Chapter 11 #2
His attention shifted before his face did. His sharp stare found her, dropping at once to the slight carefulness of her step. His jaw tightened and she hated that he saw it.
Rose crossed the yard with all the grace she could gather, the hem of her gown brushing over the damp stone.
The eyes of a few men followed her, but she did not look at them.
She stopped before Logan with enough distance between them to be proper and enough closeness that her heart began to misbehave.
“My laird,” she said, breathless despite herself.
His expression changed by a fraction at the title.
“Rose,” he replied, his voice low. “Ye shouldnae be standing in the cold.”
“I need to speak with you.”
Conn’s gaze moved between them. There was a quiet understanding in his eyes that made Rose feel even more exposed. He murmured something to Logan and moved away, taking two guards with him.
Logan handed his reins to a waiting boy without looking away from her. “Speak then.”
The simplicity of the command nearly stole the words from her. She had prepared them on the stairs. They had seemed orderly then. Necessary.
But now he stood before her, solid and alive, and the thought of leaving him struck with such sudden force that she had to fold her hands to keep them steady.
“I think it best that I leave.”
For a moment, he did not move. The courtyard seemed to narrow around them.
Then his eyes darkened. “Nay.”
Rose drew a slow breath. “You have not heard my reasoning.”
“I heard enough.”
“That is not fair.”
“Nay,” he said, taking one step closer. “What isnae fair is ye deciding tae limp out o’ me gates because ye think guilt makes ye wiser than the rest of us.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I am not acting from guilt alone.”
“Then what else?”
“Gratitude,” she said before she could stop herself.
The word struck something in his face, but she continued.
“And respect. You have done more for me than I had any right to ask. Your sister has been kinder than I expected from anyone. Your people have accepted trouble beneath their roof because you told them to. I cannot repay that by remaining here until Barnaby’s men force their way to your walls. ”
His mouth tightened at Barnaby’s name. “They willnae force their way anywhere.”
“You cannot know that.”
“I ken enough.”
“No,” she said, and the word came out softer than intended, more wounded than defiant. “You know how to fight them. That is not the same as knowing no one will bleed.”
The hard line of his expression shifted.
“I should never have come here,” she said. She would not make her fear another burden he had to manage. “You have all been more kind to me than you should have. That is precisely why I must go.”
Logan stepped closer again, enough that she had to tilt her head to keep his gaze. His voice dropped, roughened by something he seemed to be holding back.
“The roads are crawling wi’ men looking fer ye.”
“I know.”
“Ye dinnae ken.” His eyes searched her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. “They have a likeness o’ ye. They’re showing it in villages. Offering coin.”
The blood drained from her face so quickly she felt the world tilt.
A drawing. Her face turned into parchment, held up before strangers, passed from one rough grip to another.
She swallowed, but her throat would not clear. “They have… a drawing?”
Logan’s jaw worked once. Regret flickered across his face, swift and controlled. “Aye.”
Rose looked away, humiliation and fear crashing together until she could scarcely tell one from the other. It was not enough that Barnaby hunted her. Now, he had made her visible. He had turned her into something people could point to, recognize, sell.
Her hands trembled, so she clasped them tighter.
“That is all the more reason,” she whispered.
“It is all the more reason tae stay.”
“If I stay, they will come here.”
“If ye leave, they’ll find ye on open roads wi’ a hurt ankle and nay walls between ye and them.”
“I survived before.”
“Barely,” his voice hardened. “And if ye leave now, every mile ye dragged yerself through will have been fer naething.”
The word struck too close to truth.
Rose flinched, and Logan’s face changed at once, the anger in it folding into something quieter. He seemed to regret the bluntness, but not the meaning.
“I am sorry,” he said, low enough that only she could hear. “But I’ll nae soften it if soft words put ye in danger.”
Her chest ached. He was right. She hated that he was right. She hated more that his rightness felt like care.
“I cannot simply sit in a chamber while your clan suffers for me,” she said.
“They are nae suffering fer ye. They are preparing because an English lord thinks he can reach across the border and take what isnae his.”
“What if he burns your fields?” she asked, the question barely a whisper. “What if he raids your lands?”
“Then we answer,” Logan said. His voice was level, as steady as the stone beneath them.
“And what if people are hurt?” Her hands curled into the fabric of her skirts, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “What if they die because of me?”
Logan’s expression tightened. For a moment, he did not answer, and that silence frightened her more than any easy reassurance could have.
“Then I’ll answer fer every choice I make,” he said at last, stepping closer until his shadow crowded hers. “I will always protect those placed under me roof, guest and clan alike. That is what it means tae be laird.”
Rose shook her head, a small, jagged movement. “You say that as if it makes it easy. As if it makes it simple.”
“It dinnae make it simple.” His voice lost its smoothness, turning into something raw and heavy. “But it is me decision tae make.”
Something in her chest gave way.
Before she could answer, hurried footsteps struck the stone behind them.
“Me laird!”
Logan turned at once, his whole body changing before the councilman had fully reached them. Whatever softness had been between them vanished behind the iron line of command.
The man crossing the courtyard was older, broad through the chest, with grey in his beard and mud on the hem of his cloak. His face was flushed from hard riding, and one sleeve was torn near the elbow.
“Malcolm,” Logan said. “What happened?”
Malcolm’s gaze flicked briefly to Rose, then back to Logan. “English riders struck near my southern fields at first light. Took two horses, grain sacks from the storehouse, and wounded one o’ me men when he tried tae stop them.”
Rose’s stomach dropped.
Logan went very still. “Dead?”
“Nay. But he breathes poorly.”
The courtyard seemed to tilt beneath Rose’s feet.
Because of me.
The thought came so violently she nearly stepped back.
Logan’s voice cut through the ringing in her ears. “How many riders?”
“Eight, mayhap ten. They didnae stay long.”
Conn had reappeared by Logan’s shoulder, his expression dark as thunder. Men began to gather at a distance, drawn by the urgency in Malcolm’s voice.
Logan’s eyes moved once toward Rose.
She tried to stand straight beneath the look, but she knew he saw too much. The guilt. The horror. The fact that every argument she had made now stood bleeding in front of them.
His voice lowered. “Rose.”
She swallowed. “You should go.”
“We will finish this.”
“No.” Her fingers tightened in her skirts. “Your people need you.”
For a moment, he looked as if he might argue.
Then another guard approached at speed, asking Conn for orders, and the courtyard broke into movement around them.
Logan stepped close enough that his words reached only her. “Go back inside. Rest the ankle. Dinnae make any decisions while fear is holding the reins.”
She wanted to say that fear had nothing to do with it, but the lie would not come.
“I will consider what you said,” she managed.
His gaze held hers, hard and searching, as if he knew the promise was thinner than he wanted it to be. Rose lifted her chin with what little dignity remained.
A faint, grim softness touched his eyes then, and he nodded. “Good.”
He turned away, already issuing orders, his voice carrying across the courtyard with calm authority. Men straightened. Horses were called for. Conn moved to gather riders, and Malcolm began describing the raid in sharper detail.
Rose stood still for one heartbeat longer, watching Logan become the laird again. This was the man responsible for every life inside and beyond these walls, and now English riders had wounded one of them.
Her throat tightened until breathing hurt.
Then she turned and walked back toward the keep, her steps careful, her face composed, while the last of her certainty bent beneath the weight of what she had brought to his door.