same mold as his older brother Christian. His eyes were coolly colored, a soft pewter gray that could, on occasion, mirror everything but his own thoughts. He had a strong Roman nose which flared when he was angry, which was rarely. He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, and carried himself with quick strides and barely contained energy. There was a light bounce in his step, a jauntiness that warned more staid men of a certain recklessness, perhaps even of irresponsibility.
These same cautious and considering men never hesitated to use Logan Marshall. His youthful exuberance, his immature belief that he was somehow charmed, that death couldn't happen to him, made him ideal for risky missions. They planned; he performed. In general it was a happy arrangement. Easy-going and adventurous, Logan Marshall was still growing into himself.
Logan shifted the packet he carried from his right hand to his left. As he raised his fist to knock at the door to the Allen home, he heard a high-pitched giggle from the garden area at the side of the house. He grinned and lowered his hand. It couldn't hurt to allow himself to be sidetracked for a few minutes. Stepping down from the stoop, he circled to the side.
He saw Megan immediately. Her smile was coy, her eyes downcast at just the right angle to affect surprise at his entrance. Logan wasn't fooled. He supposed she had seen him sometime before he reached the house. He was more surprised to see her. The heady giggle that had drawn him like a magnet hadn't belonged to Megan.
He tipped his hat and made a small bow while his eyes darted around the garden. "Where is she? I know I heard the little witch cackle."
"Witch!" Mary Catherine's head bobbed up from behind the stone bench where her sister was sitting. "That's very mean of you, Logan Marshall! I am not a witch!"
"You are. Come here, Katy McCleary. Give me a kiss and I will prove it to you." He hunkered down, his saber jabbing at the ground, while Mary Catherine ran into his outstretched arms.
Megan folded her parasol and tapped it impatiently as she considered the merits of strangling her sister. Logan, she decided, was making a perfect ass of himself, though she tried to pretend that he wasn't.
It was difficult, since at the moment Mary Catherine kissed him, he began jumping around the yard as if he were a hop toad. His hat fell off and he dropped his packet, but neither of these things lessened his hopping frenzy.
"I must be a witch after all," Mary Catherine said, awed and thrilled by her power. Her eyes widened as Logan sighted an unsuspecting fly and hopped in for the kill. Was he really going to eat it? "Oh, Megan! Save him. Do something!"
"Save him? What on earth do you propose I do?" She had a good mind to hit him on the head with her parasol. Really, she thought, did he think he was amusing?
"Kiss him, silly," Mary Catherine said practically. "Change him back into a prince!" She blushed a little, having admitted that she thought Logan was a prince. Her eyes darted quickly from Logan to Megan and was relieved to know they didn't attach any importance to her confession. "Go on, Meg. How else is he going to—"
"Mary Catherine," Megan said quellingly. "You take the oddest notions in your head."
Mary Catherine sucked in her upper lip, biting it as Logan edged closer to the fly. "Do it, Megan! Quick! Before he—" She squeezed her eyes shut, hopped on one foot, and pulled both her braids in an alternating rhythm when she thought Logan was going to pounce.
"Oh, very well," Megan sighed. With little enthusiasm for the task, she bent and placed a kiss on Logan's forehead.
By Mary Catherine's count ten seconds passed before she ventured a peek. She was no longer hopping madly or tugging her braids. She had quieted when it seemed as though the very air had stilled.
The fragrance of the garden was more noticeable now. The scent of lilac and rose combined in a heady mixture. She breathed slowly, deeply, and raised her
These same cautious and considering men never hesitated to use Logan Marshall. His youthful exuberance, his immature belief that he was somehow charmed, that death couldn't happen to him, made him ideal for risky missions. They planned; he performed. In general it was a happy arrangement. Easy-going and adventurous, Logan Marshall was still growing into himself.
Logan shifted the packet he carried from his right hand to his left. As he raised his fist to knock at the door to the Allen home, he heard a high-pitched giggle from the garden area at the side of the house. He grinned and lowered his hand. It couldn't hurt to allow himself to be sidetracked for a few minutes. Stepping down from the stoop, he circled to the side.
He saw Megan immediately. Her smile was coy, her eyes downcast at just the right angle to affect surprise at his entrance. Logan wasn't fooled. He supposed she had seen him sometime before he reached the house. He was more surprised to see her. The heady giggle that had drawn him like a magnet hadn't belonged to Megan.
He tipped his hat and made a small bow while his eyes darted around the garden. "Where is she? I know I heard the little witch cackle."
"Witch!" Mary Catherine's head bobbed up from behind the stone bench where her sister was sitting. "That's very mean of you, Logan Marshall! I am not a witch!"
"You are. Come here, Katy McCleary. Give me a kiss and I will prove it to you." He hunkered down, his saber jabbing at the ground, while Mary Catherine ran into his outstretched arms.
Megan folded her parasol and tapped it impatiently as she considered the merits of strangling her sister. Logan, she decided, was making a perfect ass of himself, though she tried to pretend that he wasn't.
It was difficult, since at the moment Mary Catherine kissed him, he began jumping around the yard as if he were a hop toad. His hat fell off and he dropped his packet, but neither of these things lessened his hopping frenzy.
"I must be a witch after all," Mary Catherine said, awed and thrilled by her power. Her eyes widened as Logan sighted an unsuspecting fly and hopped in for the kill. Was he really going to eat it? "Oh, Megan! Save him. Do something!"
"Save him? What on earth do you propose I do?" She had a good mind to hit him on the head with her parasol. Really, she thought, did he think he was amusing?
"Kiss him, silly," Mary Catherine said practically. "Change him back into a prince!" She blushed a little, having admitted that she thought Logan was a prince. Her eyes darted quickly from Logan to Megan and was relieved to know they didn't attach any importance to her confession. "Go on, Meg. How else is he going to—"
"Mary Catherine," Megan said quellingly. "You take the oddest notions in your head."
Mary Catherine sucked in her upper lip, biting it as Logan edged closer to the fly. "Do it, Megan! Quick! Before he—" She squeezed her eyes shut, hopped on one foot, and pulled both her braids in an alternating rhythm when she thought Logan was going to pounce.
"Oh, very well," Megan sighed. With little enthusiasm for the task, she bent and placed a kiss on Logan's forehead.
By Mary Catherine's count ten seconds passed before she ventured a peek. She was no longer hopping madly or tugging her braids. She had quieted when it seemed as though the very air had stilled.
The fragrance of the garden was more noticeable now. The scent of lilac and rose combined in a heady mixture. She breathed slowly, deeply, and raised her
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