When a Scot Ties the Knot

“Madeline Eloise Gracechurch . . . I’ve come here to marry you.”

“It’s been an honor to know you, Logan. I do hope you’ll understand if I don’t write.”

For Bren
Because one does not simply write a novel.
Your friendship is precious to me.

I think you underestimate my capacity for taking normal human interaction and making it awkward.

Let’s have a look at your tatties, then.”

She blushed and crossed her arms over her chest. “What? Now? Here?”

“Not those. Your tatties. The potatoes, mo chridhe.”

“Don’t you dare. The maid spent an hour with the curling tongs.”

“I willna muss your curls.” A sly smile tugged at his mouth. “Not the ones on your head, at any rate.”

“Now you’re not making any sen—­”

He dropped to his knees before her, tossing up her petticoats with both hands.

She squeaked in response. “Logan.”

“Just a kiss, mo chridhe. Just a kiss. Let me give you this much.”

You do realize what that means, Logan?”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is this the moment where you warn me that if I hurt her, you’ll slip poison in my tea?”

“No, no. What I have to say is much worse. If you’re Maddie’s husband, that means I’m going to mother you.”

If the bloody lobster ended up satisfying his natural urges before Logan did, he would be tempted to climb the highest tower of Lannair Castle and fling himself off it.

Curse it, couldn’t she see that Rex wasn’t the only frustrated male in this castle?

“I hope you know, you’re ruining your chances in the bedroom,” she said. “It’s impossible to despise you when you keep kissing me like that and sweeping me off my feet every day.”