Chapter 4
“Good lass.”
The words hung heavy between them.
Emma stayed where she was, the chair pressing against her calves, her hand still on the carved armrest.
Was this the most insufferable man she had ever met?
The fire crackled, and the map under the glass caught a strip of light and let it go. Her chest felt tight, as if her breath was stuck.
“Are you going to do something about that blood?” she asked. The words came out calmer than she felt.
He looked down at his side and then back at her face. “I will be fine. It’s just a little blood.”
“That does not look like a little.”
“Then I couldnae see ye two weeks ago when I was fighting for me life.”
The line hit with the steadiness of a hammer. She absorbed it and did not look away. “Why do you make everything sound like a test you already passed?”
His jaw clenched. “What I pass, I pass so others can sleep.”
“Or so they can watch you and call it pride,” she retorted before she could stop herself.
A knock came, quick and uncertain, before the door opened a hand’s width. A maid stood there with a towel in her hands, eyes lowered. “Me Laird. Forgive me, I was told—”
“Daenae beg off,” Logan interrupted. “I need another bath. Is the water still hot?”
The maid stepped over the threshold and bobbed her head. “The water is kept hot, me Laird. If ye—”
“Good. Keep it so and draw another bath,” he ordered, then nodded toward the hallway. “And fetch Jenny.”
“Aye.” She looked as if she wished to vanish into the grain of the wood.
The maid slipped out of the room, her dress rustling.
Emma felt heat flare where humiliation had cooled. “Another bath,” she scoffed. “To prove that you are fine.”
“To clean the cut and make sure it stays closed,” he countered. “Ye prefer I drip on the maps?”
“I do not care what you do.”
“Is that so, lassie?”
Emma opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, they stood with the desk between them and the weight of their words still in the air.
She wanted to tell him that he could have said he was hurt and needed a moment, that normal men said such things without their lungs collapsing.
She wanted to tell him that he looked like a man who would drag a boat over a hill because the river had turned.
Instead, she kept quiet. Now wasn’t the time to push him.
Soon, footsteps approached and stopped outside the door. The maid pushed it open again. Another young maid entered, thinner than the first, hair tied back neatly, eyes alert. She curtsied to Emma without being told to.
“Jenny,” Logan said. “This is Lady Emma Huntington. She will be yer mistress from now on. Whatever she needs, ye bring it or find who will.”
Jenny’s eyes flicked to the stain on his shirt. “Aye, me Laird.”
Logan turned to Emma. “Ye ask her for what ye need, and she will see to it. If she cannae, she will bring it to Isobel or David. Ye daenae have to hunt through unfamiliar rooms.”
He had given her a handhold without asking if she wanted one.
She nodded once. “Thank you.”
“Ye will have a room,” he added. “Jenny kens which. She will take ye there now.”
“And dinner,” Emma emphasized, because she would not be dismissed like a servant. “You told me we would continue our conversation.”
“At dinner,” he said. “We will set the rest of the terms and the hour.”
He turned to leave, but then paused, half turned toward the door. “If ye need anything before then, ask me sister.”
He did not wait for her reply before stepping out of the room, the latch settling with a neat click.
The space he left behind felt larger and heavier at once, the way a room would freeze after music stopped.
The first maid lingered by the door with a towel clutched close, eyes apologetic. She looked from Emma to the space Logan had vacated and back again.
“I didnae mean to interrupt,” she began, voice careful. “I heard some noise and thought it was—”
“You do not need to apologize to me,” Emma assured. Her throat had loosened enough that the words came out smooth. “It is not your fault.”
The maid’s shoulders dropped an inch. “Would ye like to speak to Lady Isobel, me Lady? She should be back from her walk by now.”
Emma blinked. “Did you say her walk?”
“Aye,” the maid said. “She took the path by the bee boles after first light.”
“The Laird has blood all over his clothes, and his sister went out for a walk? Is there something I am missing?”
The maid’s mouth tightened in uncertainty.
Jenny stepped forward a half pace, steady and practical. “The Laird asked that the day go as always,” she explained. “He said victory was to be expected, nae fretted over. So we all went about our chores.”
It slid into place, the casual certainty of the order. The way the hall had not stilled when Emma first walked into it. He had told them all to behave as if the battle was won because he intended to win.
“Arrogant,” she muttered under her breath.
Both maids went still, like birds freezing on a branch when a shadow crossed. The first one looked stricken. Jenny kept her expression polite, but Emma saw the warning in the set of her mouth.
Color rose hot to Emma’s face. “I misspoke,” she said, willing the steadiness back into her voice. “Forgive me. I would be grateful to meet Lady Isobel if she has returned. I would like to thank her for pointing me to the study, and to ask about the household.”
The maid clutching the towel sagged with relief. “Aye, me Lady.” She glanced at Jenny as if checking that this was the right answer.
Jenny gave the smallest nod.
“I will take ye now,” she said. “There is a quiet passage that keeps ye clear of the men coming in from the yard. If ye need to stop for water first, say so.”
“I am well,” Emma assured her.
It was mostly true. The room had stopped tilting long ago, but the echo of it still lived in her knees.
Jenny opened the door and stood aside, and Emma stepped out of the room.
The air in the hallway felt cooler, and voices drifted from the far end, a measured rhythm of men reporting and being spoken to.
Emma did not look that way. She looked at the path ahead, narrow and clean, the floors fresh, and the banners on the wall hung straight.
They moved, and Jenny kept half a pace ahead and slightly to the side, as if to shield her from the afternoon sun. The first maid followed with the towel, then thought better of it and rounded the corner to the kitchens.
“What is your full name?” Emma asked quietly. “If I am to rely on you, I would like to address you properly.”
“Jenny MacKay, me Lady.”
“And the other maid?”
“Cait,” Jenny replied. “She is new to the upper rooms.”
“I seem to have frightened her,” Emma remarked.
“Ye startled her,” Jenny corrected. “She will be fine.”
They turned into the passage Jenny had mentioned, which smelled of beeswax and old lavender. Light fell over it in pale strips from the high windows.
Emma tried to memorize everything she saw along the way. If she was going to know her place in a castle like this, she had better start doing so now.
“Is she often out in the mornings?” she asked. “Lady Isobel.”
“Aye,” Jenny replied. “She believes that it is best to clear one’s head when the dew is still clinging to the grass.”
“And the Laird,” Emma continued, a thought shaping itself as she walked. “Does he think so as well?”
“I am afraid Lady Isobel favors morning walks much more than the Laird,” Jenny said. “He doesnae like to be disturbed, especially in the morning.”
Emma almost said something unwise, again. She bit it back and let the words settle into a place where they could not be heard outside her ribs. She could sense the love and fear they had for their Laird. It wouldn’t help her if her words somehow sowed seeds of discontent.
At the next corner, Jenny slowed down. “This way,” she indicated. “Lady Isobel will be in the gardens by now if she has finished her walk. If she isnae, I will find her.”
“Thank you.”
“Ye are welcome, me Lady.”
They walked on. Emma kept her back straight and her pace even.
Jenny slowed further at the next turn and touched the door with two fingers. “The garden isnae far now.”
“Lead the way.”
The passage opened onto a small patch where the sun reached the stone floor and made it glisten.
Beyond, a low door led to a set of steps.
As they stepped out, they were met with the clean scent of water and cut grass, and the sounds of the yard faded away.
A few bees were pollinating the lavender by the path.
Jenny lifted the lock on the gate and stood aside. “There.”
A woman in a blue dress was walking along the gravel at a brisk pace, head turned toward the line of lilies as if speaking to them. Like Logan, she had thick brown hair that was tied in a low ponytail. Her skin was pale, and her eyes shone bright brown, like she commanded the color herself.
She saw Emma, stopped, and her face lit up. The joy came so quickly that Emma felt it hit her chest before she knew what it was.
“Ye are here!” she exclaimed, hurrying over. “I am Isobel. I am so glad to see ye.”
“Good to meet you, too. I am Emma Hunt—”
“Aye, ye are,” Isobel cut her off, beaming. “Ye look even more bonny than I imagined. Look at yer cheekbones.”
She took Emma’s hand and held it as if meeting a cousin at a fair. Her fingers were warm from walking.
The impulse to draw back rose and faded before Emma could blink, so she remained standing and let her hand be held.
“Jenny, thank ye,” Isobel said over her shoulder.
“Aye, me Lady.” Jenny retreated.
Emma looked around, taking in the view behind Isobel. “You have such a lovely garden here. It looks well taken care of.”
Isobel still did not let go. “Aye, it is. If ye can walk a little, I will show ye everything I have planted here so far.”
They moved along the path that curved past the bee boles. Isobel pointed at each object with the ease of someone who loved naming things.