EXCERPT:
Prologue
September 21, 1808
Dear Captain
Logan MacKenzie,
There is but one consolation in
writing this absurd letter. And that is that you, my dear delusion, do not
exist
to read it.
But I run ahead
of myself. Introductions first.
I am Madeline Eloise Gracechurch. The greatest ninny to
ever draw breath in
England.
This
will
come as a shock, I fear, but
you fell deeply
in love with me
when
we did
not
cross
paths in
Brighton. And
now we are engaged.
Maddie could not remember the first time she’d held a drawing pencil. She only knew she could not
recall a time she’d
been without one.
In fact,
she usually
carried
two
or three. She kept them tucked
in her apron
pockets and speared
in her upswept dark
hair,
and
sometimes—when she
needed
all
her
limbs for
climbing
a tree
or vaulting
a fence
rail—clenched
in her teeth.
And she wore
them
down
to nubs.
She
sketched
songbirds when
she was supposed
to be minding
her lessons, and she sketched church mice when
she
was meant to be at prayer. When she had time to
ramble
out
of doors,
anything
in Nature
was
fair game—from
the
shoots of
clover between
her
toes to
any
cloud
that meandered overhead.
She loved
to draw
anything. Well, almost
anything.
She hated drawing attention to
herself.
And thus, at
sixteen
years old, she
found herself
staring down her first London season with approximately as much joy as one might anticipate a dose
of purgative.
After many years as a widower, Papa had taken a
new
wife. One a mere eight years older than Maddie herself. Anne
was
cheerful,
elegant, lively. Every-
thing her new
stepdaughter
was
not.
Oh, to be Cinderella in all her soot-smeared, rag-clad misery. Maddie would have been thrilled to have a wicked stepmother lock her in the tower while everyone else
went to
the
ball.
Instead,
she was stuck with a very different sort of stepmother— one eager
to dress her in
silks,
send
her
to dances, and thrust
her
into the arms of
an unsuspecting
prince.
Figuratively, of course.
At best, Maddie was expected to fetch a third son
with aspirations to the Church, or perhaps an insolvent baronet.
At worst . . .
Maddie didn’t do
well in
crowds.
More
to the point,
she didn’t
do anything
in crowds.
In any large
gathering—be
it a market, a theater,
a ballroom—
she had a tendency
to freeze,
almost literally. An
arctic sense
of terror took
hold
of her,
and
the
crush
of
bodies rendered her solid and stupid as a block
of ice.
The mere thought of
a London season
made
her
shudder.
And yet, she
had
no choice.
While Papa
and
Anne (she could not bring her-
self to address a twenty-four-year-old as Mama) en- joyed their honeymoon, Maddie was sent to a ladies’ rooming house
in Brighton. The sea
air
and
society
were
meant to
coax her out of
her
shell before her season
commenced.
It didn’t
quite
work that
way.
Instead, Maddie
spent most
of those
weeks
with shells.
Collecting them on the beach, sketching
them in her notebook, and trying not to think about parties or
balls
or gentlemen.
On the
morning
she returned,
Anne greeted her with
a pointed
question.
“There
now. Are
you
all
ready
to meet your
special
someone?”
That was
when Maddie
panicked.
And
lied.
On the spur
of the moment,
she concocted an
outrageous falsehood
that would,
for better and
worse,
determine
the
rest
of her life.
“I’ve met him
already.”
The look
of astonishment
on her stepmother’s face
was
immensely
satisfying.
But within
seconds,
Maddie realized how stupid
she’d been. She ought to have known that her little statement wouldn’t put
paid to the matter. Of course it only launched a hundred
other
questions.
When is he coming here?
Oh, er . . . He can’t.
He wanted to, but
he had
to leave
the
country
at once.
Whatever for?
Because
he’s in
the
army.
An officer.
What of his family? We at least should meet them.
But you can’t. He’s from too far away. All the way in
Scotland.
And also, they’re dead.
At least
tell
us his name.
MacKenzie. His name
is Logan MacKenzie.
Logan
MacKenzie. Suddenly
her
not-real suitor
had a name. By the end of the afternoon, he had hair (brown), eyes (blue), a voice (deep, with a Highland burr), a rank (captain), and a personality (firm,
but
intelligent
and
kind).
And that evening, at her family’s urging, Maddie
sat
down
to write
him
a letter.
. . . Right this moment,
they
think I am
writing
a letter to
my secret kilted
betrothed,
and
I am
filling a page
with
nonsense instead, just
praying
no one looks over
my shoulder. Worst of
all, I shall have
no choice but
to post the
thing when I’m done.
It will end up
in some
military
dead
letter office. I hope. Or it will be read and passed around whole regiments for ridicule, which I would richly deserve.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now
the
clock
is ticking, and when it
strikes doom I will have to
confess.
I will firstly
be compelled to explain that I lied about
attracting a handsome Scottish officer while staying
in Brighton.
Then, when I do, I shall have no
further excuse to avoid the actual rejection of countless English
gentlemen
come spring.
My dear imaginary Captain MacKenzie, you are not real and never will be. I, however, am a true and eternal fool.
Here, have
a drawing
of a snail.
October
5, 1808
Dear not-really-a-Captain
MacKenzie,
On second thought, perhaps
I won’t have to
explain it this year. I might be able to stretch this for a whole season. I must
admit,
it’s rather convenient.
And my
family
looks
at me
in a whole
new light.
I am now a woman who inspired at
least one headlong
tumble into
everlasting
love, and
really—isn’t
one enough?
Because,
you see, you are mad
for me. Utterly
consumed with passion after just
a few
chance
meetings and walks along the shore. You made me a great many promises. I was reluctant to
accept them,
knowing
how our nascent love would
be tested by distance and war. But you assured me that
your
heart is true, and
I . . .
And I have
read
too
many
novels,
I think.
November 10, 1808
Dear Captain MacWhimsy,
Is there anything more mortifying than bearing witness
to one’s own father’s love affair?
Ugh. We
all
knew he needed to remarry and produce an heir. To take a young, fertile wife made the most sense. I just didn’t expect him to enjoy it so much, or with so few nods to dignity. Curse this endless war and its effect of
hampering proper months-long
honeymoons.
They disappear together every afternoon, and then I and the servants must all pretend to not know what
they are doing. I shudder.
I know I should be happy to see them both happy, and I am. Rather. But until this heir-making project
takes root, I think I shall be writing you fewer letters and
taking
a great
many
walks.
December
18,
1808
Dear Captain MacFantasy,
I have a new accomplice. My aunt Thea has come to stay. In
her youth she was a scandalous demimondaine, ruined at
court
in France by
a wicked comte, but
she’s
frail and
harmless now.
Aunt Thea adores the idea that I’m suffering with
love
and anxiety for
my endangered
Scottish
officer. I scarcely have to lie at all. “Of course Madeline
doesn’t wish
to attend parties
and balls in
London! Can’t you
see,
the
poor dear is eaten
with
worry for
her Captain
MacKenzie.”
Truly, it’s a bit frightening how much she cherishes
my misery. She has
even convinced
my father that
I should be served breakfasts
in my
room
now,
like a married lady or an invalid. I am excused from anything resembling public merriment, I
am
per- mitted
to spend as much time
as I please sketching in
peace.
Chocolate and
toast are delivered to
my bedside every
morning,
and I read the
newspaper
even before
Papa has his turn.
I am starting to
believe
you were a stroke of
brilliance.
June 26, 1809
Dear Captain
Imaginary
MacFigment,
O happy day!
Ring
the
bells,
sound
the
trumpets. Swab the floors with lemon oil. My father’s bride is
vomiting profusely every morning, and
most every
afternoon, as well. The signs
are
plain.
A noisy, smelly, writhing thing will push
its way into
the
world in
some six or seven months’ time. Their joy is complete,
and I am pushed further and
further
to the margins
of it.
No matter. We have the rest of the world, you and I.
Aunt Thea helps me chart the routes of your campaign.
She
tells
me stories about the French
countryside
so that I might imagine the sights that will greet you as you drive Napoleon to
the
other side of
the
Pyrenees.
When you smell lavender, she says, victory is near.
I must remind myself to appear sad from time to
time,
as though
I’m
worried for
you. Sometimes, oddly enough,
it’s quite an
easy thing
to pretend.
Stay well and
whole, my
captain.
December
9, 1809
Oh, my dear captain,
You will be put out with me. I know I swore my heart
to be true, but I must
confess.
I have
fallen
in love. Lost my
heart to
another,
irrevocably. His
name is Henry Edward Gracechurch.
He weighs
just a half
stone, he’s
pink and
wrinkled
all
over
. . . and he is perfect. I don’t
know
how I ever called him a thing.
A more beautiful, charming
angel
never existed.
Now that Papa has an heir, our estate shall never
pass to The Dreaded American, and I will never
be thrown into
genteel
poverty. This means I do
not
have to marry, and I no longer need a fictional Scottish suitor to
explain it.
I could claim that we’ve grown apart, put an end
to all these
silly letters
and lies.
But
Aunt Thea
is ever so fond of you by now, and I am ever so fond of her. Besides, I would
miss
writing.
It’s the oddest thing.
I do not understand myself. But sometimes I fancy
that you
do.
November 9,
1810
Dear Logan,
(Surely we can claim a Christian-name familiarity
by now.)
What follows is
an exercise
in pure mortification.
I can’t
even believe
I’m
going to
write
it down, but perhaps putting it on paper and sending it away will help rid me of the stupid habit. You see, I have a pillow. It’s a fine
pillow, all stuffed with goose down. Quite firm and big. Almost a bolster,
really.
At night
I put
it on
one side
of the bed
and
place
a hot brick
beneath
it to
warm
it all up. Then I nestle up alongside it, and if I close my eyes
and
fall into that half-sleep place . . . I can almost believe
it’s
you.
Beside me. Keeping
me warm and safe. But it’s not you, because it is a pillow and you are
not even
a real
person. And
I am a bug. But now I’ve
grown
so accustomed to
the
thing,
I can’t
sleep without it. The nights simply stretch too long
and lonely.
Wherever you are, I hope you
are
sleeping well. Sweet
dreams,
Captain MacPillow.
July 17,
1811
My dear Highland
laird and
captain,
You have pulled
off quite a trick for a man who is
no more
than a pillow
stuffed with
lies
and
embroidered with
a hint of
personality. You are going to
be a land-
owner. Aunt Thea
has
convinced
my godfather,
the
Earl of
Lynforth,
to leave
me a little something
in his will. That “little something” being a castle in the Scottish
Highlands. Lannair Castle, it’s
called. It
is meant to be our home when you return from war. That is the perfect ending to this masterpiece of absurdity, isn’t it?
Dear Lord. A castle.
March 16, 1813
Dear captain of
my heart’s
true folly,
Little Master
Henry
and Miss Emma
are
growing
like reeds. I’ve
enclosed
a sketch. Thanks
to their doting
mama,
they have learnt
to say their nightly prayers. And every night—my heart twists to write
it—they pray for you. “God bless and keep our brave Captain
MacKenzie.” Well, the way
Emma says
it,
it sounds
more
like “Cap’n Macaroni.” And
each
time they pray for you, I feel my own soul sliding ever
closer to
brimstone.
This
has all gone
too
far,
and yet—if I were
to reveal
my lie, they
would despise me. And mourn you. After all, it’s been almost
five years since
we did
not
meet in Brighton.
You are
part of our family now.
June 20,
1813
My dear,
silent
friend,
It breaks my heart, but I have to do it. I must. I can’t bear the guilt any longer. There’s only one way to end this now.
You have
to die.
I’m so sorry. You can’t know how
sorry.
I prom- ise, I’ll make it a valiant death. You’ll save four—no,
six—other
men
in a feat of
courage
and noble
sac- rifice. As for me, I’m devastated. These are genuine
tears
dotting this parchment.
The
mourning I shall wear
for you will be real, as well. It’s
as though
I’m
killing off part of myself—the part that had all those
romantic,
if foolish, hopes. I will settle
into life as a spinster now, just
as I always knew
I would. I will
never be married. Or held, or loved. Maybe if I write
those
things out,
I’ll get
used to the truth of
them. It’s
time to
stop
lying
and put aside
dreaming.
My darling, departed
Captain MacKenzie
. . . Adieu.
About WHEN A SCOT TIES THE KNOT
On the cusp of her first London season, Miss Madeline Gracechurch was shy, pretty and talented with a drawing pencil, but hopelessly awkward with gentlemen. She was certain to be a dismal failure on the London marriage mart. So Maddie did what generations of shy, awkward young ladies have done: she invented a sweetheart. A Scottish sweetheart. One who was handsome and honorable and devoted to her, but conveniently never around. Maddie poured her heart into writing the imaginary Captain MacKenzie letter after letter … and by pretending to be devastated when he was (not really) killed in battle, she managed to avoid the pressures of London society entirely. Until years later, when this kilted Highland lover of her imaginings shows up in the flesh. The real Captain Logan MacKenzie arrives on her doorstep—handsome as anything, but not entirely honorable. He’s wounded, jaded, in possession of her letters… and ready to make good on every promise Maddie never expected to keep.
About TESSA DARE
Tessa Dare is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of more than a dozen historical romances. A librarian by training and a book-lover at heart, Tessa lives in Southern California with her husband, their two children, and a big brown dog.
Quotes
“Dare’s marvelous third Castles Ever After Regency romance (after Say Yes to the Marquess) builds a gradual, intense romance between two people who are determined to avoid love and commitment….Dare’s swiftly moving plot is enhanced by the seamlessly developed romance, and the sensuality is heightened by the slow awakening of the pair’s mutual attraction.”—Publishers Weekly, **STARRED**
“With sharp, clever banter, breathtaking sensuality, colorful descriptions, and solid cultural detail, this compelling, often hilarious escapade puts a refreshing spin on the [‘imaginary lover’ theme and adds another winner to Dare’s riveting ‘Castles’ series.” —Library Journal, **STARRED**
“Dare’s latest begins with a fairy-tale twist of fate, then leads readers on a mesmerizing and intense emotional journey that explores love in many forms and the powerful pull of dreams.” —Kirkus, **STARRED**
“Dare delights with another marvelously romantic story that delivers a deep sigh, a tear and a smile. With her painfully shy heroine and vulnerable hero, readers are immediately captivated and will savor the joy of this imaginary-sweetheart plotline. You’ll stay up all night to reach the unforgettable ending.” —RT Book Reviews, **4.5 Stars, Top Pick!**
Where to buy MAKE ME
HarperCollins: http://avonromance.com/book/when-a-scot-ties-the-knot Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/When-Scot-Ties-Knot-Castles-ebook/dp/B00PQROPBC/ Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/when-a-scot-ties-the-knot-tessa-dare/1122449690 iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/when-a-scot-ties-the-knot/id942634113 Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Tessa_Dare_When_a_Scot_Ties_the_Knot?
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I'm so excited about this book!
Thanks for sharing the excerpt :)