Chapter 9
Logan did not realize he was tapping his fingers against his thigh until David leaned in close enough that only he could hear his voice.
“Are ye nervous, me Laird?”
The chapel’s courtyard had been dressed with banners and torches, though the sun still held the sky. Clan colors hung against the stone walls, and the benches were filled to the brim with villagers. A low hum of voices carried through the air like wind before a sail caught.
“Why would I be nervous about me own wedding?” Logan scoffed, not lowering his voice.
David’s mouth twitched. “It is fine to be nervous. Especially when one is marrying an Englishwoman.”
Logan shot him a look. “I am nae nervous.”
“Then stop tapping yer fingers, me Laird,” David said mildly. “Ye are giving the crowd a sight.”
Logan looked down, and his hand stilled immediately. He tucked it behind his back, jaw tightening. The weight of the people’s stares pressed on him from every direction.
This was not just any ceremony. It was proof. Proof that the Laird had decided to settle down. Proof that the Laird could settle down. That the MacLellan line would not end with him.
He had faced storms that split masts and men. He had stood with blood on his hands and known he would live because he chose it. He had survived where lesser men broke. Why then did standing here make something shift under his ribs in a way he did not understand?
He could not answer the question because at that exact moment, the doors opened, the creak cutting clean through his thoughts.
Emma stepped into the light, flanked by a woman he hardly recognized and Isobel.
The air left his lungs.
Her gown caught the afternoon sun and answered it. It was blue, deep and vivid, with laces edging the bodice and embroidery tracing the skirt in fine patterns that moved when she did.
The fabric fell around her like it had chosen her shape and not the other way round. The curls on her head slipped from where they had been pinned, soft against her temples. Her cheeks held an almost natural flush, and a gentle smile rested on her mouth.
Logan forgot the crowd.
He forgot David, who was standing just a few feet behind him.
He forgot the torches and banners and the judgment that had weighed so heavily moments ago. His chest tightened in a way no blade had ever managed. She looked like she belonged there. Like she was made for this exact moment.
All of a sudden, he became aware of the clan watching her. He could tell they were measuring and weighing the Englishwoman who would carry their name.
He straightened instinctively, shoulders broad, expression set. No one would doubt his choice or question whether she stood there by his will; that much was clear.
As she drew closer, their eyes locked.
The forest flashed before him without warning, vivid and sharp. He could still feel the cold press of his dagger and the hitch in her breath.
She stopped before him, close enough that he could see the faintest tremor in her lashes. He leaned in slightly, just enough so that only she could hear.
“Ye are beautiful.”
The words left him before he could dress them as some kind of tactic. It was the most honest thing he could have said to her at that moment.
Her lips curved. “Remember that when you are at sea with only men for company.”
A smirk tugged at his mouth.
Challenge accepted.
He let his gaze drift over her once more and imagined the ways he would remind her of this day. The ways he would coax and press and test the fire she guarded so carefully.
The priest cleared his throat at that moment, bringing him back to the present.
The ceremony began, and in a matter of time, vows were exchanged. When Logan bent to kiss her, he did so with restraint. Applause erupted around them, followed by cheers and laughter.
Logan straightened and looked out over his people. His bride stood at his side.
His.
The word settled deep, heavier than he had expected.
Pride filled his chest in a way that was unfamiliar and unguarded. He had claimed her before witnesses.
Wait. He had claimed her.
She was now his. And he had never been known to be careless with what was his.
The cheers soon carried into the Great Hall and grew into music and drums. The wedding celebration was underway, and Logan could see in Emma’s eyes just how fascinated she was by it.
The torches fixed at the corners of the hall threw warm light over the stone walls, and the long tables were laden with delicious food.
Logan stood with Emma at his side and watched the dancers take to the floor. She watched them the way a sailor would watch a current, alert and delighted at once. He watched her watch them.
She leaned closer so she could be heard over the bagpipes. “Is this always how it is?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Ye are watching a Highland celebration unfold.”
Her face was bright with curiosity, and it made her look younger.
“I am satisfied,” she said. “The dances alone would have done it. England is stiff. This feels freer.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Come, we must dance as well.” She reached out her hand.
He looked down at it and then back at her, his eyes narrowed.
“I do not remember not dancing with your wife being one of your rules, Logan.”
Logan exhaled. “Nay, ‘tis nae that. ‘Tis just…”
Music filled the space between them for half a minute.
“It is just what?”
Logan straightened, resting a hand on the hilt of his dagger. “I daenae dance.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Do not or cannot?”
“I am nae answering that.”
Emma blinked. “So the latter, then.”
“I willnae be confirming that as well.”
She suppressed a smile and tucked her hands behind her back as the music filled the space between them again. Logan resisted the urge to do the same because at that moment, she looked like the purest being to land on earth.
“So, you have never danced?”
“Emma—”
“Never ever?”
He shrugged. “Nae many chances to dance when ye are on a ship, lassie.”
Her expression softened. “And ye have been on land for a month or two. Ye have yet to try?”
He cleared his throat, fighting back a blush. “I ken how seriously ye English take yer dances.”
“Yes. We do take them seriously,” she responded, the mischievous edge to her voice more present than ever.
He made a small sound in answer and took the chair that offered the best line to the dance floor. He liked to see the room from angles. Tonight, his eyes kept returning to the one point that mattered.
“Well, I want to dance, Logan. What do we do?” she asked, her hands resting on her hips.
Logan opened his mouth to speak, but David approached at that moment and bowed.
“Me Laird.” He kept his eyes on Logan for the courtesy, then on Emma for the ask. “If I may, Lady MacLellan.”
“Wait, you can dance, David?” she asked, curious.
“I am decent,” David responded, his voice clear.
Emma glanced at Logan, as if waiting for his approval. However, the determined look on her flushed face told him that she would not take no for an answer.
He hesitated a second too long before eventually giving a nod. “Fine.”
Emma accepted David’s hand at once, already moving closer. The pipes swelled, and he led her to the open space and spoke low as he set her hands, left to right, right to left, the simple pattern that would make a stranger feel welcome on a Highland floor.
Logan watched as she watched David’s feet and hands. David spun her once, and the hem of her skirt flared and caught the distant firelight. Her hair escaped its pins and fell around her face. She laughed when she caught the step without looking down.
Logan stayed seated. This was harmless. A man would usually offer his lady to a hall, so the hall would claim her too. David’s hand guided at the waist, then the palm, then the turn. It lingered a breath and lifted.
Perhaps it lingered.
Perhaps Logan imagined it.
Whatever it was, he hated the feeling it stirred in the pit of his stomach.
The music climbed, and she rose to meet it. She moved like she had been born into the measures. Pride shifted into something with more edge. Logan leaned forward without realizing it. A man at the next table glanced up, saw the look on his face, and turned away almost immediately.
Logan returned his gaze to the dance floor.
That is me wife.
The thought came clean and fast.
The clan saw her and saw how easily she fitted. That should have pleased him. So why did something in his chest tighten?
David positioned her for the next figure, and she went with him, light on her feet, her breath quick and her cheeks warm. She tilted her head up when he spoke and answered with a laugh.
The room felt larger and smaller at the same time.
Isobel slid into the seat beside Logan, her eyes following the dance.
“She is great,” she noted with satisfaction. “Ye could have done much worse.”
“I am nae sure about that,” he muttered.
“Perhaps God has decided to punish ye,” Isobel said, smiling. “He sent ye the kindest woman to ever walk this earth.”
He did not take his eyes off the dance floor. “Punishment looks very fine this evening.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “Daenae spoil it.” She patted his arm once and rose. “Enjoy yer wife, Braither.”
She went to hail a friend and left him to his thoughts.
The set moved into its heart as David guided Emma through a tune that crossed and returned.
She learned too quickly for his peace. Her dress lifted and fell, the blue catching more light.
She curtsied and came up smiling and made the turn without a stumble.
David steadied her by the fingers, then the hand, then let go.
Logan hated watching this. And worse, he hated that everyone around him seemed to like it. They liked her, and they liked the way she danced.
He studied his own reaction as if it were a map of a coast he had yet to explore. This was meant to be a convenient arrangement. The plan was to be as detached as possible. Yet, watching her laugh with another man unsettled him more than the weather at sea ever had.
He did not want her silent or small. He did not even want her compliant. He just wanted that look on her face right now turned toward him and him alone.
The music crested and broke, after which applause filled the hall. She curtsied, playful, breathless, and a little flushed. David bowed and stepped back.
She searched the room and found him where he sat. For a second, she looked only at him across the distance and the tables, eyes bright, more of her hair sliding loose from the pins at her temples. He felt the attention as surely as he had felt the cord around his wrist in the chapel.
Did he care more than he wanted to admit?
The question came like a hand to his chest, simple and heavy. He had claimed her before his whole clan. Watching her dance in his hall, laughing and untamed, he saw the harder thing.
Keeping her would demand more than just rules and a ring. He would have to learn her rules.
He would have to learn her.
His fingers curled on the table and uncurled at the realization. Soon, another song would rise, and he would have to watch her dance again. For now, though, everyone could take a break.
David returned her to the table when the song ended. He bowed again. “Thank ye, me Lady.”
“Thank you,” Emma said, panting. She turned to Logan and put her hand on the chair’s armrest before she sat. “You truly do not dance.”
“I truly daenae.”
“Shame,” she said lightly. “You are missing a very good floor.”
His lips quirked up. “I prefer a deck.”
“Of course you do,” she drawled.
Logan did not take the bait. Instead, he watched as she turned to drink some water. The music rose again, and he had no choice but to watch her and David rise for another turn.
Good grief.