Chapter 4
One Month Later
Emma’s chambers reflected the flowing candlelight. The sky kept darkening by the second as she added the finishing touches to her dress.
Ava stood close, pinning a stray curl back from Emma’s temple with her usual care, her fingers light and her eyes unusually bright.
“Have ye heard from Laird MacLeod again?” she asked.
“Nay,” Emma replied, her voice flat as a slate. “And I’d love to keep it that way.”
Ava’s mouth curved. “Are ye sure that is the right thing to do?”
“I would cross continents if it meant I didn’t have to see his face again,” Emma responded somberly.
Ava chuckled under her breath.
The door creaked open at that moment, and Emma’s maid, Pamela, slipped in with a small curtsy. A satin ribbon was folded over her arm, a cool red that matched Emma’s dress perfectly.
“This was sent for ye, me Lady,” she announced, stepping forward. “The color suits ye.”
“Thank ye, Pamela,” Emma said, accepting it.
Ava took the ribbon at once and moved behind her, fussing until the bow lay neat and even at the nape of Emma’s neck. She smoothed the ends and then adjusted the fall of the dress at the shoulders.
“Hold still,” she instructed. “Beauty takes patience.”
“It also takes honesty,” Emma declared. “If I look like a mess, ye will tell me, will ye nae?”
“When have I ever nae done that?”
Emma shot Ava a glare in the mirror as her sister fastened the sash to her dress. “Do ye need me to start counting the instances?”
“Ye look fine, Emma. I am certain men will fall at yer feet tonight at the cèilidh,” Ava responded lightly.
“She is right, me Lady,” Pamela spoke up, a smile in her voice, before stepping back to the door. “Shall I fetch yer cloaks, Lady Ava?”
“Aye,” Ava responded. “And thank ye.”
Pamela left them, and the room lapsed into silence again.
Emma met her twin’s eyes in the mirror, her reflection framed by the soft candlelight. “Daenae pick a fight with any man tonight,” she urged.
“I daenae pick them,” Ava scoffed. “They find me.”
“Ye push them along,” Emma retorted. “Please. Just try to rein it in tonight, all right?”
Ava let the silence stretch out for a few seconds before giving her a brief nod. “Fine. Whichever bastard acts awful toward me tonight gets a pass.”
Emma drew a steadying breath and rose to her feet. “Ye ken that isnae what I mean.”
“‘Tis what I heard,” Ava countered.
Together, they left the chamber and took the low passageway toward the stairs. Soon, they climbed into the carriage and rode out of MacFinn Castle and into the night.
The hall where the cèilidh was held was much brighter than Emma had expected.
Hundreds of candles burned in bronze sconces.
The floor shone like glass, and the dancers at the corners trod on it as if it was nothing.
The music was loud and carried across the hall, causing the floor itself to feel alive under her feet.
Ava leaned close, breaking her out of her reverie. “Mind ye breathe.”
“I am breathing,” Emma said.
“Too much, perhaps,” Ava drawled.
Emma narrowed her eyes at her sister but said nothing in response.
They were barely two steps into the hall when the first man approached, a fine lad with trimmed hair and a hopeful smile.
“Lady Emma,” he greeted with a stiff bow. “May I have the next dance?”
“Oh, MacAllan. Perhaps later in the night, if luck is on yer side,” Emma replied, sweet as honey.
He blinked, recovered, and stepped aside. Another lad came, older and broader, palm out, mouth ready with charming words.
“Another time,” Emma responded, smiling so he could not take offense.
A third tried with a compliment to her dress, a fourth with a claim of friendship to her uncle. She turned them all down, her voice soft and her eyes steady.
“One of these days,” Ava murmured as the fifth man to ask her for a dance walked away, “ye’ll have to pick a man, Emma.”
“Maybe later,” Emma said. “Nae now.”
“Are ye looking for inspiration for another poem?” Ava teased.
“Nothing here is inspiring enough to write about,” Emma muttered.
“Perhaps ye’ve nae looked hard enough.”
Emma let the corners of her mouth lift. She did not say that the only thing she had wanted to write about lately was air and how it felt when it reached the bottom of her lungs after a run through trees, or that she had found water incredibly fascinating these past few weeks and wanted to write about the feel of being in one.
Instead, she let the moment pass as they walked further into the hall.
“Do ye think we can get some wine?” Ava asked, adjusting her bodice.
Emma looked around the hall and was about to respond when silence fell.
It was sudden and sharp and had scared a tiny part of her.
She exchanged a confused look with her sister and opened her mouth to speak.
But then an unfamiliar male voice rose from near the front of the hall, sharp and unyielding.
“He stands where steel meets storm,
The Highlands bow before his name…”
Emma blinked.
Wait.
The tense silence settled even heavier over the room as the musicians lowered their bows and pipes.
“His words shake the trees,
His actions move mountains…”
Emma felt her throat tighten.
This cannae be happening.
The words felt like tiny shards of glass cutting through her skin.
“His eyes blink nothing but fire and ash…”
More faces turned toward the voice, and the speaker stepped into view as he finished the last line. Emma stared at him, her eyes narrowed. It was a young man she did not recognize.
“A tribute to the greatest warrior of the Highlands,” the man continued, his voice thick.
Emma felt Ava’s hand close around hers almost immediately.
“That’s yer poem,” Ava whispered.
“I ken.”
“How did he—”
“That is exactly what I would also like to ken. Someone here is playing games with me.”
The man finished reciting the poem, and the silence that followed was incredibly heavy. Then, almost immediately, a wave of sharp applause cut through it, people rising from every corner of the hall.
“That was phenomenal.”
“I’ve never heard anything quite like it.”
Emma felt her breathing grow shallow. “It shouldnae be on his lips.”
“Or in his hands. How could he have gotten it?” Ava asked, her eyes also fixed on the man receiving the praise.
Emma’s chest clenched. She knew the poem. Every line. Every single word. She had written it for one of the most reputable warriors in the Highlands. It was supposed to be private, seen only by a close group of people, like her sister and her mother. It was never meant to be seen by the public.
Heard by the public.
She could not unhear the lines, no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to gather the verse back into her hands and burn it. She wanted to pretend it had never left her desk.
“Ye willnae do anything rash,” Ava whispered. “Promise me.”
“There is nothing to do,” Emma said.
“I ken what ye’re thinking, Emma. ‘Tis nae going to work.”
Emma opened her mouth to respond when a deeper voice cut across the hall. “It’s been a long time.”
The sound reached her before the sense did. The same voice that had haunted her for the past weeks. The voice she had struggled to forget. The voice she associated with danger and death.
At first, she wanted to believe that it was her imagination. She couldn’t have heard him. He couldn’t possibly be standing right behind her.
She swallowed, and in a bid to confirm that she had been hallucinating, she turned slowly in the direction of the voice.
And there he was.
Jack Barkley stood just a few yards behind her, his hands hanging at his sides and a brutal smirk playing on his lips.
At that moment, it all clicked. The look on his face told him all she needed to know about the poem.
Ye bastard.
Her spine stiffened. She did not look at Ava or even at the man who had stolen her poem. She kept her eyes on Jack instead and felt the night tilt completely off its axis.
Good God.
From the shadows beside a pillar, Jack watched the false poet take his bow. The crowd parted for a better look, and the young man’s voice had carried well enough. However, it was the look on Emma’s face that held his attention. He had seen the composure first, then watched it turn into fury.
Success.
The poem had struck where he had intended. She had run once, and this time, she would not run again.
“Right where I want ye,” he muttered under his breath, before stepping out of the dark.
His eyes remained fixed on her as he moved closer to where she stood. The other guests shifted without his asking, and space opened. He didn’t expect anything less.
“It’s been a long time,” he said when he stopped behind her, and her eyes found him. “How did ye like the poem?”
Her glare met him halfway, and the candlelight put a small gold edge on her anger. He felt a pull low in his chest and pushed it aside.
Her jaw tightened. “Dance with me.”
His eyebrows rose. “Commanding me now, are ye?”
“Would ye rather I shouted?”
The corner of his mouth thought of moving, but he thought otherwise. Instead, he offered his hand. “After ye, me Lady.”
She put hers in it with a force that told him she would rather break his fingers than bend them.
He led her onto the line of dancers, and the music resumed. He was not oblivious of the eyes that watched them as they began to dance. He set a steady pace and kept the measure easy. She matched it without asking for mercy.
“Never thought I’d see ye again,” he said, his voice low.
“Really? Forgive me if I think otherwise, seeing that ye managed to get a hold of me poem,” she retorted.
“Oh, getting it wasnae hard. Finding the writer, on the other hand, was. Ye write rather beautifully, if I may say so.”
“So ye ken I wrote it, yet ye let another man take the credit?” she asked, her voice as sharp as a dagger.
“Well, I had to do something to get yer attention.”
Her chin lifted. “Ye had it in the woods.”
“This is a different place,” he pointed out. “It has its own rules.”
“How convenient,” she scoffed.
They spun with the set, and his palm brushed her fingers. He did not look at their hands. He watched her mouth form the next sharp question instead.
“Whatever ye think ye’re doing with that false poet,” she said, “it willnae work.”
“He serves a purpose, that is all.”
“And that purpose is humiliating me?” Her eyes flashed.
“I told ye, I like to ken everything about ye,” he said, quieter now. “But I’d never do anything to hurt ye.”
She missed a step, possibly from the anger she was feeling. He steadied her anyway, a taunting smile on his face. The music shifted, and they spun again, the floor feeling solid under his boots.
“Ye pulled at a thread that wasnae yers,” she continued, her breath even now. “Ye brought a private thing into a room full of teeth.”
“Are ye nae going to ask how I got the poem?”
“Ye’re a laird. How do ye get anything?”
“It was already a song men sang at their cups,” he said. “I only set a light on the writer.”
“So ye decided to bring the wrong writer out so he can take the praise? Just because ye need to get me attention?”
“Aye.” He nodded.
She held his eyes when they circled.
“Well, I suppose congratulations are in order. Ye have me attention,” she said flatly.
“That I do,” he agreed.
He had her right where he wanted her. Angry at him and curious as to why he would even want to do any of this in the first place. That was the first step. Now, he needed to find a way to drive home his point, and to do that, he needed her to prompt it first.
“What do ye want from me this time?”
A smile spread across his face.
There it was.
“I have come with an offer.”
“An offer?”
“Aye. But before that, I want another dance.”
A soft laugh escaped her lips. “I havenae given any other man a chance since I stepped into this hall. What makes ye think I will give ye one?”
He kept his eyes on her. “Because I am nae any other man.”