“But that bargain you suggested . . . I didna hold up my end.”

“The truth is, Logan, it just doesn’t belong to me. It never did. I didn’t work for it. I have no attachment to the land. This place belongs to the Highlands. To the ­people who’ve lived here for generations. To those whose ancestors piled the stones of this castle with their bare hands. And I can’t imagine a better person to watch over it.”

“I want no charity from you or anyone. I’ve worked for everything I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, I know that. I know well that accepting this will make you uncomfortable, and that’s part of my fun. I’m taking great pleasure in watching you squirm. For me, it’s a victory of sorts.”

And victory looked well on her.

“So when are you leaving?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. I plan to stay for the feast, of course. And for the bonfire tonight. We’ve all worked hard on the preparations. Even if I’m no longer the lady of the castle, and even if I won’t be your bride . . . I want to be there.”

“I want you there, too.”

I want you here always.

The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t speak them. It was too late. Too useless. In giving him this castle, she’d taken away his last bargaining chip. He didn’t have any worldly possessions or influence she hadn’t already refused.

Another man might have offered her something from within himself. His heart, perhaps. A certain warmth of emotion. Maybe even a dream. But Logan had forgotten how to dream, if he ever had known how.

And when he looked inside himself, he saw nothing but emptiness and cold.

He lifted the envelope. “Thank you for this.”

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

Chapter Twenty-two

Maddie found unexpected enjoyment in being a hostess. She found it far easier than being a guest. She was so busy keeping the ale flowing and monitoring the progress of dishes in and out of the kitchen that she could keep to the borders of the hall and duck out for a moment whenever the crowd became too much for her.

Most convenient of all, she scarcely had time to think about Logan. She saw him once or twice in passing. He greeted her with a brusque nod, but she didn’t pause to chat.

It seemed entirely likely that she might not speak to him again before she left in the morning.

Just as well. There just didn’t seem to be anything left to say.

When afternoon was waning, everyone pushed back from the tables lining the High Hall and walked, full bellies and all, up to the highest peak overlooking the loch.

As the day faded into twilight, a small group of villagers gathered to make a bonfire. Instead of bringing coal from someone’s hearth, they fashioned a crude machine of sort with sticks—­almost like a drill. After nearly an hour of the biggest and strongest taking turns with it, a curl of smoke rose from the rubbing wood. A woman hurried forward with a handful of dried moss and wood shavings.

With a bit of patient blowing—­and perhaps some cursing and prayer—­the small glow became a flame. And with many hands bringing more fuel, the flame became a bonfire.

Whisky was passed around, along with wedges of fruited oatcake. Maddie politely declined the former but happily accepted the latter.

“Be sure it’s not the marked one,” Rabbie said.

“What do you mean?”

“ ’Tis tradition. One of the cakes is marked with charcoal. Whoever draws that one, we toss them into the bonfire.” He winked.

“What a charming tradition.” She inspected her oatcake. “No charcoal.”

“Ye’ll live to see the next Beltane, then.”

A bright, merry fiddling struck up, and when she looked, its source was a shock to her.

“I didn’t know Grant played the fiddle.”

“Oh, aye,” Rabbie said. “He had one that he brought with him on campaign. Hauled it over the Pyrenees and back, but it was ruined in a river crossing. The captain just brought him that one from Inverness the other day.”

Maddie nibbled at her oatcake and played a game of peek-­a-­boo with a little fair-­haired girl hiding behind her mother’s skirt. After a few rounds of dodge-­and-­hide, she offered the girl the remainder of her oatcake and received a shy, gap-­toothed smile in return. Maddie thought it an excellent trade.

Every once in a while, she saw Logan out of the corner of her eye—­usually talking with a farmer or one of his men, or passing another round of whisky. They never made eye contact.