His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) Read Free Page B

Logan's mouth on hers. "Hmm? What did you say, dear?"
    Mary Catherine kicked at the bench, scuffing the toe of her red shoe. "I don't think you were acting! I think you really liked that kissing!"
    That brought Megan around. "Oooh, what do you know! You're just a child." But of course she had liked the kissing. Very much. It could be difficult to remember that Logan Marshall was the enemy. "Go help Angel in the kitchen or something. Leave me alone."
    Swallowing all the unkind things she wanted to say, Mary Catherine walked away, her chin high and her spine as stiff as a metal rod. She was a great lady, a duchess perhaps, and duchesses did not scrap like common cats—even in their own garden.
    As she passed through the kitchen, she said to Angel, "I'll have tea and cucumber sandwiches in the library, I think."
    Angel, who was up to her dimpled elbows in bread dough, stopped kneading long enough to issue a warning. "You go in that library and there'll be the devil to pay for it. The colonel's in there with Mr. Marshall."
    "Oh, very well. You may bring me tea in my room."
    Sprinkling more flour on the table, Angel went back to pounding. "I wil be bringin' a switch, is more like it," she mumbled as Mary Catherine walked away. "A body never knows what notion she'll take to next. Tea and cucumber sandwiches." She snorted. "I should let her chaw on some shoe leather. That'd wake her up."
    In the library, Colonel Allen was pouring himself two fingers of bourbon. He knocked the drink back quickly, poured another, and this time carried the tumbler to his desk, where he sat. He swiveled in the cane-back chair to face Logan, crossing his feet at the ankles. Rolling the tumbler between his palms, he studied Logan consideringly. "She's quite a looker, isn't she?"
    Logan felt a need to clear his throat or swallow or pull his collar loose from his Adam's apple. "Sir?" Thank God his voice didn't crack.
    "Don't play the half-wit with me, Marshall. Hooker wouldn't have trusted you with that packet if you only had cotton between your ears. Tell me one thing. What are your intentions toward Megan?"
    "My intentions, sir? Do you mean, do I want to marry her?"
    Allen's glance became sharper and his upper lip curled sardonically. "Bravo. I mean exactly that."
    "No... that is, I hadn't thought... I'm not sure I want..." His voice trailed off. This interview couldn't have been more uncomfortable had he been in front of his own father.
    Allen leaned forward. "Listen to me carefully, Marshall. If you want her, she's yours. But if you don't intend to wed her, don't think about bedding her. Her mother and I want a good marriage for Megan, You're still green but your family's wealthy and well-connected. If you're fool enough to get yourself killed, Megan will be cared for. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
    "Yes, sir." Megan was definitely a pariah as far as Logan was concerned. Marriage was not in his immediate future. Certainly not one where he had a shotgun pressed to the small of his spine. He hadn't considered taking Megan to bed either. It was only a kiss, for God's sake. If one didn't count the milk cow he lassoed for his unit last week, he hadn't kissed a female in five months.
    "Good." Allen set down the tumbler. "Now let me see this packet. Make yourself a drink while I go over the material."
    Logan handed over the packet, poured himself a double shot of whiskey, and sat on the edge of a delicate, spindle-legged chair covered with cross-stitched roses.
    Without looking up, Allen said, "You're as comfortable as a roach on a hot griddle. Take that leather chair by the hearth. This will take a while."
    Feeling somewhat like a bull in a china shop, Logan moved. He sunk into the soft chair, welcomed the faint scent of cigar smoke and brandy that clung to the pores of the material, and rested his heels on the marble apron of the fireplace. He hadn't slept in thirty-six hours. In five minutes he was making up for that oversight.
    Except for the muted