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Annoyed ever since at her disgraceful lack of self-discipline, she took the poker and jabbed at the banked coals. They sullenly smoldered, like her.
Replacing the poker, she drew her wrapper around her body, fighting a shiver. If Logan didn’t appear soon, she would lock the door, crawl into bed, and try to forget that the past month had ever existed.
When she heard a noise in the corridor, she tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against the oak panels.
Nothing.
How in heaven’s namewashe going to sneak in? Maybe he’d already tried and been stymied in his attempts. If she had any brains, she should hope that meant he’d given up.
She didn’t.
Resuming her pacing, she vowed to give Logan five more minutes and then mentally send him straight to Hades.
When she passed by the pier glass, she stopped to check her appearance. In her plain lawn nightrail and thick flannel wrapper, she was hardly a temptress. She’d forgone the nightcap, at least, but her short curls could only be described as boyish. Any man in his right mind would find her lacking in feminine enticements, particularly when compared to a woman like Jeannie MacArthur.
But he picked you, didn’t he?
Even more amazing, was that she had picked him. She’d never imagined marriage, and certainly not to a man like Logan. Brawny, arrogant men set her teeth on edge and generally made her nervous.
Logan did make her nervous, but for entirely unexpected reasons. She was madly in love with the blasted man. And she was so eager to be with him that she couldn’t wait even a month for a proper wedding night.
When the Sevres clock on the mahogany chest softly chimed out the late hour, Donella decided to give up.
“And you should be happy he didn’t come,” she muttered to her reflection, “instead of wanting to bash the man over the head for not showing up.”
She blew out the candle on her dressing table and crossed to the bed. But as she started to shed her wrapper, a thumping noise froze her to the spot.
Was it coming from the window?
That was ridiculous. Her room was two stories above the ground floor, over the terrace. Even Logan wouldn’t be able to—
A firm rap told her it was definitely coming from the window.
Donella rushed over and pulled aside the heavy drapery. Logan was standing on the narrow ledge outside her window, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
After a short struggle, she managed to shove up the sash.
“Took you long enough,” he said.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
He hunched down and kissed the tip of her nose. “What does it look like, daft girl?”
She grabbed the collar of his coat and began to drag him over the sill. “Are you insane? It’s a two-story climb up to this window.”
He swung down to the floor with his usual grace, extraordinary in a man his size.
Logan pulled her away from the window and shut it. “You’ll catch your death, lass. It’s a wee bit nippy out there.”
After stripping off his leather gloves, he shrugged out of his greatcoat and tossed it on a nearby chair. He’d forgone a tailcoat—apparently not necessary when climbing large buildings—but wore a fine linen shirt and a bottle-green silk and wool vest. His cravat was impeccably tied, his breeches were perfectly tailored, and his boots showed nary a speck of dirt. He looked like he’d been spending the evening by the fireside, instead of scaling walls in the dead of night.
At the end of December, no less.
She jabbed him in the chest. “You are a lunatic. You could have easily fallen and splattered your brains all over the back terrace, leaving me to explain everything to our families.”
Logan captured her face and pressed a lingering kiss to her mouth. Donella had to resist the urge to snuggle closer, because he shouldnotbe rewarded for his stupidity.
“Och, no chance of that,” he murmured. “There were plenty of footholds on the way up.”
