Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
“Let go of me?—”
The raw, desperate scream tore from her throat. She thrashed, but her strength was failing. One of the men laughed—a low, mocking sound that treated her struggle like a joke.
“Easy now,” he muttered. He wrenched her arm back. Pain spiked through her shoulder, sharp enough to steal her breath. “You’ll only make this harder.”
“I’m not going with you.” Her voice was thin, her lungs tight with panic. She tried to plant her feet, but her boots skidded across the floor as they dragged her toward the exit.
She looked at the room.
The patrons were staring now, with that still, heavy watchfulness of people who had already decided not to involve themselves. A man near the hearth lifted his cup halfway to his lips and left it there. No one spoke. No one moved.
No one is coming. The thought came with a sinking certainty that hollowed something inside her chest. But she could not give up that easily.
She dug her nails into the man’s wrist with all the strength she had left, dragging them down hard enough to break his skin.
He did not even flinch. If anything, his grip tightened, his fingers biting deeper into her arm until the pain shot upward, stealing the breath from her lungs as he gave her a rough jerk forward.
“Enough of that,” he muttered, his tone flat, impatient, making her feel like an unruly child.
The doorway yawned ahead of her, the night beyond it vast and black, swallowing the light from the tavern in uneven edges. The cold air pressed mercilessly on her skin.
Rose stumbled as he dragged her, her boots slipping against the worn floor, her free hand reaching blindly for something to hold onto, to slow them, to stop them.
There was nothing.
“Is there some trouble here?”
The voice was calm and level.
The men faltered and their momentum broke as if they’d hit a wall. Rose turned her head, her breath catching in her chest.
The man from before. He stood there, his gaze fixed on the men holding her, his posture loose but unmistakably alert.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then one of the soldiers snorted, a short, dismissive sound.
“This has nothing to do with you,” he said, not even bothering to look at him fully. “Be on your way.”
The man did not move.
His gaze settled on her at last, and for a moment everything else seemed to fall away—the noise, the movement, the hands gripping her, all of it dimming beneath the weight of that single look.
It sent a quiet jolt through her chest that stilled her breath, that made her acutely aware of herself in a way she had never been before.
And in his eyes, something flickered—a quiet, unspoken decision that seemed to settle into place before either of them had the chance to look away.
“I think,” he said, his voice still even, though there was something firmer beneath it now, “it daes.”
Another soldier stepped forward, his mouth curling with something unpleasant.
“You deaf?” he said, his tone sharpening. “This is English business. You’ll not?—”
One of the soldiers spat.
The gesture was quick, careless, the spittle striking the ground near the man’s boots, the insult hanging in the air heavier than the act itself.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
His shoulders stilled, his expression hardening by a degree that was easy to miss. The ease in his posture did not vanish, but something in it constricted. A line had been crossed that could not be stepped back from.
“Right,” he said quietly.
And then he moved.
It was so fast that Rose did not see the beginning of it, only the impact.
His fist connected hard with the man holding her.
The soldier’s grip broke at once, his body jerking back with a sharp, startled cry as he stumbled, releasing her entirely. Rose staggered, her balance lost for a moment as she tried to steady herself, her arm throbbing where it had been held too tightly.
The others reacted instantly. “What the hell?—”
They surged forward, all at once, the tension snapping into violence.
Rose barely had time to step back before the first of them lunged, his hand reaching for the stranger’s collar.
The man moved with a fluid, terrifying ease. He sidestepped the first soldier’s lunge, making the attack look like a desperate stumble. He seized the man’s arm and twisted. The soldier hit the floor hard, the air leaving his lungs in a sickening, wet choke.
Another lunged from the side. Rose heard the dull crack of a fist striking bone and flinched, her hands flying to her chest. She stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs as she watched a fight that defied every logic she knew.
He was one man against four, yet he didn't look overwhelmed. He looked like he was exactly where he was meant to be. He moved through the chaos like a storm that knew exactly which way to blow.
Her eyes stayed locked on him. Even in the violence, she couldn't ignore the way his dark hair caught the light or how his tunic strained across his back as he drove his shoulder into the third attacker.
A strange, traitorous heat rose in her throat, mingling with her fear. She had spent her life around men who used words and posture to project power, but this man possessed a raw, silent competence that made her pulse skip for reasons that had nothing to do with the danger.
The third soldier managed a glancing blow to his jaw. He didn't flinch, simply turned and leveled the man with a strike so powerful it seemed to vibrate through the ground beneath Rose's feet.
The last soldier hesitated. He looked at his companions groaning on the ground, then back at the man standing in the center of the room. He lunged anyway, a final, panicked effort.
It ended in a heartbeat.
The soldier crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, the fight drained out of him. The man stood over them, his chest rising and falling in a steady, controlled rhythm.
A heavy, absolute silence flooded the air.
Rose looked at him—the breadth of his shoulders, the hard line of his profile, the sheer, protective force of his presence. She felt a sudden, dizzying urge to step toward him, to find safety in the shadow of someone so capable of holding back the world.
His chest was rising slowly now, his shoulders settling as the last of the tension left him. There was blood on his knuckles, a dark smear against his skin. Her stomach clenched at the sight, and she couldn’t quite understand why.
He turned toward her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he stepped forward.
“Are ye hurt, lass?” he asked. His voice was softer now. The sharp edge was gone, replaced by something quieter.
Rose swallowed, forcing herself to respond, though her thoughts still felt scattered, her breath not yet fully under her control.
“I—no,” she said, though the word faltered slightly as she shifted her weight.
She felt a sharp pull in her arm making her wince before she could stop it. His gaze dropped at once.
“They hurt yer arm,” he said, more statement than question.
Rose stiffened instinctively, her fingers curling slightly as she drew the limb closer to her side.
“It is nothing,” she said quickly, with a practiced composure that did not match the tension in her body.
He did not look convinced.
“May I?” he asked, his hand lifting slightly, waiting.
She remained still, her breath held in a tight, brittle line.
He could break me just as easily, she thought, her eyes tracking the powerful movement of his shoulders.
She looked at the wreckage of the soldiers on the floor and then back at him, her survival instinct screaming at her to run before he turned that terrifying precision on her.
But then he looked at her and the hard, lethal mask he had worn during the fight vanished. His eyes were warm, clear hazel, unexpectedly soft. There was no shadow of violence in them—only a quiet, grounded concern that seemed to reach out and steady her.
The tension in her chest eased, just enough to let a shallow breath through. She inclined her head in a small, shaky nod.
He stepped closer. Too close. She became acutely aware of him—the heat radiating from his frame, the faint scent of leather and woodsmoke, and the mountain-like stillness of his presence.
His fingers closed around her wrist. She expected to flinch, but his touch was light, almost tentative. It was nothing like the iron grip that had nearly crushed her bone moments ago.
The contact felt electric.
Her pulse jumped under his thumb as he gently turned her arm.
He moved with a careful, focused intensity, his eyes scanning the dark bruises already blooming against her skin.
He handled her as if she were something fragile.
For the first time in days, the cold weight of her loneliness didn't feel quite so heavy.
“It will pain ye,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly just below the injury, his tone low. “But it is nae broken.”
Relief came in a slow exhale she had not realized she was holding.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice softer now.
He released her and stepped back.
“I am Logan,” he said, his gaze fixing her again. “Logan MacKenzie. Laird o’ the land just beyond these hills.”
Rose hesitated for only a moment.
“Lady Rose Algernon,” she replied, her posture straightening slightly, the instinctive formality returning even now. “You have my thanks, Laird MacKenzie.”
“Ye’ve had a rough road o’ it,” he said, his gaze lingering on her for a second longer than it needed to.
And without a word, he stripped off his own cloak.
He draped the heavy fabric over her shoulders, layering it above her own.
The warmth was immediate. It carried the lingering heat and scent of his body.
As he adjusted the collar, his hands brushed against the skin of her neck.
The touch was brief, but the heat of it stayed with her, making her flush as she pulled his cloak tight around her.
“You should not have had to do that,” she said, her voice quieter now, though there was a faint edge of something else beneath it— a sudden, unguarded lightness in her chest that unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
“If this is how you settle disagreements, I would hope never to be on the other side of one.”
For a moment, he looked at her. Then?—
He smiled. It was small and brief, but it softened something in his expression, something that had remained guarded until now.
“I prefer nae tae,” he said. “But some men make that difficult.”
A breath of something like a laugh slipped from her before she could stop it, quiet and disbelieving, her head tilting slightly as she studied him despite herself.
“I can see that,” she murmured, her gaze flicking briefly toward the men still sprawled across the ground before returning to him. “Though I imagine they would disagree, if they were in any state to do so.”
His mouth curved faintly at that, but his eyes did not leave her face.
“And what was it that had them so determined?” he asked, his tone shifting, not pressing, but intent all the same. “Four men dinnae come running fer naething.”
The question settled between them, heavier than the moment before.
Rose felt the subtle tightening in her chest at once, the quiet instinct to guard herself returning just as quickly as it had slipped. Her fingers curled slightly within the folds of his cloak, the warmth of it suddenly too noticeable, too intimate.
“They were…” she began, then hesitated, her gaze lowering for the briefest moment before she forced it back up again, meeting his eyes with a composure she did not quite feel. “Witch hunting me.”
The words felt absurd even as she said them, but she held to them all the same.
Logan tilted his head, his gaze sharpening with a flicker of silent amusement. He saw the wall she’d just put up, and more importantly, he chose not to kick it down.
“Aye,” he said softly, his voice trailing with a hint of a ghost-smile. “A dangerous business, then.”
But something like curiosity flickered in his eyes, sharper now, his head tilting just slightly. He wanted to ask more and Rose felt the weight of it immediately.
He could be dangerous.
The realization cut through whatever fragile ease had begun to form between them, steadying her at once. Whatever he had done for her, whatever strange, fleeting connection had passed between them, it did not change that.
“I should go,” she said, the words coming out of habit more than anything else, her body already shifting slightly as though to move past him.
His gaze moved over her once more, taking in the faint tremor she could not fully hide, the way her stance had begun to falter despite her effort to remain composed.
“Ye’ll nae get far,” he said.
There was only honesty in his voice, and something like concern. She knew he was right. But she could not allow herself to trust a stranger, no matter how kind he was.
Rose’s chin lifted slightly. “I have managed this far.”
“Ye seem like ye’ve been running on little more than will,” he said quietly, his expression serious. “That willnae hold much longer.”
The truth of it struck deeper than she wanted it to. She said nothing.
“Ye can come wi’ me,” he continued. “Tae me castle. Rest. Eat. We’ll speak o’ why those men were after ye when ye’ve the strength fer it.”
Rose hesitated. Everything in her told her to be cautious, to hold back, to question. But her body?—
Her body was tired. Her arm ached and her thoughts had begun to blur. The idea of warmth, of safety, of walls that could keep those men out pulled at her.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
There was no urgency or pressure in him. Only patience and something steady that, against her better judgement, told her that the wisest choice would be to go with him.
She drew in a breath, then nodded.
“I accept,” she said.
And for the first time since she had stepped into the darkness beyond Briar Hall, she allowed herself to feel safe.