Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Rose had been staring at the ceiling for so long that the jagged patterns above her had begun to feel almost familiar. The chamber was quiet around her, warmed by the steady glow of the fire and the faint scent of herbs the healer had left steeping in a small cup near the bedside.
Her ankle throbbed beneath the careful binding.
It was a dull, insistent ache that reminded her of the ridiculous little stumble by the river, of Logan catching her before she had struck the ground, and the sudden, firm pressure of his hands at her waist.
Rose squeezed her eyes shut, but it did not help.
He handled me too easily, she thought, her pulse skipping a beat. How could a man hold so much strength?
The memory sent a strange chill through her spine, because there had been no attempt to prove his strength, no performance in it.
Her fingers tightened in the blanket as the cold returned.
English riders. Men searching the nearby roads, asking after a runaway Englishwoman. They were still looking. Barnaby was still reaching for her. A hard knot formed in her throat. She swallowed, refusing to let the panic climb any higher.
This was not only about her now. She had brought danger to Logan’s walls.
But Logan had not turned her away after learning about Barnaby. Even knowing men hunted her, even knowing the English were moving closer, he had looked at her with that calm expression and decided she would remain.
The strange feeling came again, fluttering beneath her ribs.
It was gratitude, surely. It had to be. Any woman would feel grateful toward a man who had saved her, sheltered her, promised safety.
Her brow drew together, and she shifted against the pillows, uneasy with herself.
A knock sounded at the door.
Rose went still. Her heart reacted at once, beating hard enough that she felt it at the base of her throat. She was certain it was Logan.
Her ankle gave a faint pulse of pain as she adjusted herself, but she forced her face into composure.
“Come in,” she said, forcing her voice to sound calm.
The door opened, and he stepped inside.
For a moment, the chamber seemed to change around him. The firelight caught on the dark waves of his hair and the strong line of his jaw. His tunic was plain, dark wool stretched across broad shoulders, his sleeves rolled just enough to show the strength in his forearms.
Rose’s breath caught before she could stop it.
His gaze moved over her face first, then lower to the blanket covering her injured foot, then back again. There was nothing improper in the look, and yet her spine straightened against the pillows.
“How is yer ankle?” His voice was quiet, roughened, and it seemed to settle too close to her skin.
“Better,” Rose replied, inclining her head slightly.
He crossed the room with an unhurried stride and came to the side of the bed. “May I see?”
For a heartbeat, she did not answer. She had the absurd wish to hide under the covers, even though the question was proper.
Rose drew a breath. “Yes.”
Logan nodded once, then sat carefully on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
Rose felt the shift through her whole body.
She kept her shoulders relaxed by force alone, though every nerve had sharpened to awareness.
He was close enough now that she could see the faint bruise along his knuckle from the fight at the tavern, the clean cut of his cheekbone, the way his lashes lowered as he turned his attention to her foot.
He drew back the blanket with care. Cool air brushed against her ankle and lower leg, and her leg tensed at the exposure.
His hands paused, eyes darting to her for a fraction, before continuing to unwrap the cloth.
Logan’s fingers moved with surprising gentleness for a man of his size. He unwound the binding slowly, one layer at a time, the linen whispering against her skin. Rose looked at the fire, then the window, then anywhere that was not his hands.
It did not matter. She felt every movement.
The last layer came free and Logan’s gaze settled on the swelling. His mouth tightened slightly as he murmured. “It’s come down some.”
“That is encouraging, I suppose.”
The corner of his mouth shifted. “Only suppose?”
“I am reserving judgment until it stops aching.”
“A wise lady.”
Rose's gaze drifted toward him before she could catch it. He looked up at that exact moment, the corners of his eyes crinkling. She felt the air in her lungs hitch and a sudden, private heat jumped between them like a spark from the hearth.
She wrenched her eyes back to the floor, her heart thudding against her ribs as the blood burned its way up her neck and into her cheeks.
Logan returned his attention to her ankle. “Tell me if this pains ye.”
Before she could prepare herself, his thumb pressed lightly beside the swollen area.
Rose inhaled sharply.
Her ankle hurt, but that was not why her breath caught.
He froze. His hand remained where it was, warm against her bare skin, but his pressure eased at once.
“Too much?” he asked, his voice lower.
“No,” she said quickly, then forced herself to soften the answer. “No. It startled me, that is all.”
His eyes remained on her ankle, though something in his jaw worked once. “I’ll be careful.”
“You already are.” The words left her before she had considered them.
Logan’s hand stilled again.
Rose felt her pulse leap, startled by the honesty in her answer. but Logan only resumed with that same measured care, testing the joint, his fingers moving over the tender skin with a restraint that made her throat feel strangely tight.
When he finished, he reached for the cloth and began to wrap it again. His hands were firm enough to support, gentle enough not to hurt.
Rose watched him this time, unable not to. The firelight moved across his bent head and the strong line of his shoulders. An ache that had nothing to do with her ankle opened softly in her chest.
“There,” he said at last, fastening the cloth. “Dinnae put weight on it until mornin’. Even then, slowly.”
“I do not like to remain still.”
His gaze lifted. “I noticed.”
Rose blinked. “Have you?”
“Aye.” His mouth curved faintly.
Something dangerously close to laughter warmed her throat. “How perceptive of you, my laird.”
“Logan,” he corrected her quietly.
Rose’s breath caught around the name. It sat between them differently here, without the distance of title and circumstance. She folded her hands tighter, her nails pressing lightly into her own skin.
“Logan,” she repeated, because refusing would have made it matter more.
His gaze held hers for a moment longer than propriety allowed, then he stood. The bed rose slightly with the loss of his weight, and she disliked the emptiness of it at once. It was absurd enough to make her look away.
He moved to the chair near the hearth but did not sit. “Is there anything else ye need?”
Rose’s first instinct was to say no. It was always no. No trouble. No need. No weakness. Yet the silence after his question seemed to make room for the fear she had been holding back.
She looked down at her bound ankle.
“They are close, are they not?” she asked softly.
Logan caught it immediately. “The English riders?”
She nodded, still not looking at him. “They found the villages near your land. It feels as though every road I took has led them here, after all.”
Her voice remained composed, but her fingers betrayed her, twisting faintly in the blanket.
“I thought if I ran far enough, I might become difficult to find,” she continued. “But men like Barnaby do not stop, no matter how far you run.”
Logan was quiet for a beat, then he stepped closer. She still did not look up, but felt his steady warmth.
“Rose.”
Her name in his voice made her lift her eyes.
His expression had changed. The faint amusement was gone, replaced by something harder.
“While ye are in me castle,” he said, each word spoken slowly, “nay man will take ye from it.”
Her throat tightened. “You cannot promise that.”
His eyes did not waver. “I can.”
“But if they come because of me?—”
“They’ll be dealt wi’,” he said. The words were short and final, like a gate locking shut.
The air left Rose in a rush. Beneath her ribs, the rigid composure she relied on finally started to fray. A sharp, jagged tremor worked its way through her chest until she had to knot her fingers into the blankets to stop her hands from shaking.
“I do not want harm to come to your people,” she whispered.
The hard line of his face eased.
“I ken.” His voice lowered further. “Ye’re nae the danger ye think ye are.”
Rose looked down quickly, as Logan stepped back, giving her the mercy of space.
“Rest,” he said after a moment. “Let the ankle mend. We’ll speak more in the morning.”
She nodded once. “Thank you.”
He turned toward the door, then paused with his hand near the latch. For a moment, she thought he might say something else. She found herself waiting for it, foolishly still, her heartbeat caught somewhere between hope and dread.
“Good night, Rose.” His voice was softer.
“Good night, Logan.”
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Rose remained sitting upright for several breaths, staring at the place where he had stood. Slowly, she lay back against the pillows.
Her ankle still ached. The English were still close. Barnaby still wanted her.
And yet, beneath all of that, beneath the fear and uncertainty and the careful restraint she wrapped around herself like armor, there was that strange feeling again, small and treacherous and alive.
Every time she thought of Logan, it woke.
As soon as Logan stepped into the Great Hall, his eyes landed on Conn. He sat with his bad leg stretched toward the flames, a cup in hand. To anyone else, he looked half-asleep.
Conn’s eyes lifted before Logan had crossed half the room, but neither man spoke.
Logan should have gone to his chamber, let the day settle and rest before dawn brought another round of reports, patrols, and decisions. Instead, he stood in the middle of his own hall with Rose’s voice still caught somewhere beneath his ribs.
You cannot promise that.