Chapter 9 #2
Aye, he could promise it, because the alternative was unthinkable.
He could promise it because the thought of English riders breaching his walls, of Barnaby Henshaw’s men laying hands on her again, had sent something black and violent through him so quickly he had barely recognized himself beneath it.
“Drink wi’ me,” Logan said finally.
Conn’s brow rose slightly. “Is that an invitation or an order?”
Logan moved toward the table near the hearth and reached for the whisky. “Whichever gets ye tae stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like ye ken what I’m thinking and ye disapprove.”
Conn leaned back in his chair, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I usually ken.”
Logan gave him a flat look, but he knew there was not enough bite in it.
He poured two cups, and the scent rose immediately, smoky enough to sting the back of his throat. He handed one to Conn, then sat in the chair opposite him.
Conn accepted the cup but did not drink at once.
Logan downed the cup, the whisky burning clean down his throat. He welcomed it. It gave him something simple to feel that had nothing to do with Rose.
He set the cup down harder than he meant to.
Conn’s gaze flicked to it. “That sort o’ night, then.”
“It’s been that sort o’ week.”
“Aye,” Conn said quietly. “I can imagine.”
Logan could feel the pressure of Conn’s stare as he poured another measure, the liquid rising higher than usual in the cup.
“I dinnae need mothering,” Logan said.
“Good,” Conn replied dryly. “I’d be poor at it.”
Logan took another drink. The burn steadied him for half a breath, then faded, leaving his thoughts untouched.
He could not stop thinking of her ankle beneath his hand, the pale skin warm from the blankets, the way she had tensed and tried to hide it.
She had probably been taught that even pain must be hidden.
His fingers tightened around the cup.
Conn watched him over the rim of his whisky. “What troubles ye?”
Logan let out a low breath through his nose. “Too much.”
“That answers naething.”
Logan didn’t reply. The fire cracked, sending a small flare of sparks up the chimney.
Conn leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, cup held loosely between both hands. “The men are uneasy.”
Logan’s eyes shifted to him. “About the English riders?”
“That. And her.”
The cup stilled in Logan’s hand. “She’s nae caused trouble.”
Conn lifted one hand slightly. “I didnae say she did. But ye ken how men think. An Englishwoman appears, hunted and half-starved. By the next sunset, word comes that English riders are nosing around the edges o’ our land.”
“There is a pattern,” Logan said, his voice low. “Barnaby Henshaw.”
“Aye. And he is an Englishman hunting her.”
The word struck his lungs.
Logan looked back to the fire before Conn could read too much in his face.
English. It should have been enough to keep distance between him and her.
It had been enough for years. The English had taken his father through deceit and Logan had learned what it meant to fraternize with them.
Trust was a gate. Once opened to the wrong hand, it could never quite be made whole again.
And yet, when Rose had looked at him and whispered that she did not want harm to come to his people, there had been no calculation on her face. Only guilt and a quiet horror at the thought that her survival might cost strangers’ blood.
He hated that he believed it.
“She is nae like them,” Logan said.
Conn’s eyes narrowed. “I didnae say she was.”
“Nay,” Logan muttered, taking another drink. “But ye were circling near it.”
Conn’s mouth pressed flat. “I’m circling near what must be said. Ye’re the laird. Ye dinnae have the luxury o’ thinking only with whatever soft place she’s found under yer ribs.”
Slowly, Logan raised his eyes to him, but Conn did not look away.
Around them, the hall seemed to draw quieter. Logan felt the whisky warm in his blood, but it had not softened him. If anything, it had loosened the edge of something he usually kept locked behind his teeth.
“I need to be careful,” he said.
Conn’s gaze remained steady. “That is exactly what I’m asking ye tae be.”
Logan’s hand tightened around the cup until the wood creaked faintly beneath his fingers. He forced his grip to loosen.
“I found her being dragged across a tavern floor, Conn,” he said, each word controlled. “I saw the bruises on her arm. And taenight, I heard her apologize fer bringing danger tae walls she never asked tae enter.”
His throat tightened unexpectedly. He swallowed it down before it could show.
Conn’s face softened by a fraction.
Logan looked away, then continued. “I ken what she is. I ken where she comes from. Dinnae think I’ve forgotten.”
“I dinnae think ye’ve forgotten.” Conn leaned back slowly, the old chair creaking beneath him. “But just because she’s different from the men who betrayed yer faither, it disnae mean the men looking fer her are.”
The words went under the armor before Logan could stop them.
He saw his father’s hand, broad and scarred, resting on the back of his neck when he was a boy. He heard the deep laugh that used to fill this hall. He smelled rain and mud and blood, memory rising with such force that for a moment the whisky turned bitter on his tongue.
Then he saw Rose, with her torn composure and her lowered gaze. Rose, trying not to cry when he told her she was not the danger she thought she was.
His chest tightened enough to hurt.
“She is under me protection,” Logan said.
“Aye,” Conn replied. “Protect her. But stay clear-headed while ye dae it.”
Logan laughed once, without humor. “Ye think I’m nae?”
He set the cup down and pushed to his feet.
Conn watched him rise but did not move. “Where are ye going?”
“Tae sleep.” Logan answered as he turned around.
Conn sighed. “Logan.”
He paused, his back turned.
“Whatever this is,” Conn said, quieter now, “dinnae let it make ye careless.”
“Good night, Conn.”
Logan left the hall with Conn’s warning following him like a second shadow.