Chapter 13
The next morning, Emma watched as Jenny moved around her chamber with quiet steps, setting water to warm and laying out fresh linen. The morning felt still in a way she could not name. It felt quiet.
No music, no pipes, no faint clatter from the hall yet, only the soft slosh of water in the copper and the scrape of tin against stone.
“Yer bath will be ready in a moment, me Lady,” Jenny said. “Did ye sleep well?”
“I slept,” Emma answered.
It was not a lie, not entirely. Sleep had come in broken pieces, threaded through with the memory of Logan’s hands and the click of the door when he left.
Jenny moved the kettle with care. “Ye will feel better once the steam has had its way with ye. It settles the head.”
“Thank you, Jenny. Are you going to the apothecary today?” Emma asked, keeping her tone light.
Jenny looked up at her. “Aye. The castle’s healer is away for a bit. She went up the hill for roots, so I must tend the sick till she is back.”
“I see.”
Something in Emma’s chest tightened. The idea of sickness had never sat well with her. Too much blood, too many stories of fevers that did not break. Still, the thought of remaining in her chamber and waiting for a husband who was considering leaving her in a few days terrified her even more.
“Is it very busy?”
“There are always a few,” Jenny replied. “Children with coughs. Old bones that ache. Folks who waited too long to ask for a draught.”
Emma nodded and looked toward the window. The light outside was pale. Logan should already be at breakfast, grousing about the tea or avoiding her eyes or something.
Anything.
“Yer bath, me Lady,” Jenny said gently.
Emma took off her nightdress, the memory of the previous night clinging to her skin like invisible sweat, and stepped into the bathtub. The hot water drew the stiffness from her limbs, but it did nothing for the nagging prickle of unease.
When she dressed, she chose a gown that felt sensible rather than grand. She was no longer a bride. There was no reason to keep acting like one.
She left her chamber with her chin high and her hands loose at her sides.
The breakfast room carried the warm smell of porridge and fresh bread.
Servants moved between tables, their voices mingling in a low hum.
Emma stepped inside and saw the empty chair before she saw anything else.
Logan’s place at the head of the table was vacant, a knife and cup waiting, his chair undisturbed.
Isobel sat to one side, speaking with a grey-haired woman who had the air of someone who had attended every wedding the castle had ever hosted. When Isobel looked up and spotted Emma, her face lit up.
“Good morning, Lady MacLellan,” she called. “Come sit.”
Emma walked to the table and sat across from the empty chair. His absence tugged at her heart.
“Good morning,” she greeted. “Has everyone been up long?”
“Half the castle was up before dawn,” Isobel said. “Yer friend Melody and her husband had to leave earlier this morning because of some engagement three villages over. They said they would check on ye again.”
Emma took a spoonful for the sake of doing something with her hands. “I see.”
“I like her, ye ken,” Isobel added, her voice clear. “She has spirit, like ye. Ye daenae marry a laird without that.”
Emma laughed, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or a warning about what might come next. “And where is my husband this morning?”
Isobel’s smile dimmed. “He left at first light. He was expected at the shore. He didnae tell ye?”
Emma blinked. “He is gone?”
Isobel nodded, tutting. “Very typical of Logan to set out to shore and nae tell his wife.”
Emma swallowed. “But… he did not even say goodbye.”
Isobel lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “That is how Logan operates. He thinks it’s kinder to leave clean than to linger.”
“I see.” Emma set down her spoon carefully. The porridge had turned to a lump in her mouth.
Disappointment sharpened into something that felt very much like an insult. She reminded herself that they had agreed to lead separate lives. That he had never promised devotion, only wealth and safety.
More safety for her reputation than anything.
Living separate lives did not require tenderness, but it required some basic courtesy. He should have given her that by letting her know he was leaving.
Why didn’t he tell her? It was not like she could stop him anyway.
Isobel watched her for a moment, then tried for lightness. “I hadnae realized ye wanted him around.”
Emma bristled. “I do not. It is just rude to leave without a word. Even pirates can manage a farewell.”
The maid at the end of the table hid a smile as she rearranged a few cups.
Isobel’s eyes softened. “He is rough around the edges, I will grant ye that.”
Emma traced the rim of her bowl with a finger. “Can I ask you something?”
Isobel nodded
“How does a laird’s heir end up with a pirate crew in the first place?” Emma asked, keeping her tone curious rather than accusatory. “Was his father that free with his children that he let them do whatever they wanted?
Isobel hesitated. Her fingers traced the handle of her own cup. “He wasnae always welcome here,” she revealed. “Things were… different when our faither was still alive.”
She did not elaborate.
The ensuing pause felt weighted. Emma sensed that if she pressed, she would step on pain that was not ready to heal just yet. So instead, she let the question rest.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Isobel gave her a grateful look for not digging deeper. “He will be back,” she assured her. “He always comes back.”
Emma nodded her head and finished what she could manage of the porridge, even though her stomach had no interest in it. The empty chair lingered at the edge of her vision. She refused to look at it again.
When she rose, she caught sight of David standing near the wall, half in shadow. His posture was relaxed, but the position was no coincidence.
He asked him to watch me.
The guilt that flashed across his face confirmed that.
Jenny appeared later at her elbow with a cloth to wipe the table. “If ye are finished, me Lady, I will ask the younger maids to come clear the dishes.”
Emma looked from Jenny to David and back. “Are you still heading to the apothecary?”
“Aye. Folks will be waiting.”
“Then I would like to go with you.”
Jenny blinked. “With me, me Lady?”
“Yes.” Emma kept her voice even. “I have time, and I would like to see more of the village.”
Jenny hesitated. “It isnae like the gardens, me Lady. People are ill there. It isnae a place for ye to—”
“I am aware sick people are not decorative,” Emma cut in, more sharply than she had intended. She softened her voice at once. “I just want to see. I want to help if I can.”
Jenny searched her face, then gave a small nod. “As ye wish.”
They crossed the yard together, and Emma could hear David’s footsteps behind them, not close enough to crowd but not far enough to ignore either. She stopped and turned.
“It is fine,” she said. “I do not need an escort to the apothecary.”
“With respect, me Lady, ye do,” David replied. “The Laird was clear. I am to keep ye in me sight when ye are outside the castle walls.”
“I am not heading into battle,” Emma protested. “I am going to a small house where people cough and ask for herbs. I doubt the feverish elderly are planning to assassinate me.”
“The Laird didnae specify the age or health of enemies.” David’s tone stayed polite, but his determination was obvious. “Only that there may be some.”
Emma stared at him. The urge to argue pressed against a different understanding. Logan had left, but he had left this. A guard whose loyalty was not hers. A shadow that belonged to his orders.
“I will not be followed like a child,” she insisted. “It is important that I move freely.”
“Then I will stay near and out of sight. But I will stay.”
The compromise hung in the air.
Emma let out a slow breath. “Very well. Nearby, not hovering.”
“Aye, me Lady.”
They walked on, and by the time they reached the village, David had drifted wide, choosing spots where he could watch them without intruding.
Jenny took Emma down a narrow path between low houses until they reached a small building that leaned a little to the side. The smell of herbs and smoke met them at the door, thick and a bit pleasant.
“Welcome to the apothecary, me Lady,” Jenny said and led her in.
Inside, shelves lined the walls, laden with jars, while bundles of dried plants hung from beams. A low fire burned under a black pot, and two narrow cots held patients. On one, an old man slept, breath whistling. On the other cot, a woman lay awake, eyes tired, skin too warm.
Jenny moved at once, setting down her basket and checking the pot. “I am here,” she said to the room. “Ye didnae think I would forget ye now, did ye?”
Emma stood by the door for a heartbeat, taking it all in. The air felt heavy with care.
“What can I do?” she asked.
Jenny looked up, startled. “Nothing, me Lady. Ye neednae trouble yerself.”
Emma stepped forward. “I asked how I can help.”
The woman on the cot tried to push herself up. “We are fine, me Lady. Ye sit and keep clear. Nay need to ruin yer fine dress.”
Emma moved to her side and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I have more than one dress,” she assured. “Please, lie back. Or else you will make Jenny’s work harder.”
The woman sank down with a faint laugh.
Jenny hesitated, then surrendered. “If ye are set on it, ye can wet the cloths and keep them cool. Lay them on their heads and wrists. It helps when the fever runs wild.”
“I can do that,” Emma said.
She fetched a bowl of water from the corner and dipped cloth after cloth in it, before wringing them out and pressing them to warm skin. The old man did not stir when she touched his forehead, and the woman smiled weakly when the cool rag met her brow.
“Thank ye,” she murmured. “I didnae expect hands so gentle from the Laird’s wife.”
“I did not expect to find such stubborn patients,” Emma quipped.