Chapter 30
The festival started the next day without a hitch.
Tunes from pipes carried across the courtyard, rising over the low murmur of endless conversations.
Bright lights burned along the walls, dancing over stone and cups.
Smoke from roasting meat curled under the open sky as the atmosphere grew even more lively with each passing second.
Children ran between legs and came up laughing, and men in rough coats stood beside men in good wool and tried not to stare at one another.
Emma stood near Logan at the edge of it all. She was close enough that their sleeves brushed when someone pushed past them, yet far enough that the space between them felt deliberate. Their last argument sat there as well, an unseen object that simply would not be moved.
A village woman brought her a plate of bread and meat. Emma thanked her and tasted both. A man from the harbor muttered that the rope contest had been clever and scratched his head as if complimenting her cost him something.
Emma laughed when he seemed to expect it and kept her shoulders relaxed. No one here would see how she was still hurt by the way Logan had asked why when she spoke of trust.
He stayed at her side anyway, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and his thumb drawing a slow line along the worn leather. When a group of pirates came near, he shifted, not enough to be obvious, but enough to put his body between hers and theirs.
He still had to protect her, no matter what.
Emma thought of how the villagers watched her and wondered what they were thinking.
The English wife.
The woman who had stopped a hanging with a rope and a game.
Some smiled, shy and honest, and others frowned as if waiting for her to show she was on the wrong side after all.
The pirates, on the other hand, watched her with a different eye. They assessed her. One time, one of them lifted his cup to her with a crooked grin. Emma inclined her head, nothing more.
Isobel slipped in at her elbow like a pocket of relief. She took Emma’s arm and drew her toward a group of older women who wanted to ask her what England was like.
Emma spent a reasonable amount of time dispelling rumors until someone started a reel and bodies moved onto the packed earth, boots stamping in time.
Each time she turned away from Logan, she could feel him behind her. It was as if he were being overly watchful, as if she were something he was expected to guard and he did not know how to hold.
After a while, the air near the fires grew thick, and the torches along the far wall smoked. Emma said she wanted air. Isobel agreed at once and steered her toward the edge of the grounds, where music faded to a hum and the smell of meat gave way to damp grass.
“The animals would love this,” Emma blurted. “The music, I mean, not the crowd.”
Isobel laughed. “The goat would be charging at folk for coin by now.”
Emma let herself smile.
They walked along the trampled border where the grass grew rougher. The sky darkened further above them, and the first stars appeared. Lanterns hung from ropes and cast small circles of light that faded quickly into the shadows.
“How do ye feel?” Isobel asked. “Truly.”
“I am fine,” Emma said, too quickly.
Isobel made a low hum. “That was a lie.”
Emma kept her eyes on the ground. “It is loud. That is all.”
“Loud is good. For a long time, it was only steel and orders here. Now, there is laughter, and there are bairns, and there is a daft Englishwoman who set up a farm in the yard.”
“Former farm,” Emma corrected.
Isobel’s hand squeezed her arm. “Daenae worry, it is only temporary.”
They walked a few steps in silence. A cheer rose behind them as someone finished a difficult turn without falling, and the music grew louder.
Isobel spoke again, tone light at first. “There is something else we can do, ye ken. Small things. Have Logan call to speak with ye. Keep David from letting him slip away. There are ways to coax a stubborn man open.”
Emma stopped. Isobel’s arm slid from hers.
“I do not want tricks.” Her voice was even and low, but it cut all the same. “I am tired of arranging scenes so that he might feel something one day. If he wishes to trust me, he can. If he does not, I will not play for him until he does.”
Isobel studied her for a long moment. There was no teasing in her eyes now. “Aye,” she said quietly. “That is fair.”
Emma might have said more, but the words died in her throat when a shadow moved ahead of them. She gripped Isobel, her heart lurching.
A man stepped out from behind the courtyard, dusting his sleeves. Emma recognized him at once. His height, the way he stood, the line of his jaw. She had seen him in the tavern the other day.
Pete.
“Me Lady,” he greeted, giving a small bow that did not match the look in his eyes.
Emma’s back went rigid.
Isobel drew closer to her. “Pete.”
He inclined his head toward her. “Lady Isobel.” His gaze returned to Emma. “May I borrow Lady MacLellan for a few moments?”
Isobel did not move. “If ye have something to say, ye can say it here.”
Pete’s hands were loose at his sides. “I wish to express me gratitude, that is all.”
Emma could feel Isobel weighing the claim. Her body had turned a little, as if she might put herself between them if she had to.
“I will be all right,” Emma assured. “We are in the middle of a festival. There are people everywhere.” She forced a small smile. “If he is rude, you may scold him later.”
Isobel did not like it. That was clear. She gave a short nod nontheless. “I must check on the maids anyway.”
Emma nodded and watched her disappear into the crowd before she turned back to Pete. “You wished to thank me.”
“Aye.” He folded his hands, thumb rubbing once over a knuckle. “Ye kept one of me lads from a rope, and ye kept a villager from losing his son. That was neat work.”
“It was a game,” Emma said. “They followed the rules. That is all.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “They listen to ye now. The villagers as well. That is nae nothing.”
“I am the Laird’s wife. They listened to me because they listen to him.”
“Sometimes.” Pete’s gaze sharpened. “It is very easy to listen to one with power, is it nae?”
Emma’s fingers curled at her sides. “Did you stop me to say that my husband has authority, or to say something worth hearing?”
That earned her a brief huff of amusement.
“Something worth hearing.” He glanced across the grounds.
Emma followed his gaze and saw Logan standing near a fire pit, speaking to an older villager and two of his crew. His shoulders were set, and his shorter beard showed the pale line of an old scar by his mouth.
“He stands like a laird now,” Pete remarked. “He has always stood like a man who didnae care if steel took him.”
Her throat tightened. “Yes.”
Pete’s eyes slid back to her. “I saw something new. He looked afraid.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze. “Of what?”
Pete did not soften it. “Of ye. Or of what might happen to ye. Out there, he never feared for himself. A man like that lasts. Fear for another breaks the law on a ship.”
“What law?” Emma asked.
“The only one we had. Loyalty. The crew above all. No wife, no land, no one person before the ship.”
Emma shook her head. “Well, Logan is a laird now. The sea does not rule him. This place does. These people do. That is the point of all this.” She jerked her chin toward the lanterns and the smoke.
“That is what ye wish to be true,” Pete said. “He still hears the water, and the ship still owns him. Him trimming his beard for ye and letting ye put ribbons on his walls mean nothing.”
Her hand moved before she knew it, fingers brushing her cheek as if she could feel the rasp of hair under the blade again.
“I am not speaking of my husband’s soul with his crew at a festival.” Her patience thinned. “If you have finished expressing your gratitude, we are finished.”
“On the contrary, me Lady, we arenae finished,” Pete said. His voice stayed calm, but something colder slid under it. “If ye ken what is good for ye, ye will come with me now.”
Emma stared at him as if he had just said the most ridiculous thing on earth. “No.”
He stepped closer, the light catching a pale mark on his neck and disappearing again.
“I am nae asking. The men need to see what happens when the captain lets his head turn toward land. When he chooses one woman over them. If I let him walk into the future with ye, they will all think they can follow him into softness.”
Her pulse thudded at her throat. Still, she kept her voice level. “You are speaking rubbish. Logan is not your captain here. He is the Laird. He has duties you do not understand. You will not put a hand on me.”
“Ye think he will let harm come to ye?” Pete asked. “That is the point. He will come. Where I choose and when I choose, and he will do it because of ye.” His gaze flicked back to Logan. “He forgot whose law had kept him alive all those years. I will remind him.”
Emma’s mouth went dry. “I will not go anywhere with you. If you try, I will scream.”
Pete shook his head. “No, ye willnae.”
His hand moved before she could register it, and a flash of steel caught the lantern light. Her breath caught when she felt the sharp tug at her scalp.
Pete stepped closer and caught her with one arm, letting the cold metal touch the side of her neck.
Heat ran along her collarbone, and her hand flew up, trying to grab at his arm, which remained locked around her neck.
The torches around them suddenly blurred, and the music faded.
The ground under her boots felt unsteady, and her stomach churned. Even her legs shook.
No.
No.
Not now.
She tried to draw in air and found none. Her knees gave out. Pete’s arm tightened and pulled her upright again.
“Ye make a sound,” he hissed into her ear, “and I cut ye open from the back.”
She could not have forced a word out. Her tongue felt heavy, and her throat had closed around nothing. All she could see was the red smear on her hand.
Move.
But her body ignored her.
Pete started walking, dragging her with him toward the darker edge where the lantern light did not reach. Each step felt as if it belonged to someone else.
Emma fought for air, for her throat, for her life. If no one saw her leave, no one would know where to go.
Her right hand twitched at her side at the very last minute. There was a narrow ribbon tied at her hip, thanks to Isobel, who had come to fix it earlier. She fumbled for it with her fingers.
Pete, oblivious, jerked her arm forward, impatient. “Walk,” he grunted.
She stumbled after him and, in that lurch, pulled at the knot, letting the ribbon slip free. She let it drop into the flattened grass by the path, pale in the dark.
Behind them, music rose again. Someone even shouted a toast. It greatly contrasted with the path before her. The trees ahead were a dark wall, with their trunks standing close.
Pete’s grip did not loosen.
Emma kept up the pace lest she fall. Fear sat in her ribs like a stone as the sounds of the festival dulled with every step.
Soon, there was nothing but the scuff of his boots and the rough pull of his breath as the dark completely swallowed them both.