Chapter 25
After looking at the afternoon sky for too long, Emma decided that she had finished being reasonable.
The last few days had set like a stone under her ribs.
Logan at the windows instead of the tables.
Logan on paths with David instead of in the room where she slept.
Logan leaving or preparing to leave while she stayed in place, nodding as if it did not hurt.
Fine.
If he wanted his halls to feel like a ship, neat and stripped down to use, then he could live with a reminder that he had married a human being and not the parts of a ship that followed orders to the strictest letter.
She released a loud breath and went to the linen room.
The maid inside jumped at the sight of her. “Me Lady?”
“I need a tapestry,” Emma declared, her voice louder than she had intended. “For the Laird’s chamber.”
The maid’s eyes went wide. That helped more than if she had simply responded with words.
Emma walked to where she gestured and began to sort through folded cloth and rolled hangings that smelled of cedar and dust. The designs were all rather predictable and boring.
She flipped through each one, groaning in exasperation whenever another one appeared.
Hunts. Stags and spears. Knotwork in dull wool.
Is there anything here that is mildly interesting?
She was about to give up when she found what she was looking for at the back, almost hidden.
It was a tapestry of a lamb, a fawn, and a fox with ears too large for its head. On it were also lilac and pale green flowers that would look completely odd against the stone walls.
It looked like something a grandmother would hang over a cradle and never take down again.
“Perfect,” she murmured. “This one. I would like to hang this one in the Laird’s chambers.”
“For… his chamber, me Lady?” the maid stuttered.
“Yes.” Emma gathered the roll into her arms. “Bring nails and a hammer upstairs.”
With the most perfect smile on her face, she walked out of the room. It was as if this were a simple task, like tidying a room, not carrying a banner into enemy territory.
In Logan’s chamber, she chose the wall opposite the bed where his eyes would land whenever he woke and whenever he tried to forget.
The maid passed her the hammer and nails. Emma climbed onto a small chair and fixed the top edge to the stone, teeth clenched, arms straining a little beneath the weight. When she stepped down, she took a long look at her handiwork.
Against the dark wall, the tapestry looked absurd. Soft wool animals and shy flowers staring over a laird’s bed.
Ridiculous.
And that was the point.
“Good,” she muttered under her breath. “Now stare at your lambs while you scowl, my fierce Laird.”
Was it petty? Yes.
Childish? Likely.
But this was entirely hers, and for once she did not apologize for it, even in her own head.
She left, intending to fetch the cat and place it somewhere that would bother Logan and that he could not erase with an order. The hallway, however, lay empty. The little corner by her door, where the cat liked to nap, held only dust.
“Lord Whiskerfield?” she called, annoyed at herself for using the silly name she had given the cat in the first place. Why would he know what that meant? “Where are you?”
No response came.
Her temper spiked far faster than her sense said it should.
The cat had been the start of her foolish little kingdom. She had bargained for it like a treaty. The men might haul her calf outside, might drag her goat back to the pen, but they would not take her cat.
She checked the next hallway, then the shadowed corner by the stairwell, calling a little louder each time. But no answer came. Only the faint clatter of pots from below and the low murmur of voices.
Her stomach twisted.
Food. He probably went for food.
She followed the smell.
The kitchen was its own territory, hot and loud. Heat rolled out, thick with onions, herbs, and meat. The cooks moved around one another without thinking, knives rising and falling, spoons scraping pots. A spit turned over the central fire, fat hissing where it fell.
Emma stopped by the door.
On the nearest table lay a cut of meat she recognized too well. It was scored, the spices rubbed in, with a small pot of sauce beside it, darkening to the exact shade she remembered from the night she had watched Logan eat as if nothing else in the world existed.
Her heart sank.
Of course. That dish.
She remembered Isobel had once called it his favourite. It was the same one they made when he had been gone for too long. Or when he was about to leave.
The heat in the room seemed to climb straight into her face.
“What is this for?” she asked. The sharp edge in her voice caught her by surprise.
The head cook, a broad woman with a thick plait down her back, looked up, eyebrows rising. “Me Lady?”
“This.” Emma pointed at the meat, the sauce, and the neat piles of herbs. “For what?”
“For supper, me Lady,” the cook said slowly. “For the Laird.”
Emma’s throat tightened. “Because he is leaving?”
“Leaving?” The cook frowned. “Nae that I have heard. David sent word that he will eat in the hall. Said the Laird liked it very much.” Her frown deepened. “Is he leaving?”
Emma let out a breath so hard she had to catch herself on the edge of the table. Relief washed over her in one rude rush that left her knees weak.
Perhaps he isn’t leaving anymore. Perhaps he decided to stay.
“No,” she said. “He is not. He is not.”
Saying it twice steadied her and irritated her both.
How quickly had she come to that conclusion? How ready her mind was to fill any blanks with absence.
Heat of another kind crept up the back of her neck, and she straightened her shoulders.
The cook watched her now with a careful respect, as if Emma might knock over a pot if approached from the wrong side.
Emma looked again at the meat on the table. At the care in the scoring, the measured pinches of spice, the way the cook nudged the pan on the fire, making sure the heat caught the bottom and not the sides.
An idea came to her.
“What can I do?” she asked.
The cook’s mouth fell open. “Do, me Lady?”
“Yes.” Emma stepped into the kitchen, her skirt brushing a sack of flour. “Tell me.”
“Ye?” The cook set her knife down, as though it felt wrong to grip a blade while her mistress talked about work. “Me Lady, ye daenae need—we have it in hand.”
“I want to,” Emma insisted. “He has eaten pirate food and your food for months. He has never eaten anything I made. I would like to change that.”
At least that came out clear.
The cook hesitated, and it was only then that Emma realized that the kitchen had gone quiet. The maids held their pans half out of the water and hovered, unsure whether to move.
Emma rolled up her sleeves. “I am not made of glass,” she said. “If I burn myself, I will scream, and you may scold me. Until then, show me.”
The cook’s lips twitched, then thinned. “All right then,” she said. “Come here.”
Emma learned with her hands. How long the meat needed on each side before it charred. How the sauce smelled when it was stirred enough. One time, the cat came to distract her, almost causing an accident.
The cook clicked her tongue and tapped Emma’s wrist with a spoon. “Daenae stare at the creature when ye should be staring at the flames.”
The cat wound itself around Emma’s leg, tail flicking. Emma bent, stroked its head once, and turned back to the fire.
A few hours later, Emma’s hair smelled of smoke and herbs. Tiny specks of sauce stained her dress, and her fingers ached pleasantly from chopping and stirring. She thanked the cook properly and pretended not to notice the impressed looks the younger maids gave her.
In her chamber, she stripped out of her stained gown and washed as far as the bath and a jug allowed. She donned a dress that sat well on her shoulders and did not make her feel like a doll.
While Jenny braided and pinned her hair, Emma’s thoughts drifted to the look on Logan’s face when he tasted something she had made with her hands. If he still meant to leave, he could do it after he had eaten what she had labored over.
If he stayed, even for one night, she wanted the taste of that night to be something other than quarrel and hurt.
When the bell rang for supper, she was ready.
Logan pushed his chamber door open with his shoulder, still tugging at his cuff, his mind half on what David had said about the beach and the men.
Three steps in, he stopped.
The wall opposite the bed looked back at him.
What in God’s…
It was not the stone or the bare grey wall he was used to. No, this was something else. On the wall was a field of soft wool creatures. A lamb with eyes too big for its head. A fox lying in flowers and a fawn that looked as if its hooves had never seen mud.
His hand froze on his cuff.
Of course, his wife had found the worst thing in the storeroom.
The tapestry hung perfectly straight. No sagging corners. It sat on the wall like a flag.
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. “For God’s sake,” he muttered.
He could have it taken down before he came back from supper. One word, and it would vanish.
But he did not give the word.
Instead, he crossed to the washstand, unfastened his cuffs, and poured water. His reflection in the basin’s surface looked older than he liked, due to the shadows under his eyes and the thick stubble along his jaw.
If she doesnae like ye, there is nothing ye can do, Logan.
The thought came quickly and quietly.
He splashed his face to chase it off, or tried to. He could command men and sail through weather that would break fools. He could not make an English lass look at him the way she looked at a calf learning to walk.
He dried his face, changed his shirt, and draped his plaid round his shoulders. When he turned to leave, the lamb on the wall seemed to be watching him.
He scowled at it, snorted once, and stepped out.
The hall felt almost warmer than he remembered. A part of him wondered if that was because of the walls or because of something else he could not put his finger on. At least not yet.
Emma was already there, sitting in the chair opposite his. She wore a dark blue gown embroidered with thin silver at the sleeves. Her hair was pinned up, a few curls loose around her neck, and her face was set.
She looked relaxed, like she had not caused mischief and redecorated his room into a nursery. She looked calmer than anything he had ever seen in the past few days.
For some reason, that bothered him more than if she would admit her mischief up front.
He walked the length of the hall, each step measured. Heads turned towards him, and voices quieted almost immediately. Finally, he got to his chair and pulled it out.
“Me Lady,” he greeted, an edge to his voice.
“My Laird,” she responded, her tone matching his. Polite. The look in her eyes, however, was not. “You know, I have been thinking.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “Ye have?”
Emma let the slight slide. “Yes. And I have decided that I need to call for a truce.”
He stared at her. “For what?”
“For today.” She folded her hands. “No shouting. No goats in studies. I will not mention anything about your pirate life anymore, and you will not mention Margaret.”
His mouth twitched before he could stop it.
“I will never forgive that thing ye hung on me wall,” he said. “Those wee beasts glare at me.”
“I know.” Her smile was small and sharp. “That is why it stays. Think of it as penance for your deeds.”
“Me deeds?” A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.
Emma nodded.
Logan looked down at the table. He could have told her that she did not determine his punishment. Instead, he reached for his cup and let the first sip of wine settle his thoughts. Soon, the plates arrived, and steam rose.
The smell of herbs and meat filled the hall. He had not realized how hungry he was until then.
However, he quickly saw it. The sauce was a little darker than usual along the edge, and one corner of the meat was charred.
Emma took a piece and chewed, her eyes widening for a second. Her hand twitched toward her napkin. Then she swallowed as if nothing was wrong.
Logan narrowed his eyes, his suspicion rising. However, he said nothing. The head cook, on the other hand, hovered further down than usual, hands clasped so tight that her knuckles whitened. Her gaze slid from his plate to Emma and back.
“New hand in the kitchen?” Logan asked mildly.
The older woman jumped. “Nay, me Laird. Well, aye. Of a kind.”
Emma’s back went stiff. Her fingers stilled around her fork.
Logan set his cup down, cut a slice of meat, and tasted it.
There it is.
There was smoke on one edge and a little too much salt where the sauce had caught. Under that was the rich taste he knew, only rougher, like a tune played by someone still learning where to put their fingers.
He looked at the cook, then at Emma.
She stared down at her plate as if she could will it to behave. A faint mark clung to the side of her dress, almost rinsed away.
Sauce.
Her hands bore a few thin red lines, the kind knives left when they slipped.
Suddenly, warmth pushed through the tight knot in his chest.
“Ye cooked this,” he concluded.
Her head snapped up. “I… helped.”
The cook made a sound and muffled it with a cough. Logan took another bite, slower. The rough bits did not matter. He could taste the care in it.
“It is good,” he praised.
Emma stared at him as if he had told her the sky was green. “You do not have to say that.”
“I am nae saying it for ye,” he answered. “It is good. Far better than most of what I had on the ship. Ye daenae ken the things I have eaten, lass.”
The corner of her lips lifted. Then a laugh bubbled out of her, quick and a little shaky. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes bright.
A few heads turned. The air in the hall felt lighter.
Logan heard his own laugh answer hers, low and short. It felt strange, as if it had come from somewhere unused.
Emma gathered herself, though her eyes still shone. “If you did not already want to sail away,” she said, “my cooking and that tapestry should help you decide.”
There was the edge again, hidden in the jest.
His smile faded to something somber. He watched her in the candlelight, the curve of her jaw, the tired pride in the set of her shoulders.
He put his fork down.
“About that…”