Chapter 5 #2
Isobel laughed, quick and bright, not in the least wounded. “Ye wish. She has been nothing but kind since she set foot in the castle. Ye will return the courtesy, and if courtesy is too fine a word for ye, call it basic human decency and be done with it.”
He reached for his waistcoat. “Ye are very free with orders.”
“I am free with sense,” she corrected. “Daenae try to ruin this, Logan.”
He let out a breath that took more of the tightness with it than he intended to show. “It is dinner, nae a treaty.”
“It is both,” she said. “Ye treat it that way, and ye might find it feeds more than yer stomach.”
She turned on her heel with the crisp efficiency of a captain who trusted his crew to follow. At the door, she looked back once. Her face had softened.
“And try nae to bleed through yer shirt again, please?” she added. “I doubt anyone here wants to see more blood at dinner.”
“Out,” he said, but there was no bite in it.
She left, satisfied in the way only a sister could be when she had said exactly what she meant to say and believed it would land where it should.
The room took a long breath after she left. Logan stood in the silence and listened to the crackle of the fire. He looked at himself in the mirror. The new bandage held, but the edge of the linen showed where the shirt pulled across his ribs.
He unbuttoned it again, stripped out of it, and checked the line of the stitches with two fingers. No fresh seep. He changed the wrap anyway, tied it a touch tighter, then grabbed another clean shirt from the chest and slid into it with care.
He tried the shoulder, tried the reach, watched the bandages for blood. The white stayed white.
He tied his waistcoat, smooth and flat. He then fixed his collar and tugged the hem.
He grabbed the comb and ran it through his hair, then bound the strands back.
The face in the glass looked like a man who had no time for vanity.
He allowed himself the smallest adjustment to the fall of the fabric at his cuff.
He then closed the bottle, set it straight, and wiped the table once where the old bandages had lain. The habits from his pirating days had stayed with him, no matter how many roofs sat over his head. He still remembered to always clear the space, check the knot, and look to the door.
He drew in that breath now, steady and measured, and let it out slowly. The ache under the wrap had calmed to a level he could withstand without flinching. He picked up the grey coat he reserved for formal events, shook it once, and slid into it.
It was not anything serious, just dinner with a woman who planned to become his wife sometime in the future.
There was nothing to fret about. Absolutely nothing.
Right?
The Great Hall glowed like a held coal, firelight catching along stone and silver such that the room felt warmer than it should. Emma paused at the threshold, the deep blue of her gown picking up the light in a way that steadied her spine.
She knew she was being watched.
The knowledge quickened her pulse and straightened her posture rather than shrinking it. Then she stepped in.
Logan looked up and swept his gaze over her. It was open, assessing, and unashamed. Like he was looking at something he did not know if he liked or not. She felt the attention like a touch along the silk.
“I hope that isnae the gown ye meant to wear to the wedding,” he said.
“It is not,” she said dryly. “That one is for another life.”
He cocked his head, something like approval in the set of his mouth. “Well, this one serves ye.”
Isobel rose from her chair with a brightness that matched the room. “Ye look splendid. Come sit by me, till we put proper food into that stomach of yers, which I assume is likely hungrier than a caged lion by now.”
They took their places. Isobel sat at the other side of the table by habit, with Emma to her right and Logan at the head.
Servants moved with quiet efficiency. A dish of roasted rabbit came first, then bread still warm enough to steam when torn, and a couple of plates of green beans that tasted of summer even in this colder light.
“It is very good,” Emma said, surprised at the clean flavor after weeks of travel food.
“Aye.” Logan nodded. “Since the compliment is coming from an Englishwoman, I will take it with a grain of salt.”
She shot him a glare. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, daenae ask for tea unless ye like it sweet by accident.”
Emma laughed before she could stop herself. “I do like sweet tea.”
“Then ye will be overindulged,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Isobel’s eyes darted between them, which did not escape Emma’s notice. She looked pleased, almost the way a host would once a table found its rhythm.
“Tell me, Emma,” she began. “Is it true that yer people drink tea with salt instead of sugar sometimes?”
“I have not been fortunate enough to witness such a spectacle,” Emma replied. “But you have planted a hopeful thought.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “I believe we have much better things to discuss than the palate of the London elite.”
The conversation soon shifted to safer things.
Emma asked questions about the gardens and heard more childhood stories about Logan.
Isobel could not remember much, and every time she looked to Logan for help in refreshing her memory, he either shut her down or made up a story that made him look good.
“I ken for a fact that didnae happen,” she had interjected when he recounted one of his made-up stories.
“How would ye ken? Ye daenae remember.”
Emma smiled again, watching the exchange between brother and sister. The castle seemed happy enough, and that, for some reason, felt like the minimum she needed.
A while later, Isobel set her cup down with a faint thud and steered the conversation to Emma.
“Emma,” she said, her tone light, “I want to hear the truth from ye. The man ye said ye struck in yer letter, what did he do?”
Emma felt the old heat creep into her cheeks, but she did not look away. She knew this moment was coming and had prepared for it. Yet its abruptness made her stomach lurch.
Isobel seemed to notice her hesitation. “Ye daenae have to answer if ye daenae want to.”
“Nay, I want to,” Emma insisted, her voice clear. “Ye see, that man was fond of speaking about spinsters, and about the gratitude they owe when any man gives them attention.”
“I daenae like him already,” Isobel scoffed.
Emma smiled. “Well, things went south rather quickly. He tried to grab me, and I told him to keep his hands to himself. He did not. I made sure he understood.”
“So ye broke his nose,” Logan said. It was not a question.
“I did not break his nose,” Emma protested, her cheeks flaming scarlet. “I only twisted it a little with my fists. There were witnesses, so he told his version before I could tell mine.”
Logan’s amusement was plain. “He got off easy.”
Well, that was unexpected. She had not expected a man like Logan to express such sentiment. Had she misjudged him?
Emma swallowed and shifted in her seat. Her eyes flicked to Isobel, who looked at her brother over the rim of her cup, studying him. She then set her cup down with care.
“I am exhausted,” she announced in a voice that was not at all tired. “I shall leave ye both to finish. I suspect ye will manage very well without me.”
“Isobel,” Logan warned, giving her a look.
“Play nice,” she said to both of them. She went to Emma and touched her hand. “Welcome, truly.”
Then she left, satisfied with the arrangement of her pieces.
Silence settled, not awkward but charged. Emma sipped her tea, which was delightfully too sweet.
“She seems lovely,” she remarked.
“Aye,” Logan said casually. “She is.”
Emma swallowed and let the silence hang between them. Then she exhaled and looked at him. “You mentioned earlier that there were more rules?”
He set his utensils down, and the air in the room shifted. “Eager to hear them now, are we?”
“I hope one of the rules does not include me doing anything to flatter ye,” Emma said, matching his tone. “What are they, Laird MacLellan?”
If he caught her snark, he didn’t let it show.
“We will lead separate lives where it suits,” he answered. “Rooms and routines that keep the castle running. Ye will have freedom in the keep and on the grounds within the watch. I willnae make a habit of making decisions for ye.”
“Oh, really?” Emma asked, her voice high-pitched. “I am most grateful.”
Logan smirked. “And this is the most important one. Nay feelings. This is an arrangement, and it will always stay so. I daenae offer feelings, and I daenae expect ye to have them.”
She listened attentively without cutting him off. It was easier to hear now that she had eaten. Easier to map where she would draw her own lines.
“Are you done?”
He nodded.
“What about heirs?” she asked. She hated the way her voice roughened on the word. It took effort to speak it. “You are a laird, and you know the pressure put on a man like you when it comes to that. What do you expect there?”
“Routines first. We will speak of heirs when the castle can run smoothly with ye in it.”
“I would prefer that,” she said quietly.
The relief that flooded through her touched something raw. She looked down at her hand and found the cup steadier than it felt.
Logan had not moved his chair, but somehow the distance between them had shrunk. The smirk on his face had also returned.
“What?” she prompted, her voice wavering.
His smirk widened. “Nothing.”
“You clearly have something on your mind, my Laird.”
His voice dropped. “Nothing. Just curious as to why ye daenae want to give me heirs. Am I so repulsive, Lady Emma?”
Her breath caught in her throat. When she looked up, she found him nearer than she had thought, or perhaps she had leaned toward him without realizing it. Heat thrummed in the space between them.
“No,” she said. “You are not.” The truth of it made her pulse quicken. “I just—I just need time.”
He watched, waiting for the rest. She let it come.
“I am not at ease with closeness,” she admitted. “Ever since my mother…” Her voice cracked.
She had said more than she meant to.
Logan did not rush to break the silence. He let it settle over the room as the crackle of the fire filled the space a heartbeat at a time.
She gathered herself and set her cup down with care. “So you know, I have rules as well.”
He shrugged. “I would be surprised if ye didnae.”
“No obedience beyond our agreement, and no control over my movements. Marriage is not a trap. If I have traded one door for another, I will walk back out.”
His mouth curved. “Ye are too feisty for yer own good, ye ken that?”
Yet the words carried respect instead of warning.
“You would not want the other sort,” she said.
Their chairs had not moved, but they felt closer. The firelight climbed his cheekbone and made something in her stomach tighten. He leaned forward a fraction, and she did not lean back. The air around them felt even more charged than before.
“I have faced a few feisty people in me lifetime, and I have found ways to tame them.”
She swallowed and tried to focus on anything except the stubble on his chin. “Have you, now?”
“If I really want to do it, I ken ways to tame ye,” he murmured.
For some reason, his words sounded like an invitation to a game neither of them should start.
Heat spread through her too fast for comfort. She felt it in her hands and along her collarbone. His breath touched the space between them.
She still did not move.
Eventually, she got over herself and plastered a somewhat knowing smile on her face. “We will see.”
She rose before her legs forgot themselves, gathered the blue silk so it would not catch in the chair, and turned. She felt the heat of his gaze on her shoulder blades and made herself walk rather than run.