Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Dinnae look so stricken,” Christina said over her shoulder, her tone light, though her eyes were kind as they flicked back to Rose. “It’s only supper, nae a trial.”
Rose managed a faint smile, though her hands remained folded too neatly before her. “That depends, I think, on who is doing the watching.”
Christina let out a soft sound that might have been the beginning of a laugh. “Aye, well. They’ll watch. They’d watch a new hound or a cart o’ turnips if it came through the gates at the right hour. That’s simply how keeps work.”
Rose wanted to believe her. But as they drew nearer and the sound of voices thickened beyond the doorway, her pulse began to beat harder in her throat.
The hall was warmer than she had expected. The heat struck her the moment she stepped inside, carrying the scent of bread, meat, smoke, and people. It was not the careful warmth of English houses, tucked neatly into drawing rooms and private chambers. It lived here. It moved.
Rose stopped for half a heartbeat. It was too much at once. Too warm. Too alive. Too different.
Christina noticed immediately. She shifted closer without making a display of it, one hand briefly touching Rose’s sleeve.
“Breathe,” she murmured, low enough that only Rose could hear. “They’re eating, nae hunting.”
Rose drew in a slow breath. She felt suddenly, painfully aware of herself again.
Of the fact that she did not belong to this place.
That she had walked in from the road with another man’s cloak around her shoulders and dust still clinging to the hem of her dress.
That whatever place had been made for her here had been made out of mercy, not right.
And then there was Logan.
She could feel him even without turning, saying nothing, but present enough that it seemed to shape the very air at her back. The thought came without permission and settled low in her chest before she could stop it: she was here because he had chosen not to turn away.
And yet, he didn’t make her feel calm. He made her feel watched at every turn, but she was grateful to him all the same. Worse still, she could not seem to keep her own eyes from seeking him out.
Christina moved first, and Rose followed because there was nothing else to do.
A long table had been set nearer the fire. Not apart from the hall entirely, but separate enough that it was unmistakable. A place made for them. Or perhaps, Rose thought, a place made to keep her from the rest.
She felt the looks almost at once. Men glanced toward her over cups and trenchers, some only briefly, some with no effort at all to disguise their interest. Rose felt each look like a small needle against her skin.
Her shoulders drew back on instinct. Her chin lifted.
Christina glanced at her again.
“They’ll settle,” she said quietly as they crossed the room. “Especially once they see ye dinnae burst intae flame over the stew.”
Rose turned her head just enough to look at her. “Is that the current fear?”
“It was earlier,” Christina said. “Now I believe half o’ them only want tae ken whether Englishwomen eat differently.”
Despite herself, Rose nearly laughed. That alone made the tightness in her chest shift.
By the time they reached the table, she had at least remembered how to walk without feeling every eye in the room.
“Ye’ll sit here,” Christina said, pulling out a chair for her with easy warmth.
The gesture touched something tender in her almost at once. No one outside her own family had ever made room for her so naturally, without calculation or display. Just welcome, offered as though it cost nothing.
“Thank you,” Rose said, quieter than she intended.
Christina smiled as though the words were unnecessary. “Sit before ye faint.”
“I do not faint,” Rose said automatically.
“Nay?” Christina arched a brow. “Then I’ll amend it. Sit afore ye collapse wi’ dignity.”
A startled laugh escaped Rose as she lowered herself into the chair.
Logan took the place opposite her.
For a brief moment, their eyes met and her breath caught in her chest.
Then he looked away first, reaching for the cup set before him as though nothing in the world held his attention more than the drink in his hand.
Rose lowered her gaze as well.
The food was brought quickly after that—bread still warm, a simple stew, roasted meat. The scent alone made something tighten in her stomach, a reminder of how little she had eaten in the past days, some berries here and there.
She picked up the knife and fork.
The blade moved easily through the meat, her wrist steady as she cut a small, even piece before bringing it to her lips.
She kept her posture straight, her elbows close, each movement contained and precise.
Her gaze lowered more often than not to her plate as she ate quietly, setting the knife down before lifting her cup.
Across from her, Christina had begun eating without such consideration.
Rose noticed it only in passing at first—the lack of careful division, the ease of it, the way she spoke between bites without apology. Logan did the same, though more quietly.
Rose returned her focus to her plate, her movements settling again into quiet, careful rhythm.
After a moment, she stopped hearing voices around her. Not the hall itself, but the space around their table had gone still. She set her knife and fork down and looked up.
Logan and Christina were both watching her. Logan’s brow had drawn faintly, as though trying to make sense of something, while Christina’s lips were pressed tight, her eyes bright with barely contained laughter.
Rose stilled.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice soft, though she kept it steady.
Christina’s lips pressed together, as though holding something back.
“Nay,” she said, though the word came a fraction too quickly. “Naething at all.”
Logan glanced between them, his brow drawing faintly. Christina looked at him then, and whatever restraint she had been holding seemed to slip just slightly.
“She’s eatin’ like she’s at court,” she said.
Rose blinked as Logan’s gaze settled on her. He stayed silent for a heartbeat, watching the rigid precision of her movements.
"Is that how they dae it?" he asked. His tone was mild, but the underlying grit made her pulse skip.
Rose forced her spine to lengthen.
"It is… the proper way to eat," she said, the word feeling brittle in the open air of the hall.
Christina’s laugh broke the tension, sudden and bright. It wasn't a mockery, but it startled Rose into a sharp awareness of herself. She saw the corner of Logan’s mouth twitch toward a smile.
"Proper," he repeated, and the way the word rolled off his tongue sent a flush of heat climbing into her cheeks.
She looked down at her plate. The neat arrangement of her food felt like an indictment. Every practiced gesture—the positioning of her hands, the angle of her chin—marked her as a stranger.
"I was taught to—" she started, but Logan cut her off.
"Aye, I’m sure ye were." There was only a raw, inescapable amusement in his voice.
Rose hesitated. She could retreat into her armor, maintaining the cold polish of Briar Hall until it became a wall between them. Instead, she set the knife down, the metal clattering against the wood.
She reached for a piece of bread, trying to mimic their blunt, unstudied ease. Her movements were clumsy.
Christina’s lips pressed together, the girl’s effort to stifle a second laugh vibrating through the air. She could feel Logan watching, his eyes tracking the small, jagged fracture in her composure.
They find this funny. Rose lifted her chin slightly.
“I assure you,” she said, gathering what remained of her dignity around her like a cloak, “I am quite capable?—”
The bread slipped.
It was enough to make Christina laugh outright.
Rose felt the heat rush straight into her face. She held herself still for one beat too long, hoping her lack of reaction would undo what had just happened.
Logan only looked at her. His unreadable gaze stayed on her face, and for the smallest, strangest moment Rose thought he might spare her. That he might say something low and dry and rescuing enough to let her gather herself again.
Then his mouth curved and a quiet laugh escaped his throat.
Rose stared at them. For a moment, she felt blood rush to her cheeks, her heart beating too loud. But looking at their pure, unfiltered joy, she realized there was no malice in it.
And then something in her gave way.
Her own laugh escaped, soft at first, then fuller, loosened by embarrassment and the absurdity of the whole thing. The tightness she had carried into the hall broke all at once, slipping free in that sound before she could pull it back.
Christina leaned into her chair, smiling without the slightest effort to hide it now. “There,” she said. “That’s better.”
Rose pressed her lips together, though the smile would not quite leave them. She shook her head once, the motion small and helpless. “I fear I have made a dreadful impression.”
“On the contrary,” Logan said. Something had changed in his voice. The humor was still there, but quieter now, closer. “Ye’re daein’ just fine.”
Rose looked at him and found him already watching. The firelight turned the hazel of his eyes to a molten, sunny gold that burned hotter than the hearth at their backs. She held his gaze a moment too long. The hall fell silent, leaving only the low thrum of the fire and the raw weight of his stare.
“The horses will be fresh in the mornin’,” Logan said, his voice dropping into a low, private tone that ignored the crowded tables around them. “If the rest has served ye well, will ye let me show ye how tae ride?”
Rose felt the invitation like a pull in her chest, a dizzying mix of fear and an even more dangerous curiosity. She didn’t look up from the rim of her cup, but she nodded, her movement small and deliberate. “I think... I should like to try.”
“Good,” he murmured.
She forced herself to meet his eyes again, intending only to offer a polite acknowledgment, but the sound died in her throat.