Chapter 2
“Keep the stairs clear!” Logan screamed at his men from above the stairs. “Nay one runs to the yard.”
The sound of battle pierced the air as steel clashed against steel in every part of the castle. A surprise attack had been orchestrated that morning, and until now, he had yet to figure out where it came from.
Until he reached the parapet and saw them. Dark coats. Short spears. A banner with a red bar through black.
MacTavish men.
His throat went dry. This was not a raid. No, it was far more personal. He could see that now.
He had broken bread with Laird MacTavish a few days after he arrived at the castle for the first time. The man had practically offered him his daughter. Logan could still remember what he had said.
“This is Freya. She will be of service to ye if ye accept her.”
Could this be a retaliation for his refusing to marry her?
Arrows cut through the air, and the men below lifted their shields. A ladder rose and scraped, but Logan pushed the first man off it with a polearm taken from the rack. The man fell and took two more with him. The ladder crashed and broke.
“Water there,” Logan said. “Pitch there. Ye two, with me.”
They moved as he spoke. He did not need to shout. He kept his voice level. Men heard him and followed his orders to the letter.
Ladders clawed at the east wall. He covered the space where the stones swelled and made footing. Three men crested the lip and found him. The first swung low. Logan stepped in and caught his wrist.
“Ye see, normally, I would be lenient with ye, but ye caught me on a really bad day.” He wrenched, cutting the man across the ribs. “I am supposed to be on me way to England now.”
The second lost his nerve when he saw how fast the first went down. The third had no time to see anything. David took him from the side and pushed him back over the drop.
“Me Laird, ye can still make time for the wedding.”
Logan laughed. “I appreciate yer candor, David, but I cannae leave. Nae when me castle is in danger. When we are done here, I will go. Now tell me, how many more are out there?”
“Me Laird—”
“How many more?”
David sighed. “Quite a lot at the gate.”
“They will die trying to break through,” Logan said. “Keep more men at the fences. Nay MacTavish man crosses to the courtyard alive.”
A horn blew again, and this time, they were short blasts. Logan knew what that was; he’d heard plenty at sea.
It was a signal.
Before he could blink, a second wave of men moved from the west with hooks and boards. He could almost see the plan as they hurried close. It was a war strategy older than time itself.
Pin the wall, pull his men thin, and then make him choose.
It was the perfect plan for a laird. However, for a captain, it had a couple of flaws he could explore.
He moved to the edge of the castle, where some of his men were stationed, and stood beside them.
“Get me a sand barrel,” he ordered.
A boy rolled a drum of sand to his feet. Logan kicked it to the edge, wedged it, and sliced it open. The sand flowed over the top like a curtain, and the ladder slipped. The men below cursed and stumbled.
Another head rose at the merlon, a face tight with effort. Logan knocked the blade aside and drove his boot into the man’s chest. The man fell and did not rise again.
Logan felt the old rhythm come back, ship-fast and clean. His body knew how to live in noise. He had learned it for years.
“More oil!” someone shouted.
“Nae yet,” Logan said. “Wait for the rush. Make it count.”
A shout rose by the gate as men rammed the wood with a giant log. The iron held, but the wooden parts splintered.
A hook caught the lip near his hand and held.
A MacTavish man climbed fast, and Logan turned.
The man dove up with a short blade and caught fabric at Logan’s side.
Heat ripped across his ribs. Logan cursed under his breath and stepped through the pain.
He locked the man’s wrist and slammed his forehead into the man’s nose.
Bones crunched, and the man loosened his grip.
Logan finished it and breathed out slowly.
Blood stained his shirt and his fingers, but he did not look at it. He planted his feet and took the next rung of work.
“Ye are cut,” David said near his ear.
“After,” Logan grunted.
The ram hit again. The gate shook but held. Stones fell from the top of the tower and smashed into a million pieces.
“Ye attack on me command,” Logan ordered. “Daenae attack a minute before.”
They all watched in anticipation as the men rammed at the gate one more time. Then, they started to retreat.
Logan watched for a minute, wondering if he was imagining things.
“Are they turning back?” David asked, the confusion in his voice clear.
“If we want to defeat them, now is the time to—” a voice rose from the crowd behind him.
Logan raised his hand. “Daenae follow,” he said. “Hold the wall and let them walk.”
They gathered themselves and watched the yard beyond the gate go empty in patches. The last ladder went down, and the last hook fell and dragged a scrap of cloth. The banner with the red bar dipped and moved off at a measured pace.
They were leaving.
This was a message that had been written and delivered.
Logan stood still until the sound faded and the men on the wall turned to look at him. He touched his hand to his side. It came away wet.
“David,” he said.
David stepped up to him, face set. “Aye.”
Later that evening, Isobel stood in the corner of the hall and watched as a maid cleaned the gash on Logan’s chest. The cut ran a hand’s length under his ribs. It had depth and heat. She poured liquor on it, but he did not flinch. He held the edge of the table as she stitched the cut.
“Hold still, me Laird,” she said.
“I am still.”
The maid eventually tied off the thread and pressed a clean cloth to the line. “Ye shouldnae do anything strenuous for at least the next few days, me Laird. Ye cannae run for long, walk or travel,” she advised.
“I cannae travel?”
The maid nodded. “Nae unless ye want to risk a deadly infection.”
He stood up when she finished. “Isobel, send for David.”
David came, hair damp with sweat. He took in the cut, the cloth, the way Logan stood, but did not comment.
“Pick a man ye trust,” Logan instructed. “Send him south with a letter and enough money. He needs to ride to London.”
David’s eyes flicked to Isobel and back to him. “To yer bride?”
“Aye,” Logan said. “Emma Huntington.”
Two Weeks Later
The wound across his ribs and torso had yet to heal completely, but it was already at the point where he could take short rides to the village.
When he returned that morning, he noticed how muted and gray the sky was, and a part of him wondered if the battle he had fought two weeks ago had anything to do with that.
The guards at the gate saw him approach and moved as one. The doors swung, and stable boys stepped forward then back. The courtyard gathered a whisper and let it go when he swung down.
He handed the reins to a lad and turned. A maid with flour on her apron rushed to him, hands lifted. “Me Laird, let me—”
“Nay.” He kept his voice even. “I can stand.”
She skidded to a halt. “Aye.”
David approached, a tired look on his face. “Me Laird, there is something I need to tell ye.”
“I am certain it can wait. I need a bath first.”
“Nay, me Laird. It cannae wait. I daenae think—”
“David,” Logan interrupted, resting a hand on the man’s shoulders. “Right now, I am tired and in need of a bath. ‘Tis that simple.”
David swallowed but did not respond.
Logan crossed the yard, and the men stepped aside. The door to the keep opened before he touched it. As he moved through the passageway and up the stairs to the family rooms, warmth ran along his ribs. Blood was beginning to seep through the bandages.
He’d gone too far, exerting himself this time around.
Two scullery maids flattened themselves against the wall and looked down at the floor. He saw their eyes cut to the bandages beneath his shirt, but moved on anyway.
Something felt off. He was well aware that his servants were a bit terrified of him, but it felt too much this morning. There must be something else.
He shoved the thought away and continued walking.
At the top landing, he turned in the direction of his chamber. A boy with a kettle took one look at his shirt and almost dropped the handle. Logan put a hand out and took the weight with him through the door.
“Set it there,” he said. “Leave.”
“Aye.”
Later that morning, after changing into a clean shirt, he stepped out of his room and headed to the study.
“Me Laird, there is something ye need to ken,” a maid called from behind, right as he reached the door.
“What is it with ye people this morning?”
“Me Laird, there is someone…”
Logan didn’t wait for her to finish. He pushed the door open.
Emma sat rigid in a chair that had been made for heavier men.
The study felt too large, the ceiling too high.
The shelves were neat, and a map lay under glass on the desk, pins pressed into it with care.
She folded her hands in her lap so that they would not wrinkle the same patch of her dress again.
She rehearsed the lines in her head.
Sir, I am Lady Emma Huntington. Remember? The woman you were supposed to marry two weeks ago? Yes. I have come to confront you and ask why you decided to abandon me. And you better have a good reason, or I am going to break your nose.
Maybe the last part was a bit too much.
My Laird, thank you for receiving me. I am Lady Emma Huntington. I have come to inquire why you refused to appear at our wedding. Did I do something wrong? Did you choose not to come because you were simply a coward?
No.
For some reason, the study made her feel small. Like a piece in a game where the rules had not been explained.
Laird MacLellan, I am here to—
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and she jumped to her feet, her breath quickening. She inhaled deeply, the way she had learned to do when she had to say difficult things to Aunt Agnes.
The door opened without warning, and he entered. His shirt hung open at the collar, revealing a sliver of golden skin. His hair was long, and the muscles of his chest flexed with every step he took.
Her knees went weak.
He looked surprised, almost shocked to see her standing there.
Her throat went dry. Had they not informed him of her arrival?
As he stepped closer to her, his features grew clearer.
Emma took quick notes, as it was the only way to stop herself from descending into awkwardness.
Brown eyes. Long black hair. A scar from the outer corner of his right eye to his jaw.
A scowl that made him look even more handsome in the muted light.
Everything she had planned to say to him stuck in the back of her throat.
She had planned to yell, to be angry at him. To demand an explanation. But she did not. She couldn’t do any of that. She was not sure her knees would hold her up.
Instead, she cleared her throat and balled her hands into fists. She could see the question in his eyes.
“I assume you are Laird MacLellan,” she began.
He narrowed his eyes before giving her a brief nod. “Aye.”
“Good,” she uttered, keeping her voice steady. “We have a lot to talk about.”