choose you. I would like to start over and begin our relationship anew, with both of us committed to being totally honest with each other.”
Logan’s grin would’ve lit the heavens; he was positive.
He didna deserve her mercy or forgiveness, but he’d accept them with the gratefulness of a dying man given another chance at life.
“Well, then my beloved Scots lass, I’ve never had the opportunity to propose to you.”
He sank onto one knee, his armor clinking and clanking.
God help him to regain his feet with a measure of decorum.
The grand entrance and the ballroom doorways filled with gaping onlookers, but Logan paid them nae mind. A gradual hush spiraled outward from where he knelt, and Mayra smiled down at him, love shining in her eyes.
“Mayra Effie Lilias Findlay, will you take this flawed, unworthy Highlander who adores you and give him another chance to prove to you, how utterly remarkable, delightful, and exceptional you are?”
“Oh, aye. I shall. I shall.”
She nodded, her hair swirling about her shoulders, and her smile lighting her entire countenance, as he managed to stand with her assistance.
“I’m so happy. If there weren’t so many people watching, Logan, I’d kiss you.”
“I’ve nae such compunction.”
He swept her into his arms, and kissing her full on the mouth, trooped to the manor’s exit.
A startled butler yanked the door open, and the clattering of guests’ shoes and the swishing of their clothing echoed behind Logan as he continued marching down the stairs.
Mayra giggled when she saw the horse.
“Sir, do you mean to whisk me off on yonder steed?”
Logan set her down, just long enough to vault into the saddle.
Well, actually given the unaccustomed to armor encasing him, it was more of a noisy, awkward, wholly undignified clamor, assisted by the grinning groom.
He tossed the amused chap a coin, which he promptly pocketed before cupping his hands for Mayra to step into. “M’lady?”
Light as a nymph, she deftly positioned herself sideway before Logan on the saddle. Wrapping her arms about his waist, she laid her head against his chest. “I believe we’ve caused a scandal.”
He lowered his lips to hers once more, savoring the sweetness of her mouth she readily opened to him.
“I hope so, my love. I do hope so.”