Chapter 27 #2
She sat hunched, palms pressing into the blanket, eyes too wide. Her gaze snagged on the smear of blood on his sleeve, and she flinched away from it.
“Is that your…” she trailed off.
“Nay,” Logan said, knowing exactly what she was going to ask. “Nay. ‘Tis nae me blood.”
Her throat worked. “I tried to warn him. I told him not to—”
“Forget about all of that for now, Emma. Right now, ye need to rest.”
A brief silence passed between them before she spoke again.
“I still do not trust you,” she said suddenly. The words came out raw and stripped.
They landed harder than the sailor’s knife ever could. It was not like he had expected trust. However, some quiet, stubborn part of him had been hoping for it despite himself.
“Ye daenae have to,” he murmured. “Ye just have to rest.”
She blinked at that, as if she had braced for a shouting match and did not know what to do with the lack of one.
“I will be outside yer door,” he said. “If ye need anything, just say me name. I will hear.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You are staying?” she asked. “Here?”
“Aye.” His tone brooked no argument. “I willnae touch ye, but I willnae leave ye after what just happened.”
He stepped back and drew the door almost shut, leaving a hand’s width gap so she would not feel locked in, then slid down the opposite wall to the floor, back to cold stone and legs stretched out. His dagger was still at his belt, and his shoulders began to throb now that he had stopped moving.
Inside, the bed creaked once as she shifted. Then nothing.
He settled in and fixed his gaze on the end of the hallway, listening for the sound of boots.
He had stood guard over money and ships, even hundreds of men. Sitting in a filthy corridor to keep guard of his wife would require almost no effort on his end.
Emma lay on her back and stared at the ceiling.
The darkness around her did not move. Her heart, on the other hand, would not stay still. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the tavern floor and blood seeping between the stones.
Her skin felt hot, and the blanket trapped the heat. She threw it off and swung her legs over the side. The candle on the table had burned low, and wax spilled in a crooked puddle. She had not noticed it when she entered the first time, but the room smelled of bodies and smoke and stale ale.
She crossed to the door, the boards rough beneath her bare feet, and her hand paused on the knob. For some reason, she remembered that Logan said he would stay.
If he had not, there was nothing to worry about.
She turned the knob and eased the door open.
Logan sat against the opposite wall. The slice of light from her room cut across his face. His eyes were closed, and his hand rested on the dagger at his belt.
The knot in her chest tightened, then loosened immediately. He was still here.
“Logan,” she said.
His eyes opened at once, and he pushed himself up. “Ye all right, lass?”
“I cannot sleep,”
He watched her for a moment. “Ye want me to stay further down the hall?” he asked. “Give ye quiet?”
“No.” Her fingers lingered on the edge of the door. “I thought you might come inside. If you want.”
His gaze searched her face as she stepped back. “Are ye sure?”
She nodded and watched as he came in like he was stepping into uncharted territory. The door clicked shut behind him, and the already small room shrank even more.
“It is too warm,” she complained. “The air feels wrong.”
“If ye like, I will ask that they fix the heat as well,” he said. “Or not.”
Her mouth curved. “It is fine, Logan. I am certain I can manage.”
His eyes dropped to her hands. Her shaking hands.
Now, why in God’s name were her hands shaking?
She did not let the moment linger before she tucked them into the pockets of her dress. Her gaze flicked up and trailed over his beard.
“You look like trouble,” she remarked. “Less laird than pirate.”
“Aye,” he said. “That is what I am.”
“The beard is a choice,” she whispered, then walked to the basin. A razor lay on the edge, clean and glistening. She picked it up and turned back. “If you intend to sit with other elders and lairds, you should not look like you slept in a rope coil.”
“And what would ye have me do?”
She nodded at the one chair. “Sit.”
His eyebrows rose. “Ye are fond of ordering me around.”
“I am Lady MacLellan,” she said. “Sit.”
They held each other’s eyes, then he dragged the chair into the middle of the room and sat. His hands rested on his thighs, and his shoulders stayed tight.
She stepped behind him, and up close, she saw the scar near his ear and the fine white line at his hairline.
“Do not move,” she murmured.
“Ye daenae need to tell me twice. I like having two ears.”
She laughed and set the blade against the edge of his beard. Her fingers wanted to tremble, but she forced them to steady.
“My brother started to grow a beard at fourteen. I had to shave him twice before he learned.”
“And I assume you couldnae do it more than twice because ye slit his throat?”
“For a man with a razor at his throat, ye are quite the jester.”
He shrugged as she hooked her hand under his jaw and tilted his head back.
Perhaps it was the light in the room or just her blood pumping in her veins, but his eyes looked more mesmerizing than usual. The dark brown in them seemed to shine, and if he noticed, how she stared at him, he said nothing.
She swallowed and kept her gaze on his jaw instead. His skin was warm, and she worked as carefully as she could. Once, her knuckles brushed his mouth, and his breath hitched. Again, when she ran the razor along his throat.
“Hold still,” she muttered.
“Ye are the one shaking,” he pointed out, voice lower now.
She turned around to face him. “Turn toward the light.”
He did.
The candle accentuated the angle of his cheekbones. She cleared the hair under his lip, then along the hollow of his neck. Her fingers slid where the blade had been.
The only sounds were their breathing and the soft scrape of steel.
When she finished, she stepped back and let the razor hang at her side.
“There,” she said. “See?”
He stood up and crossed to the warped bit of polished metal on the wall to check. The beard was still there, but shorter. His lips showed. He looked like the same man, just a little sharper.
“At least now, when people are afraid of you, it would not be because you look ghastly.”
He turned back to her, and the candlelight flickered in his eyes. “Do ye like it?” he asked.
The truth came out before she could dress it. “Yes.”
He closed the distance between them in three strides. His hand came up, fingers brushing her jaw, thumb stroking under her chin.
“Good,” he murmured. “Then I will keep it.”
Her pulse jumped in her throat. She did not step away. Instead, she put her palm on his chest. His heart beat slow and steady under her hand.
For a minute, none of them spoke. It felt like all the conversation needed was already had, and the look in his eyes told her he no longer wanted to talk.
Before she could say anything, he bent and kissed her.
His lips were firm and slow, and heat rose under her skin, banishing the tavern from her head. She rose on her tiptoes and caught his shirt, pulling him in. His arm came around her waist, the other hand cupped the back of her neck, and he held her like he had no intention of letting her go.
The razor slipped from her fingers and hit the floor, and he walked her back until her knees met the bed.