Chapter 5
Emma sighed as Jenny led her up the last turn and opened a door into a chamber washed with late light. Fire crackled in the grate. The bed had been turned back, and a sprig of rosemary lay on the pillow. A copper tub stood near the hearth, and folded linens lay on a stool.
“This is rather beautiful,” she said. “Ye did great work, Jenny.”
“Aye.” Jenny beamed at the praise. “If ye need the window open, say so. The draught can be a wee brute at this hour.”
“It is perfect as it is.”
Jenny moved through the room with easy competence, checking the jug on the washstand, straightening a chair by the fireplace, setting a comb where it would be reached without searching.
“Is London as loud as folk say?” she asked, her curiosity bright. “Do the streets ken yer step before ye take it?”
Emma smiled. “Loud, yes. And crowded. You learn to look far ahead to keep from colliding with everyone’s plans.”
“Do ye think ye will miss it?”
“Some parts,” Emma admitted. “Other parts I am happy to leave.”
Jenny nodded, accepting that answer as complete. “We had a peddler once who swore the lamps there burn all night without a priest’s blessing. I told him he was a liar, and he laughed and sold us a cracked mirror.”
“That does sound like London,” Emma said, a laugh bubbling up her throat.
Jenny hesitated, then looked up with a frankness that did not feel sharp. “May I ask ye something, me Lady?”
“You may.”
“I heard ye punched a man in England.”
The words landed hard, and Emma’s hand stilled on the back of the chair. The heat of old humiliation rose to her face, and memories flashed through her mind. The corridor, the noise that followed, the way her name had gone around like a coin everyone wanted to touch.
She forced herself to breathe. “Yes.”
Jenny tilted her head. “Did he do something to deserve it?”
Emma blinked. The question was so simple that it broke something open. “He absolutely did.”
“Good,” Jenny uttered with a laugh.
It was not grand defense or soft pity. It was a verdict. The acceptance was so unstudied that Emma felt her shoulders relax and her lips curl into a smile.
“Thank you.”
“Aye,” Jenny said, as if they had settled a household matter.
She went to the door and called for water, then came back to the tub and checked the temperature of the copper.
“We will have ye bathed and dressed before the bell. It rings once for the hall and twice for the small room when the Laird eats there. If he says ‘the hall,’ we go grand. If he says ‘quiet,’ we keep it neat and fast.”
“So, which is tonight?”
“We are going grand,” Jenny replied.
Emma nodded. “Then I will be ready.”
Jenny laid out a clean shift on the bed and a dark gown beside it. “This one will do till we speak with the seamstress. If ye prefer another one, I can fetch it.”
“I do have a dress that I intend to wear tonight,” Emma said. “But thank you once again, Jenny. You have been very kind.”
“It is me work,” Jenny said, but pride warmed the words. “I will leave ye to yer bath and come back when the water needs topping or when the bell rings.”
“Thank you, Jenny.”
Jenny bobbed a curtsy and left, the door closing on a small eddy of cooler air.
Emma stood for a beat and let herself breathe. The room felt like a place meant for a person, not a punishment. The castle no longer pressed quite so hard against her edges.
And all it took was a few hours with people. Perhaps she should write to Melody and let her know that she was all right. She would do that much later, though.
She undressed and slid into the bath, the warmth taking her with a relief that shook her once and then made her relax.
For a few minutes, she let the water do the work. When her thoughts rose, they went where they wanted: to the study, to the set of Logan’s shoulders, to the rules he listed, to the provocative way he spoke to her.
She sank once, wetting her hair, and came up with her face toward the fire. She would be ready when the bell rang.
It was only dinner anyway. What could possibly go wrong?
Logan wiped a clear oval with the back of his hand and set his mouth while the reflection steadied. The steam still clung to the edges of the glass his hands could not reach, though.
The cut ran along his ribs, clean now, the edges closed by a line of neat stitches that pulled when he took deep breaths.
He snatched a bottle of spirits from the shelf and poured a little on a folded cloth.
The sting bit deep. He counted to five, then pressed again, careful, precise, the way he had learned to do in a cabin with a lantern swinging and a crewman gritting his teeth beside him.
“Ye have to give yerself time to heal,” he could almost hear the healer saying in her commanding tone as she handed him the bottle. “This is a deep wound, nae a cut ye can just abandon and hope the skin around it grows, me Laird.”
Well, clearly it wasn’t.
He sighed and looked away from the glass.
The old bandages lay on the table, dark in places and white in others.
He slid a clean wrap under his arm and around his back, then drew it tight and tested the pull.
Unwilling to take more chances, he drew it tighter, then tied a flat knot where it would not rub against the hem of his shirt.
“God!” he groaned, the ache throbbing beneath his ribs.
He rolled his shoulders anyway and finished tying the bandages. Outside the window, the light had disappeared and was now reduced to a dull and somewhat peaceful grey. The kind he only began to find relaxing when he started living on land.
He reached for a fresh linen shirt and had just slipped his arm through a sleeve when the door flew wide open and Isobel barged in with the speed of a small storm that had chosen a single target. She did not stop at the threshold or lower her voice for the sake of his walls.
Logan turned to look at her, his eyebrow raised in both confusion and mild upset. “Well, come in. Daenae let me stop ye.”
Isobel ignored his joke. “What in God’s name do ye think ye are doing?”
He kept one arm in the sleeve and looked over his shoulder at her. “What does it look like? I am dressing.”
“That is nae what I’m talking about, and ye ken it,” she huffed, taking in the table, the stained bandages, the new ones. “Emma is a delight.”
“Uh—”
“A delight! I just finished talking with her.”
“I daenae ken why ye had to—”
“Why did ye behave like a brute?”
Behind her, David stood with a ledger under his arm. He had the good sense to look down at the floor. “I will step out,” he muttered. “We can speak about the stores before bed.”
“Aye, that is a fine idea,” Isobel agreed without turning. “Out with ye.”
David gave Logan a look that seemed to say, I prefer climbing ladders to this, and slipped through the door. The lock clicked, and Isobel planted herself a few paces closer to her brother. She then folded her arms as if she meant to pin him in place with her stare.
Logan finished pulling the shirt over his head and set to work fastening the buttons. “What did ye wish me to do?” he asked. “Ask to take her shoes and comb her hair?”
“I wish ye would make an effort for a woman who crossed countries for ye.”
Logan laughed, a low guttural sound. “Ye have met Emma. Do ye still think she is the kind of woman that can be made to do anything?”
Isobel threw her hands up in despair. “The least ye could do was show her some kindness.”
“I was kind. As kind as one could be to an Englishwoman.”
Isobel narrowed her eyes at him, then stepped closer and jabbed two fingers into his chest. “Ye think I daenae see ye, do ye nae? Ye put on that cold face and make yerself an iron wall because ye are afraid of the part ye cannae control. It doesnae make ye look strong. It makes ye look like a man who would rather chase kindness away than owe it a single inch.”
“I am being meself,” he insisted. “Folk already ken me as the arrogant Pirate Laird. I daenae have to try to earn that name. It comes to me, whether I ask for it or nae.”
“Oh, please, daenae play coy with me, Logan,” she scoffed. “I ken what ye are doing. Ye are trying to scare her away so ye willnae have to show her any part of ye that isnae listed in a ledger or mentioned in rumors.”
He snorted. “Ye think a bunch of rumors will frighten an English lady who walked into this yard despite the tales they tell of me.”
“Me point still stands. The woman came here to confront ye. If anything, that already makes her stand out. I would hate to watch ye throw her—this—away because of some pride ye have refused to shelve for a few minutes.”
“Oh well, I believe I was kind enough. Even kinder than I usually am. Ye should have seen her face back in the study. She looked very angry.”
“I daenae blame her,” Isobel said. “It had to be what drove her here in the first place. I am guessing she didnae receive the letter ye sent her.”
Logan shook his head.
A minute of silence passed before he opened his mouth to speak again.
“I willnae lie to her, if that is what ye are asking, Isobel.”
“Nay one is asking ye to lie,” Isobel responded, her tone harsher than she must have intended. “I am only asking ye to start being nice to her. Ye want her to flinch so ye can say, See? I was right to keep the door shut. I willnae let ye do it.”
He met her eyes and held them. “Ye willnae let me?”
“Aye,” she replied, calm as a judge. “Ye will attend dinner, and ye will behave like a perfect gentleman. Ye will speak to her as if she is a person and nae a plan to get the council off yer back. Ye will listen to her when she answers. Yer future wife isnae a nail in a wall. She is a woman with a life ye are asking to tie to yer own.”
He narrowed his eyes. “She has ye ensnared already. English witchcraft must be a real thing.”