Chapter 3
Emma told herself to look at his face, not at his chest. He was indeed in a plain white shirt, but it did not hide what was underneath. His shoulders were broad and strong.
Heat rose to her cheeks, and she despised the feeling.
Focus, Emma!
She could only imagine what he was thinking. Was he also as surprised as she was? Was she nothing like he had expected? Would this actually reinforce his decision not to wed her?
“Let me guess,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “Ye are one of MacTavish’s men.”
She blinked. “If that is your idea of a joke, I will have you know—”
“‘Tis nae me idea. ‘Tis a joke. I ken very well who ye are.”
“What gave it away? My accent?”
“Aye. And… this,” he responded, gesturing towards her attire. “I didnae ken ye were here, Emma. Or else I would have come sooner.”
“You abandoned me on our wedding day,” she huffed. “I seriously do not believe you are in a position to make a joke here.”
He held her gaze. “Nay.”
She blinked once. “No?”
“Something came up.”
He stopped before the desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. That steadied her far more than any chair could have done.
“You must forgive me, Laird MacLellan. I am afraid I will need much more than something came up. You know, since we had an agreement. What could possibly be more important than getting married?”
His gaze sharpened, as if he had not expected the first blow to land so cleanly. “Emma, ye must understand—”
“Lady.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “What?”
“It is Lady Emma to you.”
“Is it now?” he drawled.
She hated how he seemed to be enjoying this conversation. She hated even more how his physique had managed to knock out every argument from her head.
“Aye.” He dropped his arms and moved closer to her. “Well, Lady Emma, I sent ye a letter the day of the wedding explaining that I wouldnae be able to make it. Did it nae reach ye?”
Emma jutted her chin. “I do not know if it reached my home. I left almost at once, after the worst public humiliation of my life, to find you.”
“Ye neednae have done that. I would have come for ye when I was ready.”
“And when would that have been? When all the hairs on my head turn completely grey?”
He exhaled and took another step closer, slowly closing the gap between them. “Emma—Lady Emma, I was unable to come to the wedding because me castle was attacked. A battle that left me severely injured, as ye can see.”
He lifted his shirt to reveal fresh bandages that wrapped around his ribs.
However, the bandages weren’t the only thing her eyes snagged on. She could not help but trace the ridges in his abdomen. The V that disappeared beneath his trousers. The faint trail of hair from his navel to his—
“Ye must have spent two weeks on yer way here. A myriad of things could have happened to ye,” he said, pulling her out of the reverie before she could embarrass herself further.
Her cheeks flushed, and she swallowed, trying to look anywhere else. “Well, the only thing I have to complain about is the road.”
“Still,” he insisted. “Ye should have waited for me.”
“No. The me from two years ago would have waited for you. But now? Now I am tired of men dictating my life, my supposed future husband included.”
He let that sit for a heartbeat, before the same lazy grin crept back onto his face. “What, are ye going to punch me too?”
She swallowed. “I hope I will not have to.”
He took a few steps towards her until he was close enough that she could count the dark lashes framing his eyes. “Or else what, me Lady?”
Her breath stuttered. She made to step past him, but his hand closed around her arm, firm and certain.
“I’d like an answer to me question,” he said.
“And I’d like a groom at my wedding. It does not look like we can both get what we want now, does it?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Trust me, I would have been there if I could.”
“It is a good thing I arrived, then. To save you the trouble.”
His brow creased.
She nodded toward the small trunk near the door. “Look, I brought my gown. You can see me in the yellow fabric you could have seen two weeks ago.”
“Are ye that eager to be me wife?” he asked, his voice lilting.
“Do not flatter yourself. This is a business arrangement.” She heard the breathlessness in her voice and despised that too. “That is what this has always been, has it not? You need a wife. I need a husband.”
A brief silence settled between them.
Emma wondered if he would contradict her. A part of her even hoped he would. Instead, he straightened and cleared his throat.
“Aye. Since ye are here, let’s speak about the terms.”
“The terms?” she repeated carefully.
“Aye.”
His shoulders relaxed, and his hands hung loose. It was the posture of a man who knew he would win an argument by living longer than it did.
Emma squared her shoulders. She would not be placed like a pin on his map. “Are these terms you can keep?” she asked. “Or will something else come up?”
“Ye are a feisty woman, are ye nae?” he said wryly. “I show ye me wounds from the battle and tell ye about the letter I wrote, and yet ye are still apprehensive.”
Emma shrugged. “Well, you could have written sooner.”
“Aye, well, since I was busy trying nae to die, ye will have to forgive me for that.”
She opened her mouth to argue further when her eyes slid almost against her will to the side of his shirt. A dark red stain had spread across the linen like water across stone.
“Is that…” The words died in her throat.
He looked down at his shirt and let out an exhausted groan. “Oh, nae again.”
Emma felt the floor tilt beneath her feet and the air thicken. She reached blindly for the edge of the desk. He caught her before she could find it, one hand on her elbow, the other on her back. Heat seeped through her dress and steadied her in a way she could not understand.
“Easy,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
“I am looking,” she said, though her vision had narrowed. “There is blood.”
“Aye, there is.”
Her stomach twisted as the room stopped tilting. She heard the crack of a knot in the wood. She tried to focus on that sound until her breathing steadied.
“If ye are going to faint at the sight of blood,” he said, voice low, “then perhaps marrying a laird isnae the best thing for ye.”
The words stung, and pride immediately burned away the fog. She wrenched herself out of his hold.
“I did not cross a country to be sent home by a cut,” she huffed. “I am here. I will not leave. I will be married. You will not change that.”
He regarded her as if measuring a span of rope. Something in his gaze shifted, less dismissal, more assessment.
“We are meant to be helping each other,” she added, quieter now, because she felt the weight of her choice and did not wish to waste what steadiness she had regained.
“Aye,” he said. “And to help ye, I will set the rules that keep this place from tearing itself apart.”
The warmth left his voice. It became the voice she had heard in her mind when his response had arrived weeks before the wedding.
“Rules?” she echoed.
He nodded once. “In public, ye daenae talk back to me. Nae in the hall. Nae in the yard. If I say the last word, it is the last word. If I call for silence, ye keep it.”
Her chest tightened. “That is not a partnership.”
“It is order. There is room for debate when the door is shut. Beyond it, there is a single line, and I hold it.”
“Because you are the Laird.”
“Exactly.”
She opened her mouth to speak again, but he cut her off.
“This is very important, Emma. Ye are never to talk back to me like that again. I agreed to help ye; I would appreciate a little more gratitude.”
“Gratitude.”
“Aye. I daenae think I stuttered.”
“Well, ye might as well have. What do you mean by gratitude, when all you have shown me so far is how much of an arrogant man you are?”
“An arrogant man doesnae have the strength to back up his claims. I do. ‘Tis why I’m still standing after the battle that ravaged me castle.”
“What does any of this mean anyway? Your rules. This was never part of the agreement.”
“It would have been if ye had waited for me to come to London.”
The silence between them felt crippling and charged at the same time. He was close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin. It took every shred of her will not to look below his chest at the blood staining his shirt.
Eventually, she took a step back and felt the chair against her calves. “It is funny, but I could have sworn I thought we were helping each other.”
“‘Tis exactly what we’re doing.”
“Is it? Because all I see from my end is a laird who thinks he is doing me a favor.”
He shrugged. “Well, who needs a marriage more? The Pirate Laird, or a lassie that nay man in town wants her?”
Heat crept up her neck. “It is only because they cannot handle me.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, I can. And I expect respect. Or else I will force it. I can forgive ye this once because we got off on the wrong foot. There willnae be a second time. If ye disrespect me again, I will send ye back to London. Am I clear?”
Emma lifted her chin. Words pressed hard against her teeth, bold and bright.
She saw the map on the desk and the pins setting it in place.
She saw the knot of linen under his shirt where the bandages held.
She knew the shape of the room and where she stood inside it.
Power lived here in clean lines. Pride would not keep her warm at night in a cold country.
She clamped her mouth shut. The sound was loud to her and probably to him as well. She nodded once.
His lips curled into a smile. “Good lass.”