Chapter 27
The road narrowed as they veered off the main path. Wet grass slapped Emma’s boots, and ahead, a squat building sat in the dark, lamplight leaking around the walls. The feel of Logan’s body settled gently behind her, like a presence she could not shake off.
“So, as I said earlier, there are people I would like ye to meet,” he said. “Men who sailed with me long before I became Laird.”
Emma eyed the tavern. The roof dipped in the middle, and a sign swung on a single iron hook, creaking with every sway. There was no cottage or village anywhere nearby. All she could see was open ground, a few tired horses, one cart, and a heavy strip of dark sky.
“It looks abandoned,” she noted.
Logan’s mouth twitched. “Ye wanted to see me world. Ye are in it now. There is nay running.”
“No,” she said. “I am not running.”
His gaze softened for a beat. “Ye are quite the brave thing, are ye nae? Daenae worry, nothing will touch ye while ye are with me,” he promised. “Ye have me word.”
That lodged in her chest and stayed there as he swung down and came to her side. His hands closed around her waist and lifted her. For one breath, she hung between the saddle and the ground, then her boots hit the dirt, and his hands let go.
Inside, the heat of the tavern hit her like a wall.
Her eyes scanned the area almost immediately.
She caught the fire under the rafters and the heat from the hearth.
Men were jammed onto benches, and a fiddler played in a corner.
The smell of strong ale invaded her nostrils, coupled with smoke from the fire.
She did not know whether to be fascinated or overwhelmed by how loud and bright everything around her was.
The noise died down when Logan stepped in, and heads turned. Their eyes swiveled to Emma as she squared her shoulders and walked beside him. Her pulse quickened, but her spine remained ramrod straight.
“This way,” he said, guiding her toward a table by the far wall.
A man with a scar on his jaw and a swagger that matched Logan’s pushed to his feet. His grin was pure trouble.
“About time ye dragged yer hide in,” he said, gripping Logan’s forearm. “We thought the stone had managed to claim ye again.”
“Ye still talk too much, Pete,” Logan said, rough affection in his voice.
Pete’s gaze flicked to Emma, and he gave a quick, crooked bow. “Me Lady.”
“Emma,” she returned. “No titles.”
“Nay,” Logan was quick to interject. “Ye’re the Laird’s wife, and he will address ye as such.”
Pete nodded once.
More men crowded in, and their faces and names came in a rush. She caught a few and lost the rest in the smoke and growing music. A giant cup thumped down in front of her, and dark ale sloshed over the rim. She glanced at Logan, but he gave no sign that he meant to save her.
Great.
She lifted the cup and drank anyway. The ale was bitter and strong, unlike the one they had back in the castle, and it burned a path down her chest. She swallowed without choking and set it down.
The fiddle kicked in even faster, and benches scraped back. Men and a few women dragged the tables aside, and their boots hit the floor in time with the drum.
Of course, they could manage to create a dance floor in a tavern this busy.
“Ye can stay seated,” Logan murmured. “They get wild.”
She watched the whirl and then returned her gaze to him.
“I asked to see this world,” she said. “I will not stare at it from a corner.”
He studied her, then nodded. “Watch yer feet.”
A sailor broke away from the crowd and headed straight for her. He had fair hair and skin that looked like it had been burned by the wind. Emma studied his crooked grin, and soon, he stopped before her. He smelled like salt, sweat, and cheap smoke.
“Evening, lass,” he greeted. “Ye look like ye owe yerself a dance.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He held out his hand. “Come on. Ye will turn to stone if ye sit there. The tune is begging ye.”
Emma felt Logan at her side like another wall. The air around him had tightened.
She could have declared that she was the Laird’s wife and put an end to the sailor’s advances. But she had not come all this way to hide behind her title.
“Very well,” she relented. “One dance.”
His grin widened, and he dragged her into the open space. The steps were blunt and quick. They were even rougher than the dances Emma had to learn in preparation for her wedding. However, she loved the way her skirt flared and how hard her boots slapped the boards.
“Ye move well,” the sailor yelled over the music. “Thought English lasses tripped over their fancy hems.”
“We survive,” she said, breath short. “Some of us even improve.”
He barked a laugh. “Bonny and sharp. Ye’re a dangerous one, are ye nae?”
They turned again, and her eyes caught Logan by the wall. His arms were folded, and his shoulders were squared. Her heart jumped against her ribs. The look on his face told her everything without him saying a word.
She looked away and let the rhythm drag her forward. When she turned back to the sailor, his hand slid from her fingers to her waist.
“All right, that is close enough,” she said firmly, stepping back.
He followed like she had tugged a rope.
“Come now,” he murmured in her ear. “Nay harm in a bit of fun.”
“It is a dance,” she said. “Nothing else.”
“That depends on the lass,” he breathed, mouth near her neck.
She moved back again. “I said no.”
He smiled as if she had told a joke. When she turned around to leave, his hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. Her stomach dropped.
Oh dear.
She yanked, but his grip only tightened, fingers locking around bone.
“Trust me, this is for your own good,” she hissed.
He chuckled, obviously drunk. “Really? Ye daenae mean that.”
“I do,” she insisted. “Let. Go.”
He did not release her. Instead, his thumb dug into the inside of her wrist, where her pulse kicked hard. Emma wondered what the best thing she could do in this situation was. She could shout or struggle. She could also smash her fist against his face.
She did not have to choose.
The crowd opened in front of her as men edged out of the way. A narrow line cleared itself without anyone saying a word.
Logan walked through it.
Logan saw her first, her face pale and her eyes tight. She tried to yank back her arm as a big hand clamped around her wrist hard enough to bruise.
“Let. Go,” she was saying.
The sailor laughed in her face.
Logan’s temper did not flare. It dropped straight through him like a rock in a river.
He walked into the circle until he stood over them. “Let her go.”
The sailor did not even glance up. “I will, when she stops playing hard to get.”
Emma twisted again, and the sailor tightened his grip, thumb digging into her wrist.
“If ye ken what is good for ye,” Logan said, his voice strained, “ye will release her, now.”
The sailor turned, squinting at him. His gaze roamed over Logan, taking in the coat, the ring, the face. Sense flickered there, then vanished in ale and foolishness.
“She is nae yer business,” he sneered. “I asked her, and I will have me turn. Ye can wait for yer own, Captain.”
The chatter quieted, and the fiddle died mid-note. For a brief second, nobody moved.
Logan exhaled. “Suit yerself.”
The dagger was in his hand in the next breath, before the sailor could move. The sailor swore and fumbled for his own knife, but he was too drunk and too slow.
Logan caught his wrist with one hand and drove the blade under his ribs with the other.
The sailor’s eyes went wide, and a choked sound tore from him.
His legs gave out from under him, and he hit the floor, blood pooling beneath him.
A breath escaped him as his body went limp and life left his bloodshot eyes.
Nobody rushed forward or tried to grab Logan. They knew better than that. Logan, on the other hand, did not bother looking down. He knew what a dead man looked like.
His attention shifted to Emma instead. All the color had drained from her face as her gaze followed the spreading blood. Her freed hand dangled while her breathing grew ragged.
“Emma,” he said.
She did not answer.
He stepped closer, took her elbow, then put a hand on the small of her back. She tipped toward him because there was nowhere else for her to go.
“Look at me,” he murmured. “Nae at the floor.”
Her eyes dragged up, and he watched it all slam into her. He could see in her eyes that everything had suddenly become too bright, too loud, too dark. Too still.
“Christ,” he muttered, tightening his grip on her.
The sailor had earned the blade, but the shock had hit her.
Behind him, Pete cleared his throat. “We will sort it out, me Laird.”
“Aye,” Logan said, eyes still on Emma. “Clean up the mess and keep everyone else safe.”
Without waiting for Pete to respond, he slid his arm around Emma’s waist, taking more of her weight. “Come. We can find a room upstairs.”
She gave one small shake of her head, but then Logan felt her knees give.
Oh well, she most definitely would not be able to move now. He did not ask her to walk. Instead, he hooked an arm under her knees and another behind her shoulders and lifted her. She made a faint sound that died against his chest as her weight settled in his arms.
The stairs to the upper floor were steep and narrow. Worse, there was no light but a dirty candle that seemed to have been burning for the better half of a day.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, and she shook as he climbed. Once they cleared the landing, the noise below faded into a muffled roar. Her breathing turned shallow, like she was fighting back nausea.
“Nearly there,” Logan said, voice low. “Hold on, lass.”
He shouldered open the door of the room.
There was nothing in it but a narrow bed and a thin blanket.
The basin, if it could be called that, was cracked.
He ignored it and lowered her onto the edge of the mattress, keeping his arm around her shoulders until he felt some strength return to her spine.