Chapter 6
Emma woke up restless and knew at once why. She would really need to get used to waking up in a bed that was not hers or seeing walls that looked almost nothing like her chambers back in London.
She lay for a moment and watched dust catch the sun near the window. It did nothing to settle her.
At that moment, a brisk knock sounded, and Jenny slipped in with a smile.
“Good morning, me Lady. Yer bath is ready.”
Emma pushed up on her elbows. “Is Lady Isobel about?”
“She has gone on her morning walk, I’m afraid.”
“Of course.”
At least the order she had learned the previous day was still true. In the middle of chaos, a constant would be the key to settling her nerves at this point.
Jenny moved around the room, examining the work she must have done before Emma woke up. She checked the hot water, then the cool water, and poured until the steam rose in a steady curl. She set fresh towels near the copper tub and laid a comb and a ribbon on the washstand.
“I will bring more water if ye wish to soak longer,” she said. “But this will keep ye warm meanwhile.”
“I will try not to take forever,” Emma said, and tried not to hear the edge in her own voice.
Jenny gave her a look that said time was not a sin and left her to the bath.
Steam gathered until the mirrors fogged. Emma eased into the water and let it soothe some of the ache from traveling uneven paths. She washed slowly, careful around the pins that had held her hair on the journey and through the first day here.
The water did not wash away her rampant thoughts, though. It only softened the edges enough to examine them.
Dinner last night had left a mark that she wasn’t certain would disappear quickly. She could still hear the silence after Isobel left, and could still see the look in Logan’s eyes when he listened to her speak.
Her skin flushed in embarrassment as her mind flashed to the question she had asked Logan. The one about heirs.
Why in God’s name would you even do that?
She thought of how she had nearly let him kiss her because her body had not wanted to move. She submerged to her chin and held, then rose and tried to control her breathing.
Soon, she dried off and reached for the gown Jenny had laid across the bed.
The blue one from last night was folded, ready to be brushed and hung.
Today’s dress was a darker green, with a small sheen that suited the light.
She put it on and tied the laces snugly.
The bodice sat right, and the low end fell clean.
She stood in front of the mirror and examined herself. The woman looking back was not grand in any shape or form. She looked composed. Like a proper Scottish lady.
Jenny came back with a small pot of pomade and stood behind her.
“If ye will sit for a moment,” she said. “I can help with yer hair and pin it up properly.”
Emma sat down, and Jenny worked with brisk hands, smoothing flyaways, turning the front of her hair smooth, and letting the back fall down her shoulders.
“Thank you,” Emma said as Jenny tied the last ribbon.
“Ye are welcome,” Jenny returned, pleased. “Shall I wait?”
“No. Give me a few minutes.”
Jenny bowed her head and left. The chamber felt larger when the door closed.
Emma moved to the window and pushed the wooden shutters open with care. The air came in clean and settled perfectly on her face. Her eyes scanned the view below.
For some reason, it looked like it reached farther than it had the night she had arrived, when all she could see was stone and wood. From here, she saw the gates, the run of the wall, a strip of clay packed fresh between two courses.
That must be where the battle had taken place. The repairs were evident.
She spotted the path out of the castle and into the woods. Isobel had told her how much she loved the path the previous day, and the view looked nothing short of magical from here.
She thought of her father and wondered how long he would wait to hear from her. She thought of Melody and Aunt Agnes and the letter she had promised to send. She would write today.
Or tomorrow.
Whenever she was able to.
She closed the window and smoothed her skirt, then she turned and headed towards the door, now in a mood to greet the day with joy and smiles. Her hand shook as she reached for the knob, twisted it, and pulled the door open.
Only to see him.
Him.
He was standing on the threshold.
“Christ!” She pulled back half a step, her skirts brushing her shins.
Logan did not move. He stood with one hand tucked behind his back, as if he were not bothered.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?”
He cocked his head. “A lovely morning to ye too, Lady Emma.”
Emma felt her heartbeat steady, before the next words escaped her lips. “How long have you been there?” she asked, and was glad the words sounded like hers.
“Long enough to hear yer steps,” he said. “It seems ye walk a bit lighter when ye are on yer own. Is that a conscious decision?”
Her stomach tightened despite herself, but she ignored his question. “Ye scared me.”
His gaze flicked to the neckline of her dress and down her bodice. The smallest smirk appeared and then went away again. She could almost feel his gaze where it lingered. It bothered her, and she hated that she could not hide it with a laugh.
“Ye look great,” he complimented, his eyes returning to her face.
His scent reached her before he closed another inch. Sandalwood and the faintest hint of soap. It unsettled her because it suggested care she had not expected from him.
“How is your wound?” she asked, in a bid to break the silence.
“Healing. Ye will see nay blood today.”
She let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. He heard it, and that annoyed her.
“You have yet to answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“I came to give ye the news. The wedding is in two days,” he announced.
She narrowed her eyes. “Is that all?”
He nodded.
“That cannot be all you came for.”
“It is.”
“You could have sent a maid.”
He tilted his head. “Is there a problem with my coming here?”
She fought the urge to step back. “No.”
“What is the problem, then?” he asked, closing the space by a small, deliberate margin. “What about me is intimidating?”
“I never said you were intimidating,” she scoffed.
He moved closer again with the care of a man testing a rope. “Does it bother ye when I stand this close?”
Emma gave in and took a step back. “No.”
“Really?” He took another step. “How about… this close?”
She lifted a hand and put her palm on his chest. The heat under the linen surprised her. He was solid beneath his shirt in a way that stirred unsettling thoughts. The beat under her hand was steady.
Sensation flooded faster than sense. For a second, she forgot what she had meant to say and only knew how his body felt against her skin.
“Are ye enjoying yerself?” he asked.
The question held enough humor to unbalance her.
Mortified, she dropped her hand quickly. “I did not mean to,” she said too quickly. “I apologize.”
He laughed, a low sound that belonged to him more than his smile. “I told ye I would tame ye,” he murmured. “It may nae be as hard as I thought.”
She felt the heat in her face and hated it. She straightened her spine, found the iron she had promised herself, and injected it into her voice. “Then know that you have competition.”
He leaned close enough that she felt his warmth on her cheek. “Do ye want to wager?”
Her breath caught. She could see the color at the edge of his irises and a small line at the corner of his eye that meant he knew exactly what he was doing, that he had her where he wanted her.
He did not touch her, and yet the lack of touch felt heavier than contact.
“Logan—”
He stepped back, and the distance felt like a decision he had made long before she opened the door.
“Join me for breakfast later,” he said. “If ye like.”
He turned away, and the hallway swallowed him without a fuss.
Emma stood there, her hand still tingling from the heat, the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air.
Fury rose clean and fast. At him for arriving at her door at first light as if she belonged to his schedule. At herself for melting like a girl who had never stood in a church.
She clenched her teeth and spoke to the empty hallway, “If you want to play this game, my Laird, we will play.”
She stepped back into her chamber and shut the door with care.
For the rest of the day, she made a conscious effort to avoid Logan. When she met him in a corridor, she would tip her head in a manner that did not invite talk. Once, when she rounded the corner to the small hall, she found him speaking with a man who looked like he had been traveling for miles.
Her heart stuttered and recovered. She turned on her heel and went back the way she had come, step even, breathing steady, face composed.
Jenny looked at her, and Emma could tell the maid had a lot of questions. A part of her was grateful that she did not ask.
Two days before the wedding, she went to the study with a box of paper and a quill. Melody would receive a letter that told enough of the truth without making her come to Scotland with a broom.
Emma also planned to write to Aunt Agnes and let her know that she was thriving here. That was all they needed to know. The rest would not help them or even her. They did not need to know just how arrogant her future husband was or how his presence made her feel giddy.
The door to the outer passage opened without much sound. She did not move from her seat or look up. Voices found the room, as if the men had brought the air with them. David’s calm voice. Logan’s low one. They spoke of names that meant little to her beyond their hardness. MacTavish and MacRae.
Emma did not announce her presence. A bookcase near the window gave her cover. She watched through the space between leather spines and saw that Logan heard more than he said. He asked a question and then stood still while David answered.