Chapter 22
Afew hours later, Emma carried the cat as far as the top of the stairs, the footmen right behind her with a giant chest of drawers.The catr had fallen asleep against her by then, soft and heavy for something so small. Its claws kept catching on the front of her dress when she got to Logan’s door.
She stopped and looked down at the bundle of fur.
“Well, Lord Whiskerfield, you cannot come into the room with me,” she murmured. “I cannot let you see the fight that would most definitely ensue.”
She looked around and spotted a low bench against the wall, with a folded cloak on it. She set the cat carefully on the cloak. It blinked once, curled itself into a tighter ball, and went straight back to sleep.
Emma stroked a hand over its back. “Good kitty,” she cooed. “Try not to make me regret keeping you, do you understand?”
The two footmen waited a few paces away with the chest on the cart, trying not to stare at the Laird’s door as if it might bite them.
“Ready, me Lady?” the taller one asked.
“Yes,” Emma said.
The warmth of the cat lingered on her fingers. She curled them into her palms and pushed the door open.
Logan’s chamber smelled of smoke and wool. His bed was a mess, blankets thrown aside. One boot lay upside down near the fireplace, as if he had kicked it off and decided that was far enough. A shirt hung over the back of a chair, still wet from washing.
Steam slipped from the half-open door at the far end.
“Bring the chest in,” Emma ordered. “Set it near that wall. His chest can be moved later, but I prefer my things where I can reach them.”
They rolled the cart forward, wheels rumbling over the stone. She walked toward the steam.
The bathing chamber was lit by a few candles near the floor, and the light turned the water in the tub golden. Logan lay in it, arms stretched along the rim, head tipped back. His hair was slicked back from his face, and his eyes were closed.
For a moment, she simply watched.
Oh.
There was a strip of cloth on his side, pale against his skin. Water slid over his chest, traced the rise of muscle and the dip of old scars, then broke at the edge of the bandage. His knees poked out of the surface, solid and easy, as if the tub had been built for him.
Emma’s throat went tight.
She knocked her knuckles lightly against the doorframe. “Good morning,” she said. “I thought you would be preparing for your journey to the shore by now.”
His eyes opened, and they went straight to her face, then past her shoulder to the shadows of the footmen, then back.
“What are ye doing here?” he asked.
“I am moving in,” she announced. “These are my chambers as well. I am tired of sleeping down the corridor as if I am visiting an uncle for the summer.”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “And ye brought a small army to help.”
“It is just two men and a chest.” She shrugged. “Hardly an invasion. I am hanging tapestries here. The walls are miserable.”
“Emma—”
“I am thinking lilac above the bed. Or soft green, whichever works better against the light. Your chest, of course, will be moved to the far wall. Mine is being moved to this one. I like the light from that window.”
Behind her, a footman cleared his throat, trying to make himself invisible.
Logan did not look away from her. “Ye are giving orders in me room while I am naked in a tub.”
“What was the alternative?” Emma asked. “Wait till you were gone?”
His mouth twitched. He did not raise his voice. He did not even sit up. He simply cleared his throat and summoned his authority.
“Everybody out.”
The words drifted through the doorway, and both footmen flinched. They pushed the chest into place so fast that it nearly bumped the wall, then hurried out of the room, the door closing behind them.
Silence ensued.
Emma refused to budge, not even when the steam pressed against her skin.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose that saves me having to explain the wallpaper to an audience. I shall come back when you are in the mood to—”
“Stop.”
She halted in the middle of turning
“Ye’re nae going anywhere.”
She frowned. “Pardon?”
“Ye heard me right, wife. I didnae ask ye to leave.”
Her heart thumped hard against her ribs. She did not let it show on her face. She stepped fully into the bathing chamber and let the door slide nearer to the frame, leaving a crack.
“We can discuss this room like adults,” she said. “I intend to live in it. That is all.”
Logan shifted in the water, and she watched as droplets slid down his arms.
“Ye intend to live in it,” he repeated. “That is a fine way to put it. Ye have yer own chambers. A bed. A maid. Ye have more than most women who come here.”
“And yet this is the room that reminds me I am married,” she said firmly. “You will forgive me if I grow tired of walking past it and feeling like a stranger.”
He watched her as she spoke, and she hated that she could not tell what he was thinking. His eyes were dark in the candlelight, reflecting only the flames back at her.
“Is that what this is?” he asked quietly. “Ye think I am somehow erasing ye?”
“You sent them away. Every trace of laughter I managed to put into this place. You did not even have the courtesy to be there when it happened.”
His jaw flexed once, then stilled. “I sent the beasts to where beasts belong. The hall is for people.”
“It is a pity you are not often in it, then,” she shot back.
He released a short breath that might have been a laugh if it had contained any humor. Then he rose.
Emma looked away immediately.
He reached for the tartan on a peg, but her eyes remained fixed on a crack in the stone wall. Anything but his glistening skin.
Anything but his naked body.
She cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks burn hotly. Even though she could not see him, she could tell just from his demeanor that he was enjoying this. He was enjoying making her flustered, even if he had to be completely naked to do it.
The thought made her stomach turn.
That bastard.
He wrapped the kilt high around his waist, and when he turned back, his hair was still dripping.
She returned her gaze to him, still careful not to look too hard at his arms and chest. She was careful not to notice the droplets that trickled from his shoulder to the edge of the bandage on his side.
Or even the hairs on his chest and his erect nipples.
Christ. Emma!
“How long do ye think ye can keep doing this?” he asked.
Emma blinked. “Do what?”
“Ye push. Ye bring beasts into me hall, ye turn me stables into a carnival, ye move chests into me chambers, all while telling me it is about yer position in the castle, when we both ken it is something much more.”
“There is no deeper meaning.” Her hands had curled into fists without her noticing, and she opened them. “And it is about me not feeling as if I vanish every time you step out of a door.”
“So,” he drawled, “it is about me.”
She wanted to deny it, but the lie stuck in her throat.
“You are the one who leaves,” she retorted. “I am trying to find the light in this situation.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. It made heat rise again between her shoulder blades.
“Ye want me to see ye,” he said. “That is all this noise is.”
“I want my husband to notice that I am in his home. That is hardly a wild demand.”
He closed the distance between them in three steps, and she felt the edge of the bedstand at the back of her calves.
His hand came up and caught her wrist, not hard, but firm enough that she could not pretend she could pull away easily.
His thumb stroked over the inside of her wrist where her pulse fluttered.
“There,” he said softly. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
She glared up at him. “You are enjoying this.”
“A little,” he admitted. “Ye draw attention to yerself with animals and cloths. Ye kent I would come storming back. Ye wanted me angry. Ye wanted me here.”
“I wanted you not gone,” she corrected. “There is a difference.”
“Is there?” he asked.
“Yes, there is, my Laird.”
He lifted her hand higher between them. The position made her step closer. She could feel the heat of his body through the small gap between them.
“Ye say ye want color,” he said. “But what ye truly want is consequence. Ye want to poke and see what I will do. Ye want me to prove that I am here.”
“There you go,” she scoffed. “Flattering yourself again.”
“I make it sound honest.”
His other hand found her hip, and her breath caught.
No, no, no, no, no.
“Let go,” she demanded.
“Something tells me ye daenae want me to.”
She hated that the answer in her body did not match the answer in her head.
“Ye want to ken what I think?”
“Something tells me you will tell me anyway.”
“I think,” he whispered, his hand sliding up her back, “that ye deserve to be punished.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Ye deserve to be taught that yer actions have consequences.”
“This is not about punishment,” she protested. “This is about me taking my place.”
“Then stand still and take it.”
The words shook her in a way she did not expect.
The argument did not vanish. It sank lower, beneath the place where his thumb pressed on her pulse and his palm rested on her hip. Her body knew him now; that was the trouble. The paths he could draw with his hands. The way his voice could drop and scrape along her spine.
“Logan,” she breathed.
“Aye.”
“I—I do not think this is a good idea. I do not—”
“Relax,” he said, before his mouth came down on hers, hard and demanding.
She made a noise in the back of her throat and leaned into him, hands coming up to his chest.
He pulled back and stared at her, the hunger in his eyes plain. “This is a punishment, remember?”
Then he kissed her again, this time slower and deeper. His tongue swept past her lips, and she tasted ale. As she started to melt into it, he pulled away again.
“Logan—”
“Shh. It’s nae the time to talk.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the bed. She stumbled after him.
“You cannot just—”