Chapter 13
It was a mistake, wasn’t it?
The whole thing was just one big mistake. He’d made an error of judgment, and it was all going to come crashing down on his head.
Thomas wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, then wished he hadn’t. It was his nicest linen shirt.
He’d joked about storming into the Keep and dragging Emma out—or rather, scooping her up into his arms and holding her close against his chest—but now that it had come to it, he had no intention of doing any such thing.
The evening air was unseasonably warm, and the courtyard was still and quiet, with not a breath of wind in the air. The carriage stood over to one side, waiting for his word to get going.
He was pacing beside it, up and down, up and down. Every now and then, Thomas would thrust his hands into his pockets, feeling the items hidden in each one. A square, velvet-covered box in one and a neatly wrapped parcel in the other.
The parcel had seemed like an excellent idea at the time, and it probably was, but the box… well, he didn’t know what had possessed him to buy that. He felt almost foolish for having brought it at all.
What if she didn’t come?
What if she didn’t want to come?
Thomas had told himself, again and again, that he didn’t care if Emma didn’t enjoy his company. He had no intention of harming her in any way, and otherwise, she was a means to an end. A way to get his family off his back.
All lies.
He wondered whether he’d realized even back then how ridiculous that all sounded.
Of course, he cared. Emma’s presence wasn’t enough. He needed more, and it was starting to feel like it would never be enough.
He reminded himself not to sit directly opposite her in the carriage again.
When a lurch had thrown her into his lap on the way to Edinburgh, her warmth and scent—a combination of rich, savory herbs—had aroused him more than anything else he had ever known before.
He was grateful he had worn his plaid. He would never have been able to hide his arousal in those tight breeches.
To be safe, he had worn a kilt tonight.
And yet, she might not come. He wasn’t going to drag her out, kicking and screaming.
He would be annoyed, of course. Those dresses set him back a pretty penny.
Her choices had been unusual. Red silk, a pale blue dress embroidered with daisies around the hem, and a deep green wool gown, simple and practical.
He glanced up at the moon, which was just starting its jaunt across the sky.
He had considered, briefly, whether he should ride to the Sinner instead of bothering with the carriage.
Then, he had imagined himself sitting in a horse’s saddle, with Emma pressed up against him either on the front or on the back, and quickly dismissed the idea.
No, carriage or nothing.
In a few minutes, he would have to assume that she was not coming and leave without her. What then? Should he confront her? Scold her? Complain to Delphine? Or perhaps simply take the hint that the woman despised him and could not imagine spending even an hour or two in his company?
Yes, that sounded most likely.
Then, a door opened, the one that sat at the top of the stone stairs which led into the courtyard, and she was there.
Thomas paused in his ceaseless pacing and glanced up. It felt as though someone had upended a bucket of cold water over him suddenly and unexpectedly. There was a split-second of absolute shock when you were trying to figure out what had happened to you, and that instant seemed to drag out forever.
Emma was wearing the silk dress. It had a curved neckline, skimming from the tip of one shoulder to the other, revealing the slim curves of her collarbone.
The sleeves were long and full, the luxurious swathes of fabric gathered in again at the wrist. The bodice was a simple one, fitted to her waistline, and from there, it flowed down to the ground in smooth, unbroken lines, the fabric glistening and glittering in the torchlight as if it were water.
In places, the torchlight glinted off the red silk, making it glow like fire.
Her hair was loose, brushed well, and an ornament that seemed to be made of a hairpin and dried flowers had been pinned above her ear. Thomas made a mental note to look closer at it later.
For now, all he could do was stare, mouth agape.
Emma cleared her throat, shifting nervously from foot to foot. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, breaking the silence. “It took longer than I thought to get ready.”
Thomas swallowed hard. His mouth was suddenly very dry. “I think it was worth it. But… but we really ought to leave now.”
She nodded a little too vigorously, clearing her throat again. Pinching the fabric gingerly, Emma lifted her hem and began to descend. Underneath the fine dress, she was wearing sturdy, well-worn boots. Thomas smiled, a dizzying wave of affection washing over him.
“I didn’t have any suitable shoes,” she said defiantly, following his stare. “I’ve got slippers, but I thought it best to be prepared.”
“Aye, very good. I bet Delphine suggested that.”
“She did, actually,” she said, tossing her hair again. She reached the bottom of the stairs and let her hem drop. The material fell to the ground, covering her boots. “This dress is too long, by the way.”
Thomas snorted. “Oh, my apologies, Me Lady. That’s a normal length for a lady’s hem.”
“Well, I’m used to walking miles and rooting around in forests. It’s longer than what I’d prefer.”
Thomas conjured up an image of Emma’s usual dresses, the hems of which only just skimmed the top of her shoe.
He’d seen healers before with straps under their skirts to allow the fabric to be pulled up to reveal breeches, the straps fastened to a belt around their waist. It was a clever design, but he couldn’t help but wonder why the women couldn’t just wear breeches.
“We ought to go,” he said finally, composing himself as best he could. “We’ll be late.”
Emma swallowed hard, nodding. “Aye, ye are right. Let’s go.”
He opened the carriage door, indicating for her to climb in first. She did, after only a moment of hesitation. Thomas paused, glancing about the courtyard before he followed her.
Nobody was around at this time of the evening. With the Laird going out, most of the servants were taking advantage of an evening off. They’d gone out to various pubs and gatherings or were simply enjoying a few hours to themselves.
A strange, itchy feeling gathered at the nape of his neck as if he were being watched.
Thomas lifted his hand to his nape, half expecting to find a spider or insect there.
There was nothing, and another glance around the courtyard did not reveal anyone.
There was a darkened window nearby, but no movement inside.
It's just nerves. Just nerves, that’s all.
He didn’t bother to investigate why tonight should make him so nervous. Shaking his head, he determinedly did not allow himself to look around again. He climbed into the carriage and closed the door behind him.
It was blessedly dark, and Emma hardly spoke.
A lantern hung from a pole outside the carriage, but it was too dangerous to have a candle or lantern inside the carriage.
A badly timed pothole could send a lit candle tumbling to the floor, and the furs and rugs would catch fire with shocking speed.
With the window open, a combination of bobbling lantern light and moonlight filtered in, but both of the carriage’s occupants were cast into shadow.
They sat in silence, the carriage rumbling towards its destination.
Thomas cast a quick, guilty glance over at Emma, who was staring unseeingly out of the window.
Her hands were fisted together in her lap.
She kept rubbing at the fabric of her dress, then sucking in a sharp breath and twisting her hands together more tightly.
“What’s the matter?” he asked before he had time to wonder whether it was a wise thing to say.
Emma looked sharply at him in the dark, but he couldn’t read her expression. “What do ye mean?”
“Ye seem nervous. Ye keep touching yer dress then moving yer hands away as if ye don’t think ye should be touching it.”
There was a pause, then Emma gave a reluctant chuckle. “Nothing gets past ye, eh, Me Laird?”
“Thomas. Call me Thomas. Please.”
There was another silence. He couldn’t have said why it was so important to him that she used his name, but it was. It was important.
“Thomas, then,” Emma said, her voice low and breathy.
It couldn’t have been the first time he’d heard his name from her lips, but somehow the effect was intoxicating, like taking a swig of whiskey right from the bottom. Thomas bit into his lower lip, willing himself to stay calm.
She was only inches away. He could just reach out and touch her. It would be so easy. He could trail his fingers along the ridge of her collarbone, up the smooth lines of her throat, and over the curve of her chin. He could trace the outline of her lips…
“Do ye have any gloves?”
The sudden question woke Thomas from his reverie. He cleared his throat and crossed one leg over another, trying to ignore the way the moonlight glinted off her skin.
“Gloves? No, I don’t think so. Why?”
She grimaced, glancing down at her hands. “Healer’s fingers, remember? Stained green.”
“Will it transfer to the dress?”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t think so, but it’s hardly elegant, is it?”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Who cares about elegance? Yer fingers are a sign that ye are a healer. It shows that ye can save lives. That’s a thing to be proud of, don’t ye think?”
“Aye, but in a dress like this…”
“Are ye saying that a woman who saves lives isnae fit to wear a fine dress?”
There was another long pause, then he saw the glint of a smile spread across her face.
“That’s a fine way of looking at it, I do agree.”
“Aye, well, ye are a fine lassie.”
Again, that had slipped out without him meaning to do so.
Thomas leaned back in his seat, feeling breathless for some reason.
It was hard to measure time in a carriage like this, but he knew they must be getting close to their destination.
Then, they’d be at the Sinner, and it would be all noise and heat and chaos, and he might lose this opportunity forever.
He slipped his hands into his pockets. His fingers picked out the blocky shape of the box, but he moved past that.
Not yet.
He pulled out the package, the paper rustling loudly in the gloom.
“Here. I bought ye this. A present. I think it’ll go well with yer gown. Sorry about the bad lighting to look at it.”
Emma blinked down at the parcel, then reached out to take it, almost tentatively. The soft pads of her fingers danced across his palm as she took it, sending tingles down his arm.
She unwrapped the package delicately, untying the knot of twine carefully and slowly, not tearing so much as an inch of the paper. Thomas was just starting to wonder whether she would get it open before they arrived when she pulled back a flap of paper, and the necklace glinted in the moonlight.
Emma sucked in a breath, her eyes widening. “Oh, Thomas! It’s beautiful. Is… is this really for me?”
“Aye, it is,” Thomas said, a heady wave of relief washing over him.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Disdain, perhaps. Maybe she wouldn’t have liked it. Or perhaps she would have seen it as a kind of bribe.
Emma picked up the necklace, turning it this way and that.
It was a fine piece of jewelry. Gold, of course, with smooth knots of real jade set into the necklace at intervals. It would clasp perfectly around her smooth throat, although he wished he’d brought something red now to go with her dress.
Oh, well. He wasn’t to know she’d want red silk.
“It looks so valuable,” she said, sounding a little uncertain. “Thomas, are you sure—”
“It’s a gift,” he said firmly. “In exchange for a convincing performance as my unofficial fiancée tonight.”
Something about Emma’s expression wavered, although it was too dark to truly read her face.
“Of course,” she said, her tone neutral. “Thank ye. Should… should I wear it now?”
“Aye, if ye like. Here, I’ll put it on for ye.”
Thomas had made the offer without thinking rather than letting Emma fiddle and fumble with a catch at the back of her neck. She swung her hair over her shoulder, handed him the necklace, and turned her back.
And now, Thomas was only inches away from her, the delicious smell of herbs and good things washing over him in a darkened carriage. He also had to get close enough to drape a necklace around her throat.
Wonderful.
He sucked in a breath, sliding the necklace into place. It was almost impossible to prevent his fingers from brushing against her skin as he did so, cool and smooth under the gold glitter of his gift.
Then, the necklace was fastened, and he made himself sit back in his seat. He ignored the way his skin prickled, the way his mind replayed their touches over and over again. He smiled blandly, determined to stay calm and play the part.
Emma turned around, lightly touching the necklace at her throat as if she couldn’t quite believe it was there. “I love it,” she said, her voice low and uncertain and not at all like the Emma Gallagher he knew. “Ye are kind, Thomas.”
“Ye deserve it,” he replied at once. It was too dark to tell, but he was sure that she was blushing.
And then, the carriage lurched to a stop, and they were there.
Thomas suddenly noticed chatter and laughter, noises that seemed to have come from nowhere.
Their destination, the Sinner itself, squatted nearby, light streaming joyfully from its windows.
Everything about the place promised good cheer, food, drink, and friends.
And yet, he would have given up his whole Keep in order to stay in that carriage with Emma.
Not that he could, of course.
Emma was already leaning forward, craning her neck, curiously eyeing up the pub. “Is that it, then? The Sinner?”
“Aye,” he said lightly, taking deep breaths and willing himself to calm down. “There she is. It’s a pleasant wee place, eh?”
“Aye, it’s lovely. Not at all like… like the other place I knew.”
Thomas wisely didn’t pry. “There are not many pubs in Scotland like the Sinner. None at all, I’d reckon. Well, shall we go in? I think everyone would like to meet ye.”
Emma drew in a deep breath, straightening her spine, touching her necklace, and shaking out her long silk skirts. “Aye, let’s go. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
Thomas chuckled. He climbed out first, turning back to offer her a helping hand down onto the solid ground.
When she took his hand, the touch sent shivers of excitement all the way down his spine.
What has the wee witch done to me?
Thomas was not sure whether to be thrilled or terrified.
Both were appropriate, probably.