Love Practically (The Penn-Leiths of Thistle Muir, #1)

by Nichole Van

He saluted her with his free hand and then he was gone, slipping out the door with his burden as soundlessly as he had entered it. But the feel of Fox Carnegie lingered. A whiff of sandalwood. A sense of adventure in the air.

Lifting her gaze, she met his smiling blue eyes, so earnest and kind. “I have you,” he encouraged. “I shan’t let you fall.” But he was wrong. Because Leah did fall. Not into the stream . . . that she managed to cross easily.

No. Instead, that was the moment Miss Leah Penn-Leith fell in love—completely, irrevocably—with Mr. Fox Carnegie.

With every passing year, Leah felt herself pushed more and more to the fringes of her loved ones’ lives, moving from the caretaker of their happiness to a mere spectator of it.

“Get yourself a wife,” Hadley winked. “The judges will be more keen tae find in your favor if you’re seen tae be a family man.” “A wife? Have you not been hearing me, your lofty earlship? I need a competent nurse for Madeline, a cat tamer for that wretch over yon—” Fox jerked his chin toward Mr. Dandy, sitting on the window sill and staring at them as if plotting their demise. “—a fairy godmother to hire devoted servants, a clerk to balance my household accounts, and a bodyguard to ensure no one disturbs my peace.” “So in other words,” Hadley lifted his glass, “a wife.”

Fox stared down at the repast provided—shortbread singed black at the edges, cucumber sandwiches soggy and leaking. And the tea . . . scarcely smelled like tea. How could one brew tea wrong? “Aye.” Hadley nodded, picking up a sandwich that promptly dripped milky liquid onto the biscuits. “Ye most definitely need a wife.”

“The truth is . . .” He faced Leah, lifting a hand toward her. “I was hoping for you—that you . . . would do the job.” “Pardon?” “I’m . . . I’m asking you to marry me, Miss Penn-Leith.” Leah set the teapot down with a clack.

Captain Fox Carnegie. The Fox Carnegie. Had just asked her, Leah Penn-Leith, to be his wife? His wife?!! Leah pressed her palm to her stomach. Not a housekeeper. Not a matchmaker. A wife.

“Yes, perhaps I could hire the help I require. But . . .” He paused and turned back to her, offering what truth he could. “I am tired, Miss Penn-Leith. Exhausted, soul-deep. I long for rest and quiet and possibly, I think, . . . a companion.” The words sank deep. A companion. Yes. That was it. How odd that it had taken him so long to arrive at this point— He wanted a friend. One who would never leave him.

Fox brushed flakes of pastry crust from his fingers and reached for a potato scone and jam. He dispatched it in two bites, again sighing. “Please.” He took another sausage roll from the tray. “You must marry me, Miss Penn-Leith. ’Tis cruel to ply me with such delicious fare from your kitchen and then not agree to be my wife.”

“Love,” he said, not a question. “Aye. Do ye not want love, romantic love, in your life at some point?” Leah swallowed, gathering her courage. “Tae borrow a Bible metaphor, ye dinnae want to end up like Esau, selling your birthright tae Jacob for a bowl of porridge. Ye have much of life ahead of ye. ’Twould be a shame to settle for competence and sausage rolls when ye could have . . . love.”

Had she been feeling more herself, Leah would have laughed at the spectacle. As it was, she waited, fingers knotted around her reticule strings. But then a gentle hand took hers, untangling her fingers. Startled, Leah looked to find Fox at her side, quietly threading her palm through his elbow. He has flecks of gold in his blue eyes, Leah noted first. He looks tired, she noted second. Shadows smudged the pale skin beneath his eyes, and a taut tension pulled at his mouth. He even winced in the sunlight, as if his head were sore. And yet, tired and worn and hurting, he had come. “Thank ye,” she murmured. “My pleasure,” he said in return.

“I know ye, Leah. Ye give all of yourself tae something. In serving him, in sharing his bed, ye will fall in love—hard and fast and true. And so I worry. I worry that ye will become so lost in Fox Carnegie that ye willnae be able tae find your way to happiness.”

Miss Penn-Leith—ehr, Mrs. Carnegie now, he supposed—blushed deeply. His bride, he abruptly noticed, had rather kissable lips—a bowed upper lip over a plush lower one that looked rather succulent, now that he contemplated it— Right. The end of one’s marriage ceremony was not the time to begin thinking about kissing one’s wife. Unfortunately by this point, Fox had hesitated too long. He blamed the brandy. The congregation stirred. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, pressing a light kiss on his new wife’s cheek. Clapping and cheers erupted. His new bride smiled brightly. And just like that, he was married.

Was she truly so unattractive that Fox couldn’t bring himself to touch his lips to hers? All evidence pointed to . . . yes. The knowledge burned like her tears, acidic and hot. It was to have been her first kiss. Perhaps, even, her only kiss. If their wedding vows, matrimonial tradition, and the expectations of an entire congregation of people could not coax Fox to kiss her, she suspected nothing would.

“Blasted cat,” Fox muttered, walking up the three stone steps to the castle door, leaning heavily on his walking stick, William at his heels. Leaving Leah behind and quite forgotten. Well. That had to count as the shortest, most uneventful honeymoon known to womankind—a three-hour carriage ride and quarter-hour of conversation.

Sister— I see your love, a patient stone, Rubbed and worn by worshipful hands. A pragmatic beacon of the sun, Lighting the path from where it stands. You drew forth order of chaos, Harnessed time and tamed hinterlands. But now, you are set free. To love . . . practically. Your world has spun a new axis, A different sun, your faithful gone. You, alone, must shape a new form, A home, a rhythm, a wild song, Sculpting the stone of yesteryear, Into a shape where you belong. And now I pray for you to see A way to love . . . practically.

Fox wanted her to build him a home—delicious meals on the table, decorative vases with flowers, liveried servants at the ready— And Leah could and would do that. It was what she had vowed when she married him. She had simply assumed that Fox would carve a space in the home for her, too. But in that . . . she appeared to have been mistaken.

“Good morning to ye,” Leah said with an inward wince. The day after her marriage and she was greeting her new husband like he was a customer at the local bakery. “Good morning,” Fox replied, equally formal, as if he were visiting said bakery.

“If ye want tae have it out with George, ye do it on your own time, not mine,” Leah snapped. “I’m not paying ye tae quarrel.” “Och, ye no’ be paying us at all. That fancy Sassenach husband of yours be doing it.” Tam’s face reddened, his hands waving in the air. “Given that it’s scarce two days since your wedding, and you’re out here arguing with myself—and he’s nowhere tae be seen—it makes me wonder how much of a wife ye truly are!” Fox hissed in a breath. How dare this man!

“Bah! A housekeeper and a steward. Two more people who can quit my service whenever they wish!” Fox flared his nostrils. “I married you to avoid such a fate.” Deathly quiet followed his outburst. Leah stood preternaturally still, as if his words had dealt her a blow. Fox’s harsh breathing filled the air between them. He licked his lips, tasting the whisky there. “I see,” she finally said, expression shuttered. “Ye married me because ye wanted a servant who couldnae leave. Someone bound by the law to stay beside ye, no matter how cutting your words or dark your mood.” The starkness of her tone knocked the breath from Fox’s lungs. He had just said so, had he not? But for some reason, thinking of her as a companion who couldn’t leave him . . . well, it had sounded much better in his head. He most certainly had never thought of it in the terms she so baldly described. And yet . . . He had forced her to belong to him.

Captain Fox Carnegie had married her to secure an indentured housekeeper—one paid in pin money, a dower, and a married surname. Despite all his pretty words about weariness and wanting a companion, at the heart of it, Fox had married her because he was tired of hiring yet another servant after driving the last one off due to his drink and neglect. In her enthusiasm to become his wife, Leah had failed to see that Fox’s actions—no proper courting, no attempt to know her as a person—signaled a lack of regard.

Though he would brave any worldly horror for the child, Fox doubted he was capable of dealing with her at this precise moment in time.

He saluted Leah and took his charge out the door, his long legs eating up the space, Madeline’s laughter trailing after them. Leah stared at the empty door, savoring the sound even as it drifted away. She hated that she was outside that laughter, that she existed on its periphery.

“You’re unhappy,” Malcolm said on a frown. The first words he had spoken. He lifted his head and speared Fox with a hard stare. “Why isnae my sister happy?” The accusation punched the air from Fox’s lungs. His wife wasn’t happy?

She paused, studying him. “When were ye last happy, Fox?” More silence. He deflated, his arm settling more fully on her shoulder, as if the answer pressed heavily upon him. “I was happy when those I loved most were not yet dead.” An immense weight sank through his words.

“You smell much better than Honoria. She liked heavy perfumes. Made me sneeze.” “What do I smell like then?” Leah asked, terrified to move, to do anything that would upset the delicate balance of their bodies. He sniffed her again. “Soap,” he announced, landing hard on the p. He took another long breath. “Soap and . . . Leah.” Leah swallowed. Hard. She expected him to sit back at that. To finally pull away, to retreat. Instead, he remained close, breathing her in for a long moment. Finally, he lifted his head, his expression difficult to read in the low light. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes drift to her lips? “I wager . . . I wager you kiss better than Honoria, too,” he said.

Fox abruptly angled his head closer to hers. Leah panicked as she hadn’t had time to properly weigh her actions, to determine the correct, moral response. She lifted her chin to remove her lips from his trajectory, anything to give herself a chance to think, think, think. To her—horror? surprise? delight?—Fox took her lifted chin as an invitation. He dragged his nose up her neck and then followed the same path again with his lips, leaving fire in his wake. Her breathing hitched and every nerve in her body flared to life, destroying all coherent thought. Involuntarily, her eyes rolled back in her head, her chin lifting helplessly higher to give him further access. His mouth on her throat sent butterflies pulsing along her skin and amassed a cloud of wings in her chest. “Love . . . smell . . . wife.” He continued nuzzling her neck.

Fox stared. When had his wife morphed from merely attractive to this vivid, lush beauty?

What good would come of knowing that her husband had once loved so completely? In the end, Leah would still be . . . Leah. The untrusted wife. The responsible caretaker. The convenient pillow for a drunk. The lover Fox did not want.

Summoning a deep breath, she opened her mouth. She could do this. Just ask for what ye want. Say ye want a marriage in truth. “I . . . should like . . . a kiss?” She lost her courage at the end, truncating what she really wished for and, worse, rendering the sentence a hanging question. “A . . . kiss?” He froze.

“Why do you ask for a kiss?” She blinked. “Because . . .” She paused and then, rallying her courage once more, told him the truth. “Because . . . I have never been kissed. And I should like to know what it feels like, if even just the once, before I die. I cannae ask anyone else for the favor. Ye be my husband, so it must be yourself or . . . no one.” Her words caused something to tumble in him. His shoulders slumped and his expression floundered. Tenderness, she realized. “Oh, Leah.” His hand cradled her cheek. His head dipped before she could countenance it. Before she could anticipate. Before she could prepare.

She pushed his banyan off his right shoulder, exposing the scar in all its hideous glory. And it truly was hideous, a ghastly gouge into his muscles from ear to pectoral. She traced it with her fingertips. As if needing to assure them both that he had lived, that she saw the strength it had taken for him to be here. Now. With her. At that moment, she hated every person who had been careless with this man’s heart. Every person who had added another scar to it, whether through a steely saber or an emotional dagger. Her lips replaced her fingers on the scar, pausing to linger at the place where his shoulder met his neck. Fox’s breathing rasped in her ear. “Enough,” he said hoarsely, tilting her head upward and stealing her own breath with a kiss.

Part of Leah pointed out her good fortune. She had this man’s name. He had chosen to align his life with hers. He was a kind and decent man, who had overcome so much. She was his wife in truth. But another part of her, a bolder part, felt greedy. She didn’t merely want Fox’s attention, name, and body. She wanted his heart and soul, too. She wanted him to need her as much as she needed him, to fight for her love and affection, just as she would fight for his. Leah wanted it all.

“Those whom I loved and trusted sent me to die in Coorg.” His voice was chipped ice. “They didn’t merely discard my affection. They obliterated it. They took my heart and cracked it in a vise.” “Oh, Fox.” “And now these same people hold Madeline’s future in their hands. My niece destroyed everything by being conceived, and I ruined everything by refusing to die. We are, the both of us, unwanted dross.”

“Fox, no!” She raced after him, stumbling down the steps, grabbing hold of his upper right arm. “Whisky will solve nothing.” He whirled on her quickly in the tight space, instantly pinning her to the stone wall with his larger body. He kissed her, savagely, hungrily. “Are you offering another sort of forgetting, wife?” His mouth burned hot on her neck.

“Won’t . . . won’t you miss me?” Fox regretted the words instantly. The pathetic whine of them, the neediness. His wife paused, folding her arms across her chest, and faced him, her expression terrifyingly blank. “I survived twenty years without ye, Fox Carnegie. I ken I can manage a few months.” Silence. “Anything else ye care tae say tae me?” she asked, eyes narrowing expectantly. “Anything at all?” Words crowded his tongue.

“I havenae lied to ye, Fox. I love yourself, but I’ve realized over the past few weeks that love needs to be fed. I cannae go it alone with ye.” She motioned at the space between them. “I want more, and at the moment, my patience is too worn and weary. Were I tae die, would ye even weep?” No. The word bolted through him.

“But death is not the only way love dies, as I’m sure ye well ken,” she continued. “Love has tae be fed. It starves otherwise. And I fear I am starving in this marriage. Like Malcolm, I would never regret my love, but I cannae continue like this. I have given yourself so much, but I receive so little .

But as Leah watched Malcolm mourn his Aileen, she realized that Fox would not find Leah’s own loss unbearable. To him, her death would be more inconvenience than devastation. Leah wanted to be more than an inconvenience to Fox Carnegie.

“Happiness and love are akin tae strawberries.” His voice turned hoarse, and he glanced at his dwindling whisky. “Ye have tae glut yourself when the occasion arises—create memories tae see ye through the dark seasons.”

“Death is an amputation.” He fixed her with haunted eyes. “A violent severing of a vital part of ye. It throbs like a phantom limb, pulsing with a pain that nothing can soothe.”

Only a fool cuts off his own arm out of spite. Dinnae be an eejit and let a lack of words amputate a man from your life while he is yet living.” He rested his head back in his arms, eyes closing. “Life is short, sister. Love hard and true . . . while ye still have time.”

This was Leah, he thought. This was what Leah did. She quietly inserted herself into one’s life and silently went about improving things, until one day, you realized everything was better for her presence.

A deep welling of emotion rising upward and scouring all pain and doubt in its wake. A brilliant white-hot wave of . . . love. Complete. Undeniable. Yes. This was love. He loved her. Fox Carnegie loves Leah Penn-Leith.

He wanted Leah back—her sensible voice in his ear, her warm body snuggled against his of an evening, her rich laughter as she played with Madeline. But more importantly, he wanted her to know. To understand how deeply he loved her. To pledge his commitment to match her caring with the force of his own. He wanted it all.

“Did you not understand me just now? You merit every iota of my effort, Leah Carnegie.”

Suffering injury and then facing my own demons, loss and grief . . . all these things carved me into a man who would finally be worthy of your brilliant, bright heart. I would live it all again as long as it brought me to you in the end.”

“I love ye,” she said. “I thought I loved ye all those years ago, but that was a girlish imitation of what I feel now. My heart vibrates with adoration. I feel like I shall need fifty years of marriage—of sleeping every night at your side, nursing your bairns, sharing your joy and pain— to properly communicate how much I love ye.” “Well then, wife, what are we waiting for?” Fox pressed his forehead to hers. “Let’s begin that life right now.”