Chapter Two
Damn his eyes, Logan was in it to his raised brows now. And he detested trickery.
“I’m visiting relatives after three years abroad, Miss Findlay.”
Not exactly a lie, but enough of a deception that his conscience chafed worse than sliding across Loch Tolhorf’s frozen surface.
Bare arsed.
More precisely, he’d left Lockelieth in outrage, after falling out with his father upon learning Da had spent a great deal—nearly all, truth be told—of Miss Findlay’s dowry entrusted to his care until she and Logan wed.
Blinded by his much younger wife’s exotic beauty, Da had succumbed to Rodena’s extravagant demands. In doing so, he’d forsworn his scruples, violated the settlement terms, and obligated Logan to honor the cursed troth.
Unless he paid back the monies. Monies he didn’t possess.
That had spurred him to delve into a variety of risky business ventures while abroad, a few teetering on respectability’s fringes, and none of which paid a quick return.
But then again, he’d believed he had at least another year to make his fortune before exchanging vows.
Only—blast my damnable luck—two months ago, he’d received word his father had fallen gravely ill. On the harried journey home, time and again, Logan cursed himself for losing his temper and departing without telling Da farewell.
He’d arrived home mere days before his father died, leaving Logan an undisciplined clan, nigh on destitute serfs, a keep in deplorable condition, and empty estate coffers. Not to mention a widow more distraught about her future than her husband’s death or the care of her young daughter, Isla.
For a fortnight after Da’s death, Logan had prowled Lockelieth, half-pished in a grief-born fog, and later, a fury-born haze when he learned all of Mayra’s dowry was now gone—squandered down to the last glistening pearl on Rodena.
And that wasn’t the worst hell-fired news.
Da had secretly mortgaged Lockelieth to her glorious ramparts and parapets with an impossibly large payment due by year’s end.
A payment Logan had nae means of making.
At present, Mayra’s lands—lands Da claimed contained valuable ores—and the rest of her dowry were all that stood between Lockelieth and financial ruin.
More importantly, and the more compelling reason he couldn’t cancel the union with Mayra Findlay, Logan’s people had suffered neglect these past few years as Da poured all his resources into Rodena’s grasping, talon-tipped fingers.
Logan’s foreign business ventures had yet to produce a significant profit, and his only recourse was to convince Mayra to marry him before her twentieth birthday.
Much sooner, truth to tell.
Ideally, as quickly as arrangements could be made.
Nae legal writ forbade him from wedding her sooner, just a reluctant six-year-old lad’s oath of honor.
He eyed her, chatting with the boy petting her horse. She was as likely to agree to the rushed union as sheep were to frolic about wearing periwigs, sniffing snuff, and sipping sherry.
“Are you from near here, Mr. Wallace?”
Mayra picked a piece of straw from her plaid. Her endearing, not so subtle, attempt to glean more information earned her an amused smile.
He’d piqued her interest.
Excellent.
Logan could almost see and hear her mind ticking off possibilities.
“I have family scattered hither and yon in Scotland and England. Even a few in the New World. Miss Findlay.”
True enough.
Unlike the falsehood he’d told her about his identity.
The lie spilled from his mouth before he could consider another, wiser, more honest option.
Coburn wadna be pleased when he learned of the subterfuge, and even less so when Logan asked him to keep his confidence regarding the matter. Coburn’s integrity made even the most devout saint appear a sinner.
Nevertheless, and despite Logan’s lie relegating him to the worst sort of knave, he didna want Mayra to ken he was her affianced just yet. Particularly since a stack of letters requesting an end to their betrothal sat neatly within his desk’s top drawer—an ever-present reminder of her disdain and reluctance.
That was one of the reason’s he’d chosen to stay in the village for the time being, rather than venture to the Dunrangour Tower directly. He was well within his rights to call on his intended, but he sought answers that he doubted he’d find at the keep.
After securing a room at The Dozing Stag for an undetermined length of time, Logan had exited the inn and spied a vision of such unexpected comeliness, his lungs stalled. And when his gaze collided with hers… He ken.
Even before his attention locked on the Luckenbooth brooch, he kent she was Mayra Findlay—tall, fair, and blue-eyed like her sire, but with her mother’s oval face, delicate bones, and bowed lips.
Never before had he experienced such a powerful and instant response to a woman.
And given her rosy cheeks and dazed expression, she’d been as awestruck.
Either that or she was a promiscuous piece, practiced at snaring men with her guise of false innocence.
He skewed his mouth sideways a fraction.
How jaded and pessimistic he’d become, all because Da had married such a woman, only to learn her true character too late.
For the briefest instant—not more than a heartbeat really—Logan had almost told Mayra the truth. That this verra day, she brought him to Glenliesh Village.
Or rather, seeking news of her had drawn him.
He’d opened his mouth to tell her, but unexpected and inexplicable fear of her reaction kept him mute.
What if her present fascination turned to contempt or scorn?
He still must wed her, willing or not, and he far preferred the former.
Instead, he’d held fast to his hastily contrived plan: to poke around, and then contemplate his best course, depending on what he unearthed. He was fairly confident nae one here would ken Coburn’s kinship to him, so pretending to be his cousin shouldn’t cause any issues.
Certainly, he didna expect to encounter Mayra within in an hour of arriving, nor could he have predicted his overwhelming reaction when he did. Even now, his jumbled thoughts caroused ’round his mind, and his unruly member lay heavy and aching against his thigh.
Fine bloody time to don Sassanach garb.
A kilt would’ve saved him a great deal of mortification, but someone was sure to have recognized the Rutherford cerulean and scarlet plaid. Bending his knee and angling his leg forward, he prayed Mayra didna notice his arousal, as he unwisely permitted himself another languid perusal of her.
Enchanting didna begin to describe Mayra.
Even the freckles dotting her upturned nose, her faintly lopsided smile, and a small scar over her right eyebrow charmed in a precocious, elfin way. And she possessed the most unusual voice. Uncommonly low and rich for a woman, her husky brogue wrapped around his senses, bewitching and ensnaring him.
What did her laugh sound like?
Her cries of passion?
Deep and sultry like her voice?
Getting miles ahead of yourself there, old chap.
Nevertheless, his manhood jerked in appreciation.
Damned intractable thing. Worse than an undisciplined pup.
Logan scrutinized her, trying to read her expression and gauge her thoughts.
Nae calculating or shrewdness shadowed Mayra’s clear blue gaze, and he relaxed the merest bit.
He’d stared into those wide eyes long ago, nearly two decades, before thick sable lashes framed them below winged, fawn-colored brows. His hungry gaze raked over her creamy skin, slightly turned up berry-pink mouth, dainty, yet strong chin, and her hair.
Och, what magnificent hair.
The bald bairn now boasted a glorious halo of moon spun tendrils, partially hidden beneath an atrocious straw hat with the ugliest—what was that ghastly color?—ribbon he’d ever seen. Her arisaid’s bright hues complimented her coloring, unlike the simple woolen gown of an indistinguishable shade somewhere between tree bark and muddy river bank brown.
She wasn’t exactly attired in the first stare of fashion, yet she didna seem ashamed or self-conscience of her clothing. Truthfully, he’d expected to find her wearing the finest English garments money could buy as his step-mother was wont to do.
He angled his head and folded his arms.
That he recognized Mayra also flabbergasted him.
How many years since he’d last seen her?
Ten?
Nae, more.
The shy, awkward, rickle-a-bones lassie had blossomed into a rare and exquisite woman, and after holding that tempting armful scant moments before, he’d almost hurled his plans into the tosspot.
What difference did it make if she kent who he was now?
She would soon enough in any event.
Roderick Findlay’s words—words Logan hadn’t recalled until this moment—echoed in Logan’s head.
“Court her.”
Why not?
He’d promised her father to woo her, hadn’t he? A short courtship couldn’t hurt, albeit, he’d have to tell her who he was, and soon.
God’s bones.
What if he succeeded in engaging her affections, and she fell in love with him?
The Coburn me?
Now that would be one hell of a conundrum.
Nae, he wouldn’t let it go that far.
To do so would be unjust and cruel.
He’d given Lady Findlay his word he’d nae hurt Mayra, and Logan was a man of his word. Even if the oath had been given as a wee, confused lad who’d only cared about another sword fight with his cousin before a tedious coach ride home.
A self-recriminating smile pulled Logan’s mouth sideways once more.
Hadn’t he also vowed—quite adamantly, as he recalled—he never wanted to touch Mayra?
Ever.
And he’d also promised to try to love her.
Knobdobber.
That sentiment had come full circle, and after embracing her lush form, he itched to touch—taste, caress, and kiss, too—every last inch of her pearly skin, to run his fingers through her marvelous silky mane of hair, and sample her mouth that looked to have just eaten ripe raspberries.
Could those lips possibly taste as sweet as they appeared or her hair feel as soft as the glossy cloud atop her head promised?
Primal male satisfaction thrummed through him.
By Hades, she was already his.
His!
Until this moment, he’d refused to admit the fact or, for that matter, acknowledge the distasteful, unwanted betrothal at all. Years ago, he’d managed to stuff the inconvenience into a grim corner of his mind and lived his life as he pleased, more or less.
The awareness that he should’ve asked to have the agreement voided niggled the tattered edges of his conscience every now and again, and he’d always dismissed the task as an inconvenience he’d attend to later.
Except—devil seize it—he’d waited too damned long to petition the Crown.
And now…
A familiar tremor of frustrated anger prodded his gut.
Now, thanks to Da and that vain hellcat he married, Logan was stuck faster than an ant in cement.
Marry Mayra Findlay he would, regardless of where her affections or interests might lie.
He’d nae choice, but he’d garner her true character beforehand and take precautions as needed if she proved to be something other than a virtuous woman.
Pointedly redirecting his melancholic musings, Logan turned his attention to the purpose of his visit—to learn as much as he could about his luscious intended.
“How, if I may be so bold as to ask, do you ken of me?” Mayra’s patient, expectant gaze held his.
Nae timid, retiring miss here, but neither, he’d vow, was she a flirt.
Aye, but appearances could be mightily deceptive, as he and Da—God rest his sorry soul—could attest.
Rodena’s beautiful, haughty face popped to mind, souring Logan’s jovial mood again.
He’d not be cuckolded and humiliated—forced to acknowledge another man’s seed as his offspring as Da had been.
Stupid, besotted auld fool, falling under Rodena’s spell.
In the end, her sluttish behavior, avariciousness, and cold, callous disregard strangled Da’s affection and crushed his heart. Nae surprise he’d died of heart failure.
Suddenly weary, Logan passed a hand over his eyes.
Enough ruminating about that banshee when an angel stood before him.
Innocent interest filled Mayra’s frank, yet intelligent gaze, the color of the Highland’s early morning summer sky.
He didna detect a trace of coquetry or seduction, and he found her lack of guile all the more appealing. His betrothed wasn’t a wanton, nor did she seem spoiled, as many pampered, high-born daughters were.
How to answer Mayra’s question?
How had he heard of her?
She’d not be hearing the truth, just yet.
He wasn’t an idiot. He couldn’t afford to frighten her off.
Precisely how peeved would she be when he told her who he really was?
He’d encountered her but five minutes ago, yet he’d wager her remaining dowry—the half the Findlays still held—she wasn’t the type to overlook deceit, which made his situation all the more precarious.
Although he didna want to take an infuriated lass to wife, he must uncover what prompted her zealous and repeated—two-and-twenty at last count—requests to terminate their agreement.
To be fair, Mayra hadn’t had any more say in the arrangement than Logan. But since he couldn’t grant her plea and free her, he’d do his utmost to court her.
He wasn’t foolish enough to suppose he might easily win her heart.
Her letters, polite and straightforward, clearly indicated she thought him a negligent, selfish, boorish jackanape.
In a bothersome verra brief time he’d have to prove he wasn’t.
But what about this mammoth lie?
Fine, prove he wasna a complete and utter blackguard then.
Slamming the door on his musings, he gave her his most disarming smile.
She blinked as if momentarily stunned. Or was she unaccustomed to male attention?
Now that presented an interesting scenario.
“I seem to remember someone mentioning you in connection with Dunrangour when I was in Edinburgh last month, Miss Findlay.”
He scrambled to summon the name of an acquaintance they might have in common, but someone she wasn’t intimate with if she asked who.
Instead of inquiring, however, her pretty mouth turned upward a trifle.
“My dearest friend, Gaira Windlespoon is to wed there in April. And my mother is accompanying me to the city for the ceremony. There’s to be a masque ball. I’ve never attended a ball either.”
Didna the Findlays entertain, then?
Melancholy and yearning colored her throaty voice. “I’ve heard it’s a lovely city, and I’ve always wondered how different life is from the Highlands.”
“Edinburgh has many stunning features, but as with all highly-populated places, poverty and sanitation issues abounded. I dinna mind visiting, but I’d never want to live there.”
After three years, Logan was good and done with urban life, particularly filthy, malodorous port cities. Mayra couldn’t imagine town squalor, the stench, or the impoverishment if she’d never seen or smelled them.
Fair brow furrowed in faint, but noticeable lines, she swept the village a wistful glance.
“We’ve privation here as well. In fact, that’s why I came to town. To deliver food baskets. But now, I really must be off. My maid awaits me, and I’ve duties to attend to at home.”
Times were tough for many, and word had it the Dunrangour didna fare that much better than Lockelieth since laird, Roderick Findlay’s death two years ago. That explained Mayra’s attire, and yet she provided food to hungry villagers.
Had the Findlays been forced to tap into her remaining dowry? Perhaps that was why she was so insistent upon ending their betrothal.
What happened to Lockelieth then? What happened to Mayra?
Dowerless, she wasn’t likely to find another respectable offer.
Ach, but she wasn’t entirely dowerless.
The land settled upon her was quite valuable. Particularly if it contained copper and silver, as rumored.
A peely-wally sensation churned his gut.
It mattered not.
He couldn’t release her.
Not without returning the other portion. The squandered portion.
His honor wouldn’t permit anything less, and aside from selling Lockelieth’s acres, he had nae way of doing so, and without land, the estate couldn’t support itself.
Bloody fine situation his father had left.
Mayra gave MacPherson, intently watching their exchange, a cheery smile.
“Would you please give your wife my apologies? Bettie ails, and I must fetch her and see her home. Tell Maggi, I promise to have tea when I return on Friday.”
“Aye, lass. She’ll be disappointed, I’ve nae doubt, but yer wise to see Bettie to the keep. I’ll tell my missus fer ye now.” He extended his palm to Logan, and the men shook. “It’s welcome ye be to stay for as long as ye like, sir.”
After shaking hands, he gestured to the skinny boy tending Mayra’s horse. “As soon as Miss Findlay leaves, Reed, git yerself to the stables and help yer brother finish mucking the stalls, then both of ye come in and eat.”
“Aye, Da.”
Reed shook his head, his overly long shock of sandy hair flying about his neck as he rubbed the dozing horse’s forehead.
With a polite, differential head bob, MacPherson sauntered back into the inn.
Logan patted the boy’s shoulder.
“You go along, lad. I can assist Miss Findlay. I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”
“Thank ye, sir!” Reed bobbed his tousled head, giving them a gap-toothed grin. “Until Friday, Miss.”
He tore to the stables, his scrawny legs churning.
Mayra’s charming smile and the pink tinging her satiny cheeks suggested she wasn’t opposed to Logan’s assistance. Or else he’d quite forgotten how to read a woman’s interest, and he hadn’t been celibate that long, by God.
Taking her elbow, Logan guided her the few feet back to the cart.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Findlay. I pray I might have the honor of seeing you again.”