Chapter 8
Emma woke in a quiet room with a clear head. The fire had died to a soft glow, and the morning light pressed at the shutters.
For the first time in days, she felt rested. She lay still for a breath, then pushed the covers back and swung her feet onto the floor. The cold shot up her legs almost immediately.
She crossed to the window. The air on the other side of the glass looked washed clean, and mist clung to the glass. The clash of steel below drew her attention almost immediately. She unlatched the glass and leaned out a little.
Two men moved into the courtyard. A young guard she did not know, quick on his feet, and Jack. He was bare to the waist, and his skin looked rather shiny from sweat in the cool morning.
Even from afar, she could see just how sculpted his body was. There was a faint scar on his left shoulder and a mark that ran down his back and disappeared into his low-hung trousers.
She watched him longer than she meant to and felt the heat rise in her face. Good God, why was she staring so long?
She shut the window and stepped back, pressing her sweaty palms to her dress.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called.
A maid stepped inside, neat and young. She had bright golden hair and dark eyes that seemed to shine when she smiled.
Emma watched her as she bobbed a curtsy. “Good morning, me Lady. I’m Lara, and I’ll be seein’ to yer needs.”
“Thank ye, Lara.”
“I’ve drawn ye a bath,” Lara said. “Would ye like to break yer fast in yer chambers?”
“Nay,” Emma replied. “But I’ll take the bath.”
Lara’s smile was quick and steady. “Very well. Yer maither’s already in the dining hall, waiting. I can show ye the way when ye’re ready.”
“I will find it,” Emma said. “Ye can just see to the water, please.”
“Aye, me Lady.”
Lara moved about the room with quiet skill. She set out fresh linens and a simple gown Emma did not remember packing. The girl had an eye for order, and Emma liked that very much.
Did Jack’s former wife like it too? Was Lara also her personal maid when she was alive? Could she trust the young maid to tell her things she needed to know about Jack?
“Will this do?” Lara asked, interrupting her thoughts.
“It will.”
“If ye need a second bucket, knock for me,” Lara said. “I will be waiting outside the door.”
“Thank ye.” Emma smiled.
When the door closed, she unpinned her hair and set each pin in a tidy line on the dressing table. She undressed and stepped into the bath, feeling the heat crawl up her legs. She sank lower, leaned her head against the rim, and let her eyes close for a minute.
She could be in here forever and wouldn’t complain about anything. However, there was a lot to do today.
She washed quickly and without any ceremony. Then, she rose, dried up, and dressed. The gown Lara had chosen fit well and flowed easily. Emma braided her hair, tied the green ribbon, and looked once at her face in the small mirror. She looked steady enough to pass for a calm person.
Out in the corridor, the castle seemed just like MacFinn Castle. The morning bustle and the sound of maids going about their daily chores all reminded her of home. Perhaps it wasn’t that different here, after all.
She caught the smell of peat smoke, porridge, and fresh bread as she walked further down. Soon, she found the dining hall without help.
Her mother was already seated at the far end of the long table with Lady MacLeod. Stella was on Lady MacLeod’s lap, her little mouth open in a soundless talk only babies understood.
The sight loosened something in Emma’s chest. Something she didn’t even think was ever there.
“Good morning, Lady MacLeod,” she greeted.
The older woman’s smile met her halfway. “Please, lass, call me Catriona.”
Emma pressed her lips together. “I doubt I can do that.”
“It was worth a shot,” Catriona laughed.
The sound sat well in the spacious room.
Olivia reached for Emma’s hand and squeezed. “Ye slept?”
“Aye,” Emma said. “Better than I expected.”
“Sit, love,” Olivia instructed. “Warm yerself.”
Bread, honey, and a small dish of berries waited where a place had been set. Emma sat and poured herself a cup of tea. The steam rose and cleared the last fog from her mind.
Her eyes flicked back to the baby. “May I hold her?”
Catriona’s face softened. “Aye. Of course.”
Emma stood and reached for the child. Stella leaned toward her without fear, all weight and warmth. Emma settled the baby against her shoulder, one hand on her small back, the other finding the wobbling cap and straightening it.
Stella’s fingers found the ribbon in Emma’s hair and tugged again. Emma chuckled under her breath.
“She likes ye,” Catriona noted. “That’s good.”
“I think she likes the ribbon more. ‘Tis her second time pulling at it.”
“Oh well, ribbon or nae, she seemed to like being carried by ye.”
“Aye. I love babies,” Emma admitted, unaware of the consequences that statement would bring her in the next second.
Catriona watched the way Emma unconsciously swayed to soothe the child. Then she nodded, incredibly pleased. “Then I cannae wait to see ye hold one of yer own.”
Oh.
Emma felt the ground tilt a little under her shoes, and her breath caught. The spoon in Olivia’s hand went still as she shot her daughter a glare.
Emma swallowed and kept her voice even. “Tea is good here.”
Catriona blinked, then smiled, not at all sorry. “Aye. We keep a decent stock.”
Olivia mustered a smile. “I was just telling Catriona that her cook kens oats.”
“Ye’ll have better proof at supper,” Catriona quipped. “Though ye’ll forgive me if I say this hall shines most in winter. The big fireplace works a lot by then.”
Emma kissed the top of Stella’s head. “Warmth is warmth,” she said. “I’ll take it in any season over the cold.”
“I wish I could say the same about me son. Jack forgets the heat and cold when he has a purpose.”
Olivia arched an eyebrow. “Men often do.”
Catriona nodded. “If that isnae the truth.”
Emma shifted Stella to her other shoulder. The child giggled, a sound that seemed to brighten the room. Emma let the sound wash over her for a moment.
“May I take her down the hall?” she asked. “Just a turn. I think she might like it.”
Catriona looked surprised and then pleased. “Aye. Walk her past the windows. She likes the light. Nae the cold air though, so keep close.”
Emma turned to her mother. “Will ye come with me?”
Olivia rubbed her forehead with two fingers and gave a rueful smile. “I’ll stay, love. I’m too tired to walk. The ride made a fool of me bones.”
Emma raised an eyebrow. “Ye want me to wander these halls by meself?”
“I’ll go with ye,” Catriona offered, already rising. “Ye can show me how a MacFinn cares for a bairn.”
Olivia relaxed back into her chair. “I’ll keep the tea from going lonely.”
It was Emma’s turn to shoot her mother a glare, to which Olivia shrugged.
“Bring the cup with ye,” Catriona told Emma. “Nay rule against a proper walk with a warm hand.”
Emma settled Stella more snugly and picked up her cup. She felt the earlier tilt inside her, the one Catriona’s remark had caused. It was small, not a threat. Still, it moved, but she kept her expression open.
Now, she couldn’t stop thinking about what their children would look like.
Catriona’s gaze flicked to Emma’s free hand. “Ye’ll manage well here.”
Emma looked up at her. “Ye think so?”
Catriona nodded. “The halls can feel large to a new lass, but believe me, the feeling fades.”
Olivia watched them both, a mix of relief and caution contorting her face. “Daenae take long,” she urged. “Ye need food.”
“I will eat when I return,” Emma said. She looked at Stella and softened. “If she allows it.”
“She will,” Catriona assured her. “She rules less than she looks.”
Emma smiled. “We shall see.”
Olivia lifted her cup in a small salute. “Go on, then.”
Emma nodded. “We will.”
She turned toward the arch that led to the corridor, the baby warm and quiet against her shoulder, and Catriona fell into step beside her. They walked past the Great Hall first, and then a few more guest rooms. Eventually, they found their way to the gallery.
Catriona spoke as they went, listing off names and dates. Emma was certain she had tuned her out at some point. Catriona talked about everything. Which uncle held the north pasture, and which aunt set up the first school at the village.
“Jack’s grandfaither added this wing,” she had said one time. “It took him half a year and a winter storm to finish it. The poor old bugger lost nearly three fingers to the cold, too.”
Emma glanced at the next frame. A man with the same eyes as Jack’s, only set in a softer face. He was sitting with a woman in a dark green gown with a pearl necklace around her throat. Emma made no comment, and Catriona didn’t ask for her thoughts, thank God.
They reached a newer portrait near the end. Jack stood with the child in his arms. He was in a linen shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
The painter had caught the set of his jaw and the way he used his intimidating demeanor to make a room fall quiet. Stella looked no more than a few months old in the portrait. Her fist caught a fold of his shirt, and her mouth opened in a laugh that the paint had fixed in place.
Catriona chuckled. “I remember that morning well. He hated sitting for it. Wouldnae even do it until I brought the bairn in.”
“Really?” Emma asked, still studying the painting.
“Aye. Poor Stella wouldnae stop crying from the first bell as well. Then he took her, and she shut her wee mouth and fell to cooing like a dove. We finished in an hour.”
Emma smiled before she knew it. “That sounds like her.”
“Aye.” Catriona’s eyes softened. “She makes easy work of hard men.”