He turned his attention to a map of the world mounted on the wall. The continents and countries were littered with stickpins.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I place a pin in the appropriate country for every exotic specimen I’m commissioned to draw. I always wanted to travel myself, but between the wars and my shyness, it never seemed possible. This is my version of the Grand Tour.”
Logan tilted his head and looked at the map. He saw a smattering of pins in India, Egypt . . . several in the West Indies. But one particular area had the largest concentration of pins, by a wide margin.
“You’ve drawn a great many creatures from South America, then.”
“Oh, yes. Insects, mostly. That brings us back to Lord Varleigh, you see. He recently returned from an expedition to the Amazon jungle, where he collected nineteen new species of beetles. I did the drawings, and he’s going to present the specimens to his colleagues next week.”
“So your work for him is concluded, then. Good.”
“I didn’t say that.” She took the sketch from his hands and set it aside. “In fact, I hope to do a great deal more illustrations, and not only for Lord Varleigh.”
He shook his head. “I dinna think you’ll have the time.”
“But you said we would not interfere in each other’s interests and occupations. That you would have your life, and I would have mine.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
He waved toward the stairs, in the direction of Lord Varleigh’s exit. “Before I knew ‘your life’ included that jackass.”
“You needn’t be angry just because he made an invitation. He was only being polite, to start. To continue, I was never going to accept. You already know I dislike social engagements.”
“I should have accepted his invitation for us both.”
She laughed.
“No, truly. I’d take you to that ball and make certain that Lord Varleigh and every last one of those naturists—”
“Naturalists.”
“—every last one of those insects knows to keep their feelers off my wife.”
She shook her head. “He’s a professional acquaintance. Nothing more.”
“Oh, he’d like to be more.”
“And I’m not your wife yet. Not properly.”
His hand slid to the back of her head, tilting her gaze to meet his. “You will be.”
“Logan, are you . . .” Her eyes searched his. “Surely you can’t be jealous?”
“He had his hand on you.”
“What if he did, Captain MacEnvy? You gave me a brooch with some other woman’s initials on it.”
He shook his head, refusing to let her bait him. “If you think I’m harboring feelings for another woman, you have it all wrong. I dinna have any feelings, mo chridhe.”
“That’s another thing. I wish you’d cease calling me that. If you have no feelings, I don’t know why you keep referring to me as ‘your heart.’ ”
“My lack of feelings is precisely why it’s easy to call you that. Because my heart means nothing to me at all.”
“Be that as it may,” she said, “am I to believe that you’ve lived chaste and hermit-like all your life?”
“No. Certainly not all my life. Just the past several years of it. And that’s your fault, by the way.”
“I fail to see how that’s my fault.”
“There was a time,” he said, “when I enjoyed a great deal of female companionship. But then you put me in a cage with those damned letters of yours.”
“I’m not understanding you.”
“All the men believed I had a devoted sweetheart. They looked up to me, believed me to be loyal and devoted, too. None of them wanted to see that falter. They chased the camp-followers away from my tent. The other officers went to the brothels and left me to mind the camp. Our chaplain passed more time with fast ladies than I did.” Agitated, he pushed a hand through his hair. “I haven’t lain with a woman since what feels like Old Testament times.”
She smiled a little. “Are you saying you were faithful to me?”
He rolled his eyes. “Not on purpose. Dinna dress it up as something it’s not.”
“Believe me, I’m trying very hard not to do that. But I have too much imagination. Now I’m picturing you huddled by a lonesome campfire while all the other officers are out carousing. You’re holding one of my letters and caressing it like a lovesick . . .”