Chapter 7 #2
Logan didn’t look away. He leaned a fraction closer, his gaze fixed on her, steady enough to make her breath catch.
She felt like she was going to burst, the heat in her face reaching a fever pitch, so she dropped her gaze first and reached for her cup with a hand that wasn't quite steady.
The rest came easier after that.
No one returned to what had brought her there.
No one asked about the road, or Barnaby, or the men at the tavern.
Christina began speaking of smaller things instead, and once she began, she rarely stopped.
She told Rose which maid burned oatcakes, which hound had once stolen an entire roast from the kitchens, which old retainer could not hear well enough to know when men insulted him and therefore smiled through every slight.
Rose listened at first more than she spoke.
Then, without quite meaning to, she answered.
A word here. A question there. Enough to keep Christina going, enough to make Logan glance at her now and then with that same quiet attention that had begun, somehow, to feel less like scrutiny and more like awareness.
By the time the meal neared its end, Rose no longer felt as though she were sitting under judgment. The hall still belonged to them and not to her. The voices, the laughter, the easy roughness of it all still came from a world she did not know. Yet something in her had eased.
The place no longer felt closed against her.
And for the first time since she had crossed into Scotland, she found herself wondering what it might feel like to belong somewhere that asked so little performance of her.
The morning air was colder than she had expected.
It bit at her skin the moment she stepped into the courtyard, the warmth of the hall replaced by something sharper, cleaner. The scent of damp earth lingered beneath it, mingling with the faint smell of hay and horses.
Rose drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she entered the stables.
Logan was already there.
He stood near the horse, his back turned slightly, one hand resting against the animal’s neck as the horse shifted under his touch.
He turned when he heard her approach. For a brief moment, his gaze moved over her, assessing in a way that made her straighten instinctively before she could stop herself.
“Ye came,” Logan said, the corners of his lips lifting in a slow, ghost-smile that reached his eyes.
“You asked me to,” Rose replied, her voice more stable than her pounding heart.
She stepped toward him, her boots crunching over the frost-hardened earth. His mouth shifted faintly at her answer—a small, knowing quirk that suggested he knew exactly how much effort it had taken for her to cross the courtyard and willingly approach a horse.
“Aye,” he murmured, stepping closer. The distance between them vanished, replaced by that sharp, unrelenting awareness she always felt in his proximity. “Come here.”
She obeyed. He placed the reins in her hands first, his fingers closing over hers to adjust her grip. The contact was brief, but it left a wake of heat that lingered long after he pulled away.
“Hold them like this,” he instructed, his touch steadying her hands before he stepped back to survey her. “And sit straight.”
A small, genuine smile tugged at her lips. “I have been trained in the art of sitting straight since I was old enough to reach the table, my laird. I am quite practiced in that regard.”
“Aye,” he murmured, his gaze traveling the length of her spine with a slow focus that made her skin prickle. “I’ve noticed.”
The words settled between them, heavy with a subtext she wasn't yet brave enough to name.
He helped her into the saddle, his hands firm and certain at her waist. Her body yielded, just a fraction, to the strength of him.
Then, without warning, the horse lowered its head to the dirt. It was a simple, sudden movement, but Rose’s old fear surged like a tide. A short, sharp sound escaped her, and her hand left the saddle instinctively, reaching out to catch hold of Logan’s arm.
He stilled instantly. For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Rose realized she was clutching his forearm, her fingers dug into the solid muscle beneath his sleeve. She could not let go. The strength of him felt like the only grounded thing in a shifting world, and her grip tightened, a silent admission of her need for his stability.
Logan looked down at her hand, then back up at her, his eyes searching hers. “He’s only lookin’ fer grass.”
She drew her hand back at once, her face burning.
“I am aware,” she said, though the tremor in her voice made a lie of the words.
A flicker of raw amusement crossed his expression.
“Aye,” he said, the word a soft challenge.
Rose narrowed her eyes at his tone. “I do not see what is so amusing, my laird.”
“Ye jumped,” he replied simply.
“I did not jump. I merely... recalibrated.”
His silence was a grin he refused to hide.
Rose turned her gaze forward, her posture stiffening as she gathered the remnants of her composure.
“Walk him,” he commanded, stepping beside the horse. She did, moving in small, steady circles. With him as her anchor, the terrifying sway of the animal became a predictable, almost lulling motion.
Her breathing evened; the white-knuckle grip on the reins softened into something calmer.
“Ye learn quickly,” he said after a time, looking up at her with a sincerity that caught her off guard.
Rose glanced down, meeting that golden stare. “Do I?”
“Aye.” There was only a quiet, heavy truth in his words that made her chest ache.
“Then perhaps,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “there is hope for me yet.”
Logan held her gaze, his expression softening into something dangerously close to tenderness.
“Fer more than just ridin’, Rose,” he said quietly.
The air in her lungs suddenly became too thin. She turned her eyes back to the path ahead, focusing on the horse’s ears as though they might steady her.
“Well,” Logan said after a moment, his voice regaining its teasing edge, “since ye’ve managed tae stay in the saddle wi’out reachin’ fer me arm again, I believe a reward is in order.”
Rose glanced down at him, her heart still unsteady in her chest. “A reward? And what, pray tell, do you consider a fitting prize for a successful lap of the courtyard?”
Logan’s mouth quirked into a real smile this time. “A picnic would suffice, I think. There’s a ridge nae far from here where the wind disnae bite quite so hard.”
Before she could answer, he stepped closer and lifted his hands toward her.
“Come down,” he said.
Rose placed her hand in his. He closed his fingers around it and steadied her with the other at her waist, lifting her down from the saddle with the same effortless strength he had shown all morning.
Her heart skipped a beat as the ground rose to meet her and, for one brief, disorienting moment, she felt herself suspended between the horse and his body.
Her boots touched the earth, but his hand remained at her waist a moment longer than it had to.
A flutter moved low in her stomach before she could master it.
She stepped back at once, more for the sake of her own composure than because the space was needed, and lowered her gaze.
“That is a very grand reward for so modest an achievement,” she said, though her voice had lost some of its steadiness.
Logan looked at her in a way that only made it worse. “I’m feeling generous.”
She risked a glance up then, and the intensity she saw in his face left her unable to do more than nod.
“Wait here,” he said, giving the horse’s neck a final pat before turning toward the keep. “I’ll gather what we need. Dinnae wander off while I’m gone.”
Rose’s head came up at once. “I would never?—”
His look stopped her.
“Very well,” she murmured.
He left her standing there in the yard, watching as he crossed toward the keep with that same long, certain stride that always seemed to make the world around him look smaller.
The moment he disappeared through the stone archway, the quiet around her changed.
Rose stood with her hands lightly clasped before her, the cool air brushing her cheeks, and became aware of the strange sensation beneath her ribs.
It was something that made her feel both foolish and unsteady.
She had no name for it. She only knew that, as she stood there waiting in the courtyard, she was no longer listening for the horse behind her or footsteps passing from the hall. She was listening for his return.