Love is just a lie we tell ourselves.

And Maddie was all too practiced at lying.

She took another glimpse at the clock. Eight minutes left.

As she replaced the hairbrush on her dressing table, her gaze landed on the small heart-­shaped brooch he’d given her at the close of the ceremony. What was the name Callum had told her?

A luckenbooth.

She lifted it for closer examination. The design was simple, even humble. The outline of a heart shape had been worked in gold, with a few chips of semiprecious stones—­green and blue—­inset near the crest.

Maddie turned the brooch over in her hands to examine the clasp. As she did, her fingertips caught a rougher patch on the otherwise smooth gold.

Interesting. It was engraved.

She leaned closer to the candlelight, peering hard at the tiny markings. It looked to be a pair of initials.

“L.M.”

For Logan MacKenzie, of course.

Goodness, he’d arrived prepared. He seemed to have thought everything through. Then she squinted to make out the second set, expecting to find an “M.G.” for Madeline Gracechurch.

There was no “M.G.” engraved there.

There was, however, another set of letters.

“ ’A.D.,’ ” she read aloud.

Unbelievable.

Apparently Captain Logan “Love’s just a lie we tell ourselves” MacKenzie was a liar, too. He must have had some history of romance. One that hadn’t ended well, evidently—­considering he’d given Maddie the brooch he’d bought for this former lover.

The rogue.

Maddie dropped the brooch on the dressing table. At least her tingling, yearning feelings had dissipated. This was exactly the sharp object she’d needed to separate her heart from the rest of her body. Now she had a foolproof way to remember that this was not a real marriage and she should not imagine him to possess any true feelings. She’d be wearing that luckenbooth every day—­a little heart-­shaped talisman to remind her that all of this was false.

The door creaked on its hinges.

Oh, Lord. It was time.

Maddie scrambled into the bed and dove beneath the coverlet. Not quite fast enough, unfortunately. He’d seen the entire maneuver, she was sure.

She drew the bed linens up to her chin and peered at him.

He’d removed his coat and uncuffed his shirt, rolling his sleeves to the elbow. He appeared to be barefoot, shed of his socks and boots. He wore only that open-­necked shirt and his kilt, loosely belted and slung low on his hips.

“Are you ready?” His voice was darker than the shadows.

“I’m not certain,” she answered. “But I don’t think I’ll grow any readier.”

“If you’re fatigued, we could wait for the morning.”

“No, I . . . I think I should rather have it over with tonight.” Given any more time to think and worry, she might lose her nerve entirely.

“Well, then.”

He licked his fingertips, then extinguished the candles one by one, until the only light in the room came from the flickering red-­and-­amber fire in the hearth.

The bed dipped with his weight.

Maddie lay very still beneath the coverlet. Her heart was beating faster than a bird’s. She felt hot everywhere.

“There’s this.” She reached for the jar her aunt had given her. “Aunt Thea gave it to me. It’s some sort of cream or salve, I think. She said you’d know what to do with it.”

He took the jar, unscrewed the cap, and gave the contents a sniff.

“Aye. I know what to do with it.” He capped the jar and flung it away. It rolled into a darkened corner.

“But—­”

“I ken better than to let your aunt’s remedies anywhere near me,” he said. “I remember too well how her sleeping tonic fared. Your letter said you had a blistering rash for weeks.”

Maddie bit her lip and drew the coverlet tight about her shoulders. He remembered that? Even she’d forgotten about the sleeping tonic. But he was right, she’d been covered in itchy red bumps for weeks.

It was disconcerting how much he knew about her without knowing her at all. And when it came to knowing the real Logan MacKenzie, she was completely in the dark. In this situation, every advantage was his. He had knowledge, experience, control.

“Drink this instead.” He handed her a small flask.

“Is it medicine?”

“It’s Highland medicine. Good Scotch whisky.”

She gingerly lifted the flask to her lips.

“Toss it back. The burn is worse if you sip.”