Chapter 7
The study smelled of beeswax and ink. Jack sat with the ledgers spread open across the desk. He knew the habits of these books like he knew the castle, and he knew the records they kept.
There were pages about the wages of the maids and footmen, and credit from a Laird MacInnis for timber. He tried again and read the number. He repeated it in his head. He pictured the count in sacks and barrels. Yet, each time, his mind drifted elsewhere.
Each time, it drifted to her.
He thought of the look on Emma’s face when he saw her in the courtyard, calm as if she had arrived at a quiet house rather than a hard one. He thought of her lifting Stella and how the child had laughed and grabbed at the green ribbon like it was a prize.
He had expected some kind of pride from her. Hell, he had braced for sharp words. However, tenderness was not what he had expected for the night.
The fire snapped, and he blinked. The numbers in the books blurred again. He set the quill down so he would not break it.
The door creaked open, and a younger man with bright red hair and an angry look on his freckled face stepped inside.
“Troy,” Jack said, pushing the ledger aside. “Are the guests settled?”
“Aye, me Laird. The lady and her maither have their chambers, and their trunks are properly stowed.”
“Good.” Jack turned the quill between his fingers. “Any trouble in the courtyard?”
“None.” Troy hesitated. “There is, however, another matter. Word from Laird Buchanan.”
Jack felt the muscles in his jaw tick. “Go on.”
“He grows bolder,” Troy reported. “When I told his men we’d nae tolerate their lads crossing our line again, the answer was a laugh. They called the MacLeod men soft and said if we didnae like it, we could take our complaint to the Devil.”
Jack watched Troy’s face while he spoke. The lad was loyal, but he kept his anger in the proper place. Even now, the anger was there and held in check.
“And what do ye propose?” Jack asked.
“Let us strike the stores he keeps at the mill,” Troy suggested. “We can burn them and bring him to his knees before winter. He’ll learn fast enough whose fields feed his own.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Destroy a mill because a fool spoke out of turn?”
“He insulted yer house, me Laird. If we let it stand—”
“If I wage war on every man who insults me,” Jack interrupted, sinking further into his chair, “we’ll be the only clan left in the Highlands.” He kept his voice even, even though the edge was there anyway. “We hold the line, and we daenae move first.”
Troy shifted. “He is testing us.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed. “So we make the test dull. Send him an invitation. Tell him I’ll meet him here. One on one.”
“I tried,” Troy said. “His messenger said he’d nae step foot in MacLeod territory ever again.”
Jack’s mouth curved a fraction. “Then we soften the step. He collects old blades, does he nae? Find one worth showing and send that with the letter.”
“Ye want us to send him a gift? Did ye hear what I said he did, me Laird?” Troy sputtered, as if the word tasted sour.
“Think of it as a gesture,” Jack said. “Laird Buchanan is a man of reason. I am certain he would accept the gift.”
Troy snorted, not quite in scorn. “I wouldnae put that man and reason in the same sentence, me Laird.”
“We cannae wage war, Troy,” Jack responded. “We have stores to fill and a castle to run. War is a last resort, so for now, if peace keeps our coffers full, I will take it.”
A silence settled between them until Troy lowered his head. “Aye, me Laird.”
“Double the watch at the southern border,” Jack instructed. “If their lads stray, turn them. Nay blades or any kind of weapon. Am I understood?”
“I’ll see it done.” Troy nodded and bowed again before stepping back.
Silence settled again, and Troy was about to leave when Jack looked up.
“Troy.”
“Me Laird?”
“If Buchanan answers, I want him walked through the gate like a guest,” Jack said. “I daenae want to hear a word about anything. Am I understood?”
Troy’s mouth flattened, but he nodded again. “Aye, me Laird. Good night.”
He stepped out and closed the door behind him, leaving Jack to the silence again.
Jack exhaled, thinking about the conversation he had just had. Laird Buchanan would bring trouble if he could, but he had no time for all of that now.
Trouble could wait for its turn.
He opened the ledger again and tried to make sense of the numbers. When he realized he wouldn’t make any headway tonight, he closed it with a thud and pushed back his chair.
His shoulder ached where it always did when he sat too long, and he rolled it until the tension eased. The fire had died down, and the room smelled more of ink than beeswax at this point. He dropped the quill and stepped out of the study.
He took the passageway toward the guest rooms, his feet steady on the stone floor. Torches burned in iron sconces along the wall and cast small light circles that did not touch. He had intended only to cross the pathway to the Great Hall, not to stop.
But he did.
He saw the door before he let himself think of it as hers. It stood just a finger’s width open, and flickering light poured out of the opening. He moved a little closer to see what the cause was, but the scene behind the door held him spellbound.
Emma stood by the fireplace with her back to the door. Her gown hung open at the shoulders while she unpinned her hair. The candlelight glowed on her back and neck as she loosened her gown even further.
Good God.
His throat went dry, and he swallowed thickly.
Her hair fell like a dark curtain to her waist, and she moved slowly, lazily. As if she wasn’t aware that the door wasn’t completely locked.
For a fraction of a second, Jack did nothing. Then, he squeezed his eyes shut and stepped back, turning toward the wall instead. He took a few deep breaths before rapping twice on the wood with his knuckles.
It was clear from the way her breath caught that the sound had startled her.
“Who is it?”
“‘Tis me,” he replied, managing to keep his voice even. “I’m only checking in to see if ye’ve settled well.”
The door swung a little wider, and she stood behind it with a dark cloak wrapped around her body. Her hair still hung loose over one shoulder. The fire had put a little color in her face. She did not try to hide that she had been startled, and for some reason, he liked that she did not pretend.
“Is there somethin’ wrong, Laird MacLeod?” she asked.
He ground his teeth at the mention of the full title. She had to know what she was doing, right?
“Nothing wrong,” he responded. “Has a maid been assigned to ye yet?”
“Nay, nae yet.”
“I’ll see to it,” he said. “Ye’ll have one before mornin’.”
“Thank ye.”
He lowered his head, already turning to leave.
“Laird MacLeod?”
He turned back to her. “Aye?”
A brief silence settled between them, and he saw something he rarely saw on her face—hesitation.
“Is this where she used to sleep?” she asked.
A frown creased his face. “Who?”
“The baby’s maither.”
He went still and felt his fists clench. The torch beside him flickered and sent a small hiss into the silence as if it had also heard her question.
“Am I right?”
He let the corner of his mouth lift, but it wasn’t a smile. “Ye’d better rest, lass,” he said. “Ye’ve had a long day. What ye need now is sleep, nae ghosts.”
She hesitated. “Aye. Ye’re right.”
He took a step back, meaning to turn again, but stopped one more time. “Stella.”
Her eyebrows drew in. “What?”
“The bairn,” he clarified. “Her name is Stella.”
Her eyes lit up. “Ah. ‘Tis a lovely name.”
He nodded once, taking her compliment in stride. “And I meant what I said before, Emma.”
She tilted her head. “About what?”
“The doors here lock,” he said.
Her eyes dropped to the lock on her door, and he watched her put her fingers on it. He heard the small gasp that escaped her lips as well.
“Goodnight,” he murmured, keeping his eyes on nothing but her face.
“Goodnight, me Laird,” she responded.
He nodded and stepped away from the door. He did not look at the bolt of light that came out of her room or the shape of her hand on the lock. He forced his feet forward instead and made his way to his chambers.