When a Scot Ties the Knot

Out of desperation and a lack of alternatives, Logan steered her toward the kirk.

Of all places, a kirk. He hadn’t been inside a proper house of worship in years.

But the space was dark and quiet and empty, and that was what Maddie needed right now.

He walked her down the center aisle and helped her find a seat on a narrow wooden bench. Then he put his arms about her, attempting to soothe the tremors racking her slender frame. He thought of the way she’d touched him that morning, when he’d woken shaking and covered in sweat. Tracing his fingers down the linked pearls of her spine, he tried to imitate her soothing caress.

He held her like that for several minutes, until she felt ready to speak.

“I can’t do this.” She choked on a sob. “I’m sorry. I know we had an agreement, but I can’t even walk down a street without panicking. I don’t know how I thought I could go to a ball.”

“Easy, mo chridhe. I have you now. It’s over.”

“It isn’t over. It’s never over.” She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. “I hoped at last I could move past this, but I’ve been this way almost all my life. At least, ever since . . .”

“Ever since what, mo chridhe? What happened? You can tell me.”

“You’ll think me so stupid and foolish. I was stupid and foolish.”

“I’d never think you stupid. Foolish, possibly. Tell me the story, and I’ll let you know.”

She plucked at the lacy edge of her handkerchief. “When I was seven years old, it was Christmastime and my mother was dying. I knew it, even though no one would tell me so. I could see it in the way she’d grown so pale and thin, and I could smell it on her breath. It was the strangest odor, like mineral spirits and rose petals. There weren’t any callers, other than doctors. My lessons were suspended. I had to be very quiet at all times, so as not to disturb her rest. So I learned at quite a young age how to be invisible. Any game I played, any joy I found—­it had to be undetectable. I spent a great deal of time out of doors. Taking interest in other small, quiet things.

“One day, one of the local farmer’s girls told me there was to be a Christmas pantomime in the village square. I was curious to see it, but I didn’t dare tell anyone. I crept out and walked all the way into the village myself to see it. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd. It was wondrous. The costumes, the joking. There was a man who juggled flaming batons. I laughed until my sides hurt. For a few minutes, I forgot all about the sadness at home. And then . . .”

When she paused, Logan reached over and took her hand.

“I don’t know precisely what happened,” she went on. “A horse startled, perhaps?” Her brow wrinkled with concentration. “Maybe a dog got loose. I can’t recall. The whole crowd went into a panic, and I was caught in the middle with no one to protect me. If I hadn’t managed to wedge myself under the scaffolding, I surely would have been trampled. I still don’t remember how I got home. I only remember that it was dark, and so cold. I stuffed my frock in the coal bin to hide the rips and stains, then spent the night trembling in my bed. I thought surely they’d find me out in the morning. They would have heard the news from the village, or they would have noticed the frock. But when my father woke me, it was to say my mother had slipped away in the night. So no one discovered my misbehavior. And I never told them.”

“No one?”

“How could I? Confess that while my mother lay on her deathbed, I’d stolen away to laugh at a pantomime? I was so ashamed.”

He shook his head. “You were a girl. You wanted a respite from grieving and sadness. That’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“It was difficult to believe that as a child, though. For the longest time, I felt my timidness was a deserved punishment. You see, I’ve tended to freeze in crowded places ever since. Markets, busy streets, theaters . . .”

“Ballrooms,” he finished for her.

“Ballrooms.” She lifted her shoulders, then let them drop. “Whenever there are too many ­people around, I become that seven-­year-­old girl again. Alone and frozen with fear.”

Logan wasn’t sure what to say. He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “It’s understandable.”

“Is it? Because I don’t understand it, really. Is it truly the crowd that frightens me? Maybe I’m still punishing myself for an old mistake. Or perhaps it’s superstition. I’m afraid that if I enjoy myself, something terrible will happen.”