“Of course, my dear. Take your time. Choose something you like, as well.”

Nodding, she could not stop her gaze from sliding to McKinney. His eyes were inscrutable as he watched her move away. She prayed he would not be here when she returned. She found it unlikely he wanted to listen to her read to the earl. Perhaps if she took her time, he’d be gone when she returned.

As she slipped inside and made her way into the library that was precisely her hope.

Chapter Twelve

Watching her leave, Logan was quite certain she would take Thrumgoodie’s advice to heart and dawdle in choosing a book . . . if for no other reason than to avoid him.

“She’s a fine one.” Thrumgoodie’s voice almost startled him from his musings. He glanced swiftly to the old man to see his gaze trained on where Miss Hadley had disappeared.

“Nothing silly about her. Not like so many of these women.” He waved his bent and crooked fingers toward the lawn where Libba and two other ladies played their game with the gentleman. “She’s lived a different sort of life before this. You can see it in her eyes. It makes all the difference.”

Logan would agree with that. She wasn’t vacuous or spoiled or vain. She loved others more than herself. She was willing to sacrifice herself for her family. Need for her tightened inside him.

Life in the Highlands wasn’t like life in Town. There weren’t the teas and vast entertainments. No operas and balls and shopping jaunts to Bond Street. But he did not suspect she would miss any of that. Heat unfurled in his gut. They could find other ways to divert themselves. He could see her at his side, helping him rebuild his castle, helping him tend to the crofter’s needs and assisting him in the care of his siblings.

He could especially see her in his bed in the long, cold nights of winter—the fire from his fireplace gilding her skin as he sank himself between her thighs.

He blinked, swallowed, disturbed to find himself uncomfortably hard. Damn the lass. She did this to him and she wasn’t even within sight. At any rate, it was all a fantasy until he persuaded her to marry him.

“Too bad I happened upon her so late in life. If I were a younger man, I could be a real husband to her . . . instead of this . . . shell.” He punched a gnarled fist upon his blanket-covered thigh.

Logan blinked, startled at the old man’s bluntness, and not a little dismayed. It sounded as though Thrumgoodie had made up his mind and intended to marry Miss Hadley. He sounded so certain, in fact, that Logan wondered if they weren’t already betrothed. When he’d arrived, he’d felt as though he were interrupting an intimate moment between the two of them and felt only satisfaction in shattering their closeness. It never occurred to him that Thrumgoodie could have already proposed.

“I suppose I’ll get about the matter of proposing,” he continued. “Haven’t got too much time left. Not that I can get down on a knee these days, but I’ll manage. She accepts me as I am. A rare trait in a female, to be so accepting. And she’s exceedingly solicitous of my needs. More than anyone else . . . even the servants.”

Logan heaved a sigh of relief. He wasn’t too late then. But he best not dally. Thrumgoodie spoke as though a proposal was imminent.

Followed on the heels of this relief, he felt a surge of anger. Did she really wish to marry a man who regarded her as little more than a servant?

Thrumgoodie broke into his musings: “Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

“Well, think hard before you settle on someone . . . it’s not a decision to enter into lightly. Choose the female best capable of serving your needs.”

Logan grimaced. He made a wife sound like a slave to her husband. His mother had been a true partner to his father. She’d ruled their family like a general before and after his death. When his father left for the Crimea, his mother had been the one to put food on the table and oversee the crofter’s grievances. She was so much more than his father’s servant.

Thrumgoodie’s voice droned on. “Most gentlemen spend more time picking out a cravat than a wife. I could never understand that. A potential wife should be weighed with the same consideration a man employs while selecting his steed.”

Logan blinked at the oddness of this conversation. Strange consul indeed, considering he was presumably here to court Thrumgoodie’s granddaughter. The strangeness was even greater if one knew Logan’s true motives—that he was intent on wooing Miss Hadley. As he sat beside her decrepit beau, listening to him dole out advice on matrimony, he focused on how he might steal Miss Hadley out from under him. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

He wasn’t above taking advantage of the situation. Not just for himself but for Miss Hadley, too. She deserved more than an old man who, by his own admission, could never be a real husband to her.

The silence stretched and he stared at the double doors in the distance where she’d departed, longing to give pursuit. “You’ve known Miss Hadley long?” he asked.

Thrumgoodie broke into laughter that ended in a horrible hacking cough. Regaining his breath, he gasped, “Do you ever really know a woman?”

Logan cocked an eyebrow and stared again in the direction where Miss Hadley had disappeared. He supposed there was some truth to that. Except he felt like he knew her. Comforting her as she wept over her baby sister, her grief over not being there to carry her to the churchyard . . . he had learned everything he needed to know about her in that moment.

Logan rose to his feet. He didn’t have time to squander—not with Thrumgoodie so very close to proposing.

Cleo finally narrowed her selection to a volume of romantic poetry. Thrumgoodie had, after all, suggested she choose something she would enjoy, too. She perused further, in no hurry to return to the lawn where she’d left him with Lord McKinney. She need wait only a little while. As determined as she was, Libba would doubtlessly override his protests and claim him.

“Have you found a book that meets your satisfaction?”

She whipped her head around, struggling to keep her expression cool and composed. “What are you doing here? I thought you needed to relax.”

“I feel quite invigorated actually.” He leaned against the wall just inside the library, arms crossed over his chest. He looked very masculine and formidable—definitely not like a man in need of rest.

She feigned boredom, sliding the book she’d been perusing back on the shelf. “Interesting. You should play croquet with the others then.”

He pushed off from the wall and began walking toward her, his long legs quickly covering the distance between them.

Something about his gait—his very appearance—struck her as predatory. Not the first time. The gray of his eyes seemed dark, almost charcoal . . . and intense in a way that made the tiny hairs at the back of her neck prickle.

“Games are fun,” he agreed, inclining his head in a partial nod. His dark stare held her for a long, tense moment. He took a final step, stopping himself directly before her. Only a scant inch separated his chest from hers. Her neckline was modest, but the exposed flesh above her br**sts tingled. His gaze scanned her face before dropping to her throat, her chest. “But I’m not playing at anything when it comes to you.”

She held her breath, riveted by his eyes, his face, the movement of his lips as he spoke.

She swallowed and recovered her voice. “No? What do you call proclaiming your intent to court me one day, and then showing up here the next day to woo Libba? Sounds like a man with a penchant for games to me.”

A slow smile curved his mouth. “You sound jealous.” He splayed one hand against the bookshelf above her shoulder. She glanced at the strong length of that arm before looking back at his face.

He arched a dark brow at her in that infuriating way of his.

She snorted. “I’m not jealous. I’m merely pointing out your duplicitous nature.”

“Have no fear, sweetheart—”

“Don’t call me that.”

He continued as though he hadn’t heard her speak. Leaning in closer, his arm brushed her cheek. “I’ve not changed my mind.”

She ignored the small thrill his words created in her. “I really couldn’t care one way or another, Lord McKinney.”

He drew in a deep breath. The motion lifted his broad chest, grazing the front of her dress. Her br**sts tightened, the tips hardening in the most treacherous manner.

“You’re a horrible liar. You care.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. Her heart seized at the touch. “And I really think you should start calling me Logan.”

“That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“After all we’ve shared . . . the least we can do is address each other by our Christian names.”

Her face burned at the reminder of her past transgressions.

“I’m a breath away from gaining a proposal from Thrumgoodie. I don’t think you should be touching me like this . . . or continuing engaging me in these private discussions.”

His hand stilled on her face. “You’ll not do it. You’ll not marry that old man.”

“You think not?” She lifted her chin, cursing that her voice shook.

He nodded. “You won’t go through with it.”

“I wouldn’t wager on that. For months now I’ve been working toward that very goal.”

“Why?” he demanded, his voice hard. “You don’t care for him.”

“Cast no stones here,” she charged. “You were pursuing Libba, a girl you don’t care for—“

“And I’ve come to my senses. I want you.”

“Merely because I’m the more tolerable choice,” she sneered. “You wouldn’t be standing here if not for my bridal settlement.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, his words a growling rush. “That I’m not in need of funds? I am. Yes, you have the money my family desperately needs. But you also have my undivided interest. You fill my thoughts. I ache for you. More than any female I’ve met since leaving home. Hell, even before then. What more can I say?”

Their gazes locked, clung. She searched his face, both reveling in and frightened from his stark declaration. In his expression she thought she read a small measure of discomfort . . . as if the declaration had surprised him, too.

She ignored the slight softening of her heart and pushed the echo of his words from her mind.

“I don’t want you to say anything,” she whispered. “Again.” Please, no more words like that. “I-I don’t care,” she stammered.

“Do you want me to profess my love?”

She choked and jerked as though slapped. “N-no! I would not believe you if you did.”

At his decidedly relieved look, she rolled her eyes. Apparently he believed in the sentiment of love as much as she did.

Desperate to end this, she shoved past him, but he grabbed her arm and turned her back around. “You feel something for me. I know it.” His hand flexed and she felt the imprint of each of his fingers like a brand.

She exhaled thinly through her nostrils. “Again, your high opinion of yourself staggers me.” She jabbed a finger dead center in his chest. “You and your smoldering looks and your impressive—” She motioned wildly to his person, biting back the word body, refusing to reveal how much she had made a study of him. “It may work on every other lady within sight—”

“You find me impressive?” He smiled again and she yearned to wipe the smirk from his handsome face.

“I’m not some wee lass from the local village ready to swoon at the mere sight of you.”

He scowled at her mocking imitation of his slight burr, but she didn’t allow herself the smallest stab of guilt. She couldn’t relent when it came to him. He was too tempting by far, and she could never let him suspect that she found him appealing.