Chapter 1
The yard held a pale chill that softened the edges of the stones. Logan stepped out and felt the morning cold slowly settle on him. He crossed the courtyard already dressed for the day, shirt clean, hair tied back, knife at his belt.
He did not look left or right.
He did not need to.
A young woman came out of the kitchens with a wooden bowl and a torn apron.
“Morning, Freya,” he greeted.
She lifted her eyes and saw him. The bowl tipped, and broth sloshed over her fingers.
Her mouth opened, and she began to cry silently at first, then with little sharp hiccups.
She turned and ran, feet scraping, shoulder striking the doorframe in her hurry to get away.
The door closed with a bang, and the dog barked once from the byre before thinking better of it.
Logan did not slow down or even try to follow her.
His sister Isobel met him at the door to the Great Hall, fixing him with a pointed look. “What did ye do?”
“I only greeted her. I daenae ken why she reacted as though I was some kind of monster.”
Isobel exhaled. “This is what they see when they see ye.”
He arched an eyebrow.
She lifted her hand to the door and pushed it open. “I have a letter.”
“From whom?”
“England.”
He felt a stillness in his chest, the kind he felt when a wave rose wrong under a dull sky. “Are we still doing this?”
“Aye, we very much are.”
He followed her inside. The hall was cool and smelled of wood that had not yet burned that day. He watched as she set the letter on the table and studied it. The seal was red and neat. The hand that wrote the address was careful and fine.
He did not sit. “Another refusal.”
“Read it,” she urged.
He broke the seal with his thumb, unfolded the page, and let his eyes skim over the lines. The name was the first thing he gleaned, despite it being at the bottom of the page.
Emma Huntington.
As he read the letter, he felt the air shift, as if the walls had drawn nearer.
“She struck a man,” he drawled.
“In public.” Isobel’s voice was careful.
“In the face.”
“Aye.”
He kept his eyes on the page, suppressing a smile. “She might very well be the first interesting woman ye have reached out to.”
“That is nae the point, Braither. The point here is that she agreed to be yer wife. Sure, she has some conditions, but we must look at the most important part of the note here. She has agreed to be yer wife.”
For a few seconds, Logan did not move. He read the letter again and found that his reading had slowed without meaning to.
“She is ruined then,” he noted.
“Aye,” Isobel said.
He lowered the hand holding the letter. “An English lady wouldnae last a week here. The yard would skin her, and the hills would finish the rest. She would hate the wind and the silence.”
Isobel watched him. “She has made a choice, and she is standing by it. I think she will learn the wind.”
“She will bring her pride and her thin shoes and her London mouth.”
“Ye have a pirate’s name and a yard that goes still when ye pass,” Isobel shot back. “Thin shoes can be traded. A spine is harder to find.”
He set the letter flat on the table and looked at the seal as if it would change. “Why send this to us?”
“Because we daenae have the luxury of choosing which woman ye’ll marry,” Isobel replied.
“In case ye cannae tell, Braither, nay woman is queuing outside our doors to ask for yer hand in marriage. Even Freya is terrified of ye. Nay Highland faither will trust ye with his daughter, and nay Highland maither will let her daughter come near yer hall. In other words, this is yer only option, English or nae.”
He looked at her and said nothing.
“Look on the bright side. She punched a man. That means she isnae meek,” she added. “She isnae a glass made to hold another man’s reflection. She is desperate, and she isnae weak.”
“She will expect comfort and courtship.”
“She will expect to be married to a man who willnae give her any reason to punch him and willnae question her dignity,” she countered. “That is what the letter asks for without saying it.”
Logan grabbed the letter again and read it, this time a little slower.
“Maybe it is because I have spent more time exploring the world than ye, Sister. But where ye see symmetry, I see cost.”
“I daenae see symmetry. I see a woman nay one wants,” Isobel said. “And I see a man nay one dares to want. ‘Tis like a match made in heaven.”
He made a short sound that might have been a laugh. “Ye think I’d be a fool nae to take her up on her offer.” He did not smile.
“I didnae say that.”
“Nay. Ye didnae need to.”
He folded the page once and then unfolded it.
“What would ye have me do, then?” he asked.
“Consider it,” Isobel replied. “Then answer if ye find it worth the trouble.”
Logan looked at the door and then back at the letter. Isobel was right; people did not dare to want him. This Emma Huntington might be the very first woman who agreed to marry him without fear. He might as well see it through. Who knew when such an opportunity would present itself again?
He set the letter down. “If she comes, she willnae be lied to about this place.”
“She has nay use for lies,” Isobel said.
“She willnae be coddled or given special treatment.”
“She is to be yer wife. The whole purpose of all of this is to give her special treatment.”
“I see. I suppose we must start preparing for the journey to London.”
“Aye.” Isobel nodded. “The earlier we settle this matter, the better.”
Emma Huntington stood very still in her gown and felt the heaviness of the day settle on her. She recognized it the way she recognized a bruise before it showed. The grey skies did not exactly help either.
Something was about to go seriously wrong.
A maid was fussing over the line of pearls along her sleeve.
“You are lovely,” she said. “He will not know what to say.”
Emma smiled. At least she could still do that. “Thank you.”
The room was too neat; everything looked too ordered. Flowers in small bowls. Gloves folded on a chair. A veil that smelled of starch and roses.
Her breath was trapped in her chest and would not leave. She kept her hands at her sides and watched her reflection in the mirror.
Her bright red hair had been intricately braided and her ivory dress caught the light in the most delicate way and spread it back to all the corners of the room.
An older man in a dark grey coat stepped into the room, and she turned around.
“Father,” she greeted, her voice low.
Lord Repington ran his fingers over his moustache. It was his tell whenever he was trying not to cry, and Emma knew better than to point it out.
“Ye look…” he trailed off, swallowing.
She laughed. “Thank you, Father.”
Lord Repington nodded, the grey in his hair catching the light, before he raised his hands. “Ah, yes. I came to inform you about a slight delay.”
Emma blinked. “Delay?”
“Yes. The carriage will be right below in a moment. A small delay at the corner. A dray and a quarrel. These things happen.”
“Of course,” Emma said.
Lord Huntington stared at her, his eyes glistening slightly. “She would be proud of you, you know?”
The mention of her mother almost undid her. She swallowed hard and tried to keep her voice steady. “I hope she is.”
“I know she is,” he insisted.
Emma gave him a brief nod.
Lord Huntington did not linger after. He walked out of the room, almost in a hurry, so she would not see him cry.
Soon, Emma was left on her own, her heart still pounding like it would explode any moment now.
Another figure slipped into the room. It was her friend, Melody.
Melody’s eyes moved over Emma’s face and then to her hands. She took one and squeezed it. “I brought the handkerchief with the blue thread. For luck.”
Emma let the touch anchor her. “Thank you. I’ll put it in my glove.”
“How do you feel?” Melody asked. “Do you need anything? Water? Salt? A wet towel?”
Emma laughed. “Salt?”
“I am here to provide you with whatever you need. Trust me when I say that you can ask for anything, and I will get it for you.” Melody leaned forward, her voice dropping. “Even if it is a dead body.”
Emma laughed, feeling the knot in her chest loosen. “Let us hope I will not need that.”
Melody nodded.
Soon, they went down the stairs to the waiting carriage.
The street shone with last night’s rain.
The horses tossed their heads as if they did not care for the smell of the churchyard at the end of the lane.
Two boys watched from behind a post and grinned when Emma glanced their way. She chose not to acknowledge them.
She did not need to look twice to know what was going on in their heads.
The lady who punched a man the other day is getting married.
The sinking feeling she had felt earlier returned, even more devastating. She cleared her throat anyway and kept her gaze ahead. Not once did she speak throughout the ride to the church, and when the carriage eventually stopped, she had to clear her throat to check that she had not lost her voice.
The church felt colder than it should. In the antechamber, someone had set out water and a plate of sugared almonds.
Emma stood and listened to the movement beyond the door. She could tell the size of the crowd by the echo. She could tell the mood by the scrape of a shoe and a hush under it.
The vicar came to the door. “The groom and his family are not here yet,” he said.
Emma held her breath, but her father jumped in before she could get a word out.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I am certain it is nothing to fret about. They are probably held at St. James’s. The street after the rain is always a pain to get through.”
Aunt Agnes clasped her hands together. “Thank you for letting us know.”
Emma nodded. “Thank you, Reverend.”
The vicar left them.
Melody did not release her hand. “Do not worry. This wedding will happen,” she said.