Chapter 23
Later that afternoon, Emma stepped into the yard with the cat cradled against her chest. The air felt too bright, and the sky was a hard blue. Her skin still tingled, and every step reminded her of Logan’s hands in the steaming bathing chamber, his voice close to her ear, his body hot against hers.
She tried to convince herself that it did not matter, but the flush in her cheeks said otherwise.
Isobel sat on the low bench near the pens as if she had been set there and forgotten. Her cloak spread over the stone, and her boots were planted. She had tied her hair back with a strip of cloth that did not match her dress.
The animals drifted around her in a slow knot. The calf especially stood beside her knee with its head lowered, blinking slowly. She had the dog in her lap, and her fingers scratched under its chin.
Possessiveness surged through Emma.
Mine.
Then she remembered that she had stolen it first.
She forced herself to smile as she crossed the yard. A few servants lingered near the well, their buckets swinging faster than they needed to.
Isobel looked up, and her mouth curved at once. “Well, look at ye. “Ye survived.”
Emma stopped a few paces away. “Of course I survived,” she said. Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. “Why would I nae?”
“Oh, ye ken. Logan can get carried away when he’s scolding people.”
Emma coughed, and the flush immediately returned to her cheeks. “Well, that is one way to put it.”
She did not need to say more because the look on Isobel’s face turned into shock, then confusion, then curiosity.
“Did he scold ye too badly?” Isobel asked, her tone sitting somewhere between wicked and pleased.
Emma’s hands tightened on the cat. “It bothers me that you want to know.”
Isobel shrugged. “Ye both have been the castle’s source of entertainment for days now. But aye, I suppose some things are off limits.”
She shifted on the bench and gestured for Emma to take a seat next to her.
The afternoon air grazed Emma’s dress as she took the offer, and the cat nuzzled gently against her inner elbow.
“Logan is…” The first word came out too sharp. She softened her voice. “He is confusing. He says one thing and does another. He leaves. He returns. He argues. He kisses. I have not yet decided if he is a man or a lesson the fates want me to learn.”
Isobel chuckled, and the calf flicked an ear. “Go on,” she urged. “Daenae stop now.”
“Again, Isobel, you should not enjoy this,” Emma said, playful concern crossing her face for a minute. “We are speaking about your brother.”
“That is why I enjoy it,” Isobel said, stroking the dog’s back. “For months now, I have been the only one saying such things. It is pleasant to have help.”
Emma’s lips twitched despite herself. The heat in her cheeks did not lessen.
“They are not only words,” she continued. “He is impossible. One moment, he is cold; the next, he is not. I do not like how he treats the castle as if it were a board and everyone else as pieces he can move.”
Isobel ran her hand along the dog’s side, her eyes bright. “And ye told him this?”
“Not like that. Would you mind a walk? I am sorry, but I am too upset to sit still.”
Isobel gently laid the dog on the ground and rose to her feet. “We do not want to have that now, do we?”
Emma stood up as well, and soon, they began to walk along the edge of the yard. The cat craned its head in protest at the change and settled again when she tucked it close. The dog, on the other hand, leaped up at once and trotted after them with its tail wagging.
“It is really confusing,” Emma said. “He looks at me and acts as if he already knows what I will say, then he twists it until I am nodding. I set out to argue, and somehow I am agreeing. That is not fair.”
“Ye married a laird who has spent half his life shouting orders at men on a deck,” Isobel reminded her. “What did ye expect? A man who begs pardon every time he opens his mouth?”
Emma turned on her heel. The dog had come closer than she realized, almost walking into her.
“Watch yourself,” she said, her voice low.
It leapt into the air in response, and Isobel laughed. One of the maids near the well hid a smile behind her hand.
Emma felt the flush in her cheeks deepen.
“This is not amusing,” she protested, jerking her arm back on instinct.
“Of course it is,” Isobel snorted. “Look at ye.”
“I would rather not,” Emma huffed.
She kept moving, but each time she turned, the animals shifted with her. She could feel eyes on her from the edges of the yard. Servants who had seen years of dull mornings stood half hidden in doorways and by barrels, their expression a cross between shock and laughter.
The yard that had once belonged to drills and sword work now held the slow chase of hooves and feathers and an Englishwoman who could not walk off her temper.
Isobel cupped her hand over her mouth. “Careful, me Lady,” she called. “Or else ye will have yer subjects worn out.”
Emma shot her a look. “They are not my subjects.”
“Well, I suppose the goat would argue that,” Isobel relented. “The rest, on the other hand, follow ye well enough. It looks like a proper court to me.”
Emma stopped without meaning to. The dog moved closer and she looked down at it. The cat shifted in her arms and pushed its head under her chin. Its whiskers brushed her throat.
“I am not a queen.” The protest came out quieter.
Isobel’s smile softened. “Oh well, the beasts around ye beg to differ. Ye can look at it this way, though—ye have managed to subdue these beasts without resorting to force. They follow ye around because they trust ye. Do ye ken how hard it is to make cats like ye? Believe me, I have tried, and I ken every well that they are dreadful creatures.”
Emma stared down at the dirt in front of her toes, pondering Isobel’s words.
She had started out using these animals as a way to get back at Logan for abandoning her.
But now she was beginning to realize that she might have a bigger responsibility, especially since she was growing attached to these creatures with each passing day.
But Logan—
Even his name made her blood simmer.
“He just makes me so angry,” she huffed. “One moment, I want to throw the nearest object at his head; the next, I—” She clamped her mouth shut.
“The next?” Isobel prompted.
Emma swallowed. The memory of his hands on her flashed through her mind. “The next, he looks at me, and I forget how to be sensible. It feels as if everything narrows to where he is. Then I feel foolish for letting that matter.”
Isobel did not laugh. “You arenae committing any crime by asking for affection. Believe me, I have told him that as well.”
“Well, he makes me feel like I am,” Emma whined. “He acts like he wants me, then the next minute, I feel foolish for having that thought in the first place.”
Silence settled between them as Emma kept her eyes on the ground.
They still drifted toward the castle. Toward the walls that hid his study and the room with the copper tub and the strip of cloth around his ribs.
The memory of that morning came rushing in again, and she begged the heavens for some air to cool her face.
Isobel sighed. “I suppose it does make sense to long for—”
“It is not longing,” Emma cut in, almost as if it were a dirty word. “I refuse to call it that.”
Isobel’s mouth curved. “It doesnae really matter what name ye give it. Ye still feel it.”
Emma did not answer. She stood in the middle of the yard with the animals gathered close and the castle at her back. Somewhere inside it, Logan was preparing to leave the next morning.
Her arms tightened around the cat.
Logan stood at the narrow window in his study, his shoulder pressed to the glass.
From up here, the yard was a small stage. He could see Emma pacing with Isobel, like they meant to wear a path through the packed dirt. The animals trailed after them in a ragged line.
The comical sight brought a smile to his lips. Something about it felt exhausting and endearing at the same time. He watched the moment she turned and nearly walked into the dog.
He almost laughed. Almost.
He caught the sound in his chest before it escaped. The guards did not need to hear their Laird laugh at a woman leading a barnyard march.
He watched instead.
Her cheeks were still flushed. Not from the walk, he knew that for sure.
It had to be from earlier. Her hair had come loose on one side, and a curl kept slipping forward.
Each time she talked, she pushed it back with the same short, impatient gesture, as if offended that her own body would not obey.
Her chin stayed high, though. Even when she stumbled over the chicken or when the goat nearly rammed her hip. She shot the animals a glare that should have singed them and kept walking.
She was embarrassed. He could see it in the set of her shoulders. In the way she would not look toward the upper windows. She wanted to look unbothered. And she was failing.
He was still staring when footsteps sounded behind him. He did not move away from the window.
“Are things going smoothly?” he asked, without turning.
David nodded. “Aye, I have asked the men to start saddling the horse.”
That made Logan narrow his eyes on the scene below. There was something final about it, like a farewell he had not even bidden yet. By now, Emma had stopped walking, and the animals had all gathered around her legs.
He felt David shift his weight behind him and exhaled, his breath fogging the glass. “What is it?” he asked. “Ye clearly have some reservations.”
David took that for what it was: permission to speak.
“There is more news from the village,” he announced. “And from the men ye left at the cove. It is getting worse.”
Logan dragged his eyes away from Emma and turned, leaning a shoulder against the stone windowsill. “Worse how?”