Lessons from a Scandalous Bride

Marguerite had tricked her—or at least omitted certain facts. It’s almost impossible to resist following through. The words rumbled through her head like ominous thunder.

She roamed the castle, relieved to be alone, not sure where she was going, and not really caring, only trying to make sense of what it was she wanted from her marriage to Logan. Because Marguerite was correct. She had begun something last night with him . . . and she wanted more.

Passing a series of long stained-glass windows that looked generations old, she saw a flash of lightning through the colorful panes. Seconds later, the sound of thunder rumbled in the far distance.

Her heart thumped hard against her chest. She immediately thought of Logan and the others out there in the rain. Would he return now? Her skin warmed at the prospect.

She walked faster, eagerness tripping through her at the prospect of seeing him again and continuing where they’d left off last night. And then panic rose up inside her, warring with the euphoria.

Everything was slipping away. Her long-held fears, everything she’d always believed—everything she’d always told herself she wanted. For the first time since Jack sent for her, she wasn’t sure what she wanted anymore.

Slowing her pace, she continued her stroll through endless corridors, taking turn after turn until she knew she was well lost. She snorted at this irony. It was exactly how she felt.

She peered inside various rooms, entering what appeared to be a music room. Several instruments filled the space. None of which was collecting dust. Either Logan and his siblings made good use of them or the staff did an excellent job cleaning in here.

Her eyes alighted upon floor-to-ceiling double doors leading outside. Snatching an afghan off a nearby sofa, she wrapped it around herself and stepped outdoors. The wet cold of the paving stones immediately seeped through the soles of her slippers as she stepped out into the gray morning. She suspected she would be wearing her boots more often in this climate.

She looked skyward. Dark, almost black clouds rolled in from the west, and she wondered what direction Logan had ventured for the day. Shaking her head, she commanded herself to stop thinking about him. That would be the first step toward avoiding Marguerite’s prediction that there was only one inevitable conclusion for the two of them.

Lowering her gaze, she stared out at a well-tended garden. One side appeared to be flowery shrubs and rows of juniper trees. The other section was devoted to plants and herbs.

Maids busied themselves, pruning, clipping, edging. They worked quickly, with one eye to the sky. One maid worked amid the herbs. She wore a heavy wool apron and sat on her knees, clipping snippets of herbs for her basket. Cleo’s gaze fastened on her, narrowing on the thick plait of red hair snaking out from the wool kerchief covering her head. Cleo admired the glorious red hair for a moment before her gaze drifted to the girl’s profile. The creamy complexion. The full, bow-shaped mouth. The lovely, slightly upturned nose. Sudden recognition seized her.

She must have made a sound. The girl swung around on her knees. At the sight of Cleo, she almost lost her balance. One hand came down on the dark soil to balance herself. Her face paled for a moment as she eyed Cleo up and down. Then a fetching shade of red flooded her cheeks.

“My lady,” she murmured in a lilting brogue, dipping her head in deference.

“Hello,” Cleo returned, feeling suddenly awkward, more aware than ever that she was a stranger in her new home. This girl’s place and position here were more natural than her own.

The notion mortified her—especially when she recalled the tears in the girl’s eyes on her wedding day . . . and what they perhaps signified about her relationship with Logan.

Were they lovers once? Still?

Her fingers tightened around her blanket. And yet she couldn’t move. They simply stared at each other.

“What’s your name?” Cleo asked. She had to know—had to know the name of the girl who may or may not have a place in Logan’s heart. Perhaps he would even have married her if she’d possessed the requisite dowry.

Cleo’s gaze traveled over her lush figure, resting on her chapped, work-roughened hands. Not too long ago her own hands had resembled those. She was peasant stock—just like Cleo. Only fate and fortune had shone on her.

“Mary,” she answered to Cleo’s question. “Can I get you anything, my lady?” She clearly wondered why Cleo was lingering out in the chill and wanted her to be gone if the anxious glitter in her blue eyes indicated anything.

“No. Thank you. Just exploring. Don’t let me keep you from your task.”

With a considering look, Mary nodded and returned to her work, lowering back to the ground. Her movements were stilted though, measured, and Cleo knew she wouldn’t relax as long as Cleo stood there . . . pretending not to watch her. Pretending not to care.

Whatever solace she had hoped to find in the garden vanished. Turning, she slipped back inside the music room. Discarding the afghan, she resumed her exploration, eventually stumbling upon a library.

Unlike the music room, this room appeared long neglected. Logan’s family’s fondness for music evidently didn’t translate to reading. As she walked the length of one vast wall of shelves, she swiped a finger along a dusty spine. She browsed the books, noting that the selections were quite dated. She would have to see about acquiring some current titles. No doubt the family tutor would appreciate some of the more current titles to introduce to Logan’s siblings.

She found a volume of Jane Eyre and settled herself before the fire that someone had started in the room. The rain was falling steadily now, an occasional burst of thunder breaking the patter. For all that, it was a lulling cadence and she snuggled beneath the pashmina blanket draped on the back of the sofa. Soon the words grew blurry and unfocused and she surrendered to the heaviness of her eyelids.

Chapter Twenty-five

A sharp rattling woke her. Blinking, she propped herself up on one elbow. The book on her chest slid to the floor with a thud.

A maid tending the fire whirled around at the sound. “Oh, apologies, my lady. I didn’t mean to wake you. Just wanted to rouse the fire a bit so you didn’t grow cold.”

“That’s fine,” she murmured with a croaky voice. Sliding her legs to the floor, she brushed a hand over her mussed hair, wondering how long she’d been asleep. For all she knew, it could be the next day.

She parted her lips, on the verge of inquiring the hour when another figure entered the room.

Instantly, her body sprang alive with awareness. He was wet, she could see, his dark hair molded like a slick helmet to his head. His clothes hung heavy with moisture on his large, muscled frame.

Logan froze as his gaze landed on her. There was worry in his expression that faded away at the sight of her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. No one’s seen you since breakfast.”

“I’m sorry.” An uncomfortable tension rose up between them. She flicked a glance at the maid. Caught staring, the girl’s freckled face blushed and she quickly looked away, returning her attention to the fireplace.

Cleo faced her husband again. Husband. The word jarred her—nearly as much as his gleaming gaze. Those gray eyes searched her, looking, it seemed, for something.

She fidgeted with the folds of her skirt. “I fell asleep.” She motioned to the sofa where the rumpled blanket sat piled in a heap. “I didn’t mean to cause alarm.”

“The castle is big. I worried you’d lost your way.” He motioned to the door. “I’ll escort you.”

With a glance for the maid who was inordinately focused on stirring the fire, Cleo moved past him and through the door. Hands laced before her, she walked, sliding him a glance as he fell into step beside her.

“You’re wet,” she announced and winced at the obviousness of her comment.

“The rain cut our work short for the day. I’ll have to visit the other crofters another time.”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” she suggested, feeling unaccountably nervous. Tension swirled on the air between them, even more pronounced now that they were alone, away from the maid’s curious gaze.

“Perhaps. I need to oversee some of the renovations on the west wing.”

She nodded and slid him another glance. He stopped, looking down at her with that devouring way of his.

An answering tremor racked her.

He spoke her name, quickly, so softly that she barely registered the utterance. His face, the carved lines achingly handsome, the eyes deep with a hunger that she felt echoed deep into the core of her . . .

It undid her.

They moved as one, reaching for each other, coming together in a desperate tangle of arms and lips. His weight pushed her back against the wall, rattling a framed painting near her head. She didn’t care, didn’t even look up.

Cleo wrapped her arms around his neck and clung as if some great force might pull her away, separate them. Their mouths consumed each other, kissing, sucking . . .

He groaned her name. “I have to have you, Cleo . . . please . . .”

And this sent none of the usual panic racing through her. It thrilled her, excited her . . . intensifying the ache at her core. Because she felt the same way. She pressed herself against him and moaned when she realized she could get no closer.

His hand came over her breast and she whimpered in frustration, loathing the barrier of her gown. She wanted them back in their room, in that colossal bed that had so terrified her at first. It terrified her no more. Strangely, she was devoid of fear or hesitation or the usual doubts. She wanted him between her thighs. She needed that final closeness—him filling her and taking away the aching emptiness inside.

Then he was gone, wrenched from her arms. She sagged against the wall, panting and aching with disappointment. He stood back from her. She reached a trembling hand for him, but saw that he wasn’t even looking at her.

She followed his gaze to his younger brother. Niall’s amused expression showed no remorse at interrupting them. “Now I see why you were in such a hurry to get back home. I was sent to fetch you to dinner, but I can see that you both might want to skip dinner and go directly for dessert.”

“Niall,” he warned in a deeply guttural voice, the cords of his throat working with tension as he took a menacing step toward his young brother.

Niall held up a palm, looking hard-pressed not to laugh. “My apologies.” His gaze cut to Cleo. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Still fighting for her breath, she nodded, thinking she was less embarrassed and more frustrated at the interruption. Not normal thinking, she was sure. She’d become insatiable. Just as Marguerite had intimated—this could end only one way.

At that disturbing thought, she pushed off from the wall. “Excuse me. I’ll freshen up for dinner. I know my way back.”

Logan watched her intently as she passed, as a predator studies its prey. She tried not to notice. Tried not to look in his direction. Still, she felt his gaze as she hurried down the corridor. The heat of it followed her. Even when she was out of sight, she felt it. She felt him—the scent of him, the memory of his mouth, his hands . . .

Dear God. Marguerite was right. She’d set out to satisfy them both, thinking it needn’t go very far. And now she was enslaved, desperate for it to go much, much farther.

Dinner was a painstaking affair. Conversation. Laughter. Everyone seemed in fine spirits. Cleo’s father was particularly fond of Logan’s Scottish whiskey.

“And you make this here?” Jack asked after a deep swallow of the amber liquid.

Logan dragged his gaze from her. “Yes. Ever since the days of my great-grandfather.” His gaze returned to her—where it had been ever since they sat down to dinner.

She wasn’t certain where he had changed clothing. He hadn’t followed her to their bedchamber, but he’d been dressed in fresh clothing, waiting with the others when she joined. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t joined her in their chamber.