Chapter 19 #2
She stood, dressing with shaking hands, though there was only so much she could do.
The blue wool had creased at the waist, one sleeve had slipped from its proper line, and her hair was beyond rescue.
She found a pin near the bed and tried to gather the pale strands back with some dignity, but her fingers refused to cooperate.
Logan watched her for half a second, then seemed to realize he was watching and turned away with discipline so obvious she might have laughed if her nerves had not been so frayed.
He tightened the laces of his tunic at his throat and reached for his belt. Then he checked the door again, opening it a crack and looking into the corridor.
“Clear,” he said.
Rose drew a steadying breath.
He turned back to her.
For a moment, nothing moved between them but the quiet knowledge of what had changed. She expected awkwardness. Perhaps a little distance, some return to guardedness now that daylight had found them.
Instead, Logan crossed the room and touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“Are ye all right?” he asked, the question too gentle.
Rose nodded. “Yes.”
Only then did he lower his hand.
They left together, quietly, intending to part near the study passage before anyone could draw conclusions they were not prepared to answer aloud. Rose walked with every scrap of poise she possessed, though her heart still fluttered unevenly with each step.
They had almost reached the turn when Conn appeared.
Rose stopped so abruptly her breath caught.
Conn stood at the end of the passage, one shoulder braced against the wall, his expression unreadable except for the faint, dry lift of one brow. In his hand, he held a folded letter.
Logan stilled beside her.
“Mornin’,” Conn said.
Rose’s face burned.
Logan’s voice was flat. “Conn.”
Conn’s gaze moved once from Logan’s rumpled sleeve to Rose’s hastily pinned hair, then back to Logan. He said nothing, but the silence was somehow worse.
He simply lifted the letter.
“This came at dawn,” he said. “Addressed tae both o’ ye.”
The last of Rose’s warmth vanished.
Logan took it at once. “From whom?”
“Nay seal I ken.”
Rose knew before Logan unfolded it.
She knew from the cold that slipped down her spine, and the way the corridor seemed to narrow.
Logan opened the letter. His face hardened as he read.
Rose’s hands folded together before her, gripping so tightly her fingers hurt. “It is from him.”
Logan did not answer. His eyes moved over the page, and with every line, the muscles in his jaw tightened further.
Conn’s expression darkened. “What daes it say?”
Logan hesitated, then looked at Rose.
“Read it,” she said, though her voice felt far away. “Please.”
His eyes sharpened with reluctance, but he obeyed.
“Lady Rose Algernon,” he read, each word cut flat and cold from his mouth, “ye have caused enough embarrassment wi’ this foolish flight.
Ye will return tae England and take yer proper place before yer family pays the price fer yer disobedience.
The Scottish laird sheltering ye has mistaken his place.
He will learn it if he continues tae stand between a man and what is owed tae him. ”
Rose’s lungs tightened.
Logan’s hand crumpled slightly around the edge of the page.
He continued, voice lower now. “Ye will come willingly, or I will strip protection from every person who has offered it tae ye.”
The corridor tilted.
Rose reached blindly for the wall.
Logan caught her by the elbow, steadying her. “Rose.”
“My sisters,” she whispered.
“Look at me.”
“My mother?—”
“Rose.” His voice lowered, not harsh, but absolute. “Look at me.”
She forced her gaze up.
His face was close, his eyes fixed on hers with such steady force that the corridor seemed to stop shifting. Conn had turned away slightly, giving them the mercy of privacy without leaving.
“He cannae reach ye here,” Logan said.
“But he says?—”
“He says many things because threats are all cowards have when they cannae get through a wall.” Logan’s hand moved from her elbow to her upper arm, grounding her. “Listen tae me. He sent men here and they died. Now he writes because he failed.”
Her breath came too fast.
“He knows my family,” she said. “He knows where they are.”
“And I’ll send riders tae watch the roads south. Quietly. I’ll send word. But ye shaking in this corridor willnae help them, and it willnae help ye.”
The words were practical. Firm. That was what steadied her.
Rose closed her eyes for one breath. She felt Logan’s hand on her arm, the warmth of him, the solid fact of his presence. Slowly, the worst of the panic retreated, though it left her hollow and cold.
When she opened her eyes, Logan was still watching her.
“There ye are,” he said softly.
Something in her chest broke at the tenderness of it.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
His brow furrowed. “Fer what?”
“For being frightened.”
Logan stared at her for a second, and then anger moved through his face. He folded the letter slowly, with far more care than his expression promised.
“Dinnae ever apologize tae me fer feelin’ whatever ye’re feelin'.”
Conn’s mouth tightened faintly, but he said nothing.
Logan looked toward him. “Send two trusted riders south. Quiet. Nay banners. I want word o’ Briar Hall and whether Henshaw’s men have moved near it.”
“Aye,” Conn said at once and left them.
For a moment, Rose and Logan stood alone in the passage.
“Come,” Logan said quietly.
“Where?”
“The gardens.” His gaze softened. “Ye need air.”
She almost smiled, though it trembled. “You say that often.”
“And I’m often right.”
She let him lead her.
The morning garden was pale and damp, the violence of the night strangely absent beneath the soft light. Dew clung to the leaves. The air smelled of wet earth and crushed greenery. Rose walked beside Logan with her hands folded before her, trying to gather herself.
Near the low wall, a young servant woman knelt beside a little girl with dark curls and a stubborn expression. The child had a pile of flowers in her lap and was attempting to twist them into a wreath, though every few seconds, the stems slipped apart and tumbled to the grass.
“Nay,” the girl huffed, scowling fiercely. “It keeps breaking.”
Her mother smiled tiredly. “Because ye’re pulling too hard, Elsie.”
Rose slowed.
The child tried again, and the flowers fell apart. The look of devastation on her small face moved through Rose with unexpected force.
“May I?” Rose asked softly.
The servant woman looked up quickly, startled. “Me lady?”
Rose lowered herself carefully to the grass before the child, heedless of the damp pressing into her skirt. “I used to make these with my sisters.”
The girl blinked at her. “Did yers break?”
“Constantly.”
That seemed to comfort her.
Rose took two stems and showed her how to cross them gently, how to tuck one beneath the other without crushing the fragile neck of the flower. Elsie watched with solemn concentration, her little fingers following Rose’s movements.
“Like this?” she asked.
“Exactly like that.”
Logan stood nearby, silent.
Rose felt him watching, but this time the warmth of it did not unsteady her. She helped Elsie add another flower, then another, until the wreath began to hold. The child’s face transformed with delight.
“Mam!” Elsie cried, jumping up. “Look!”
Her mother smiled, reaching out to brush a curl from the girl’s cheek. “Beautiful, mo chridhe.”
The girl beamed and ran back to her mother, holding the wreath as if it were a crown.
Rose remained kneeling for a moment.
Her chest tightened.
She could see her own mother suddenly, bending in the garden at Briar Hall, guiding Rose’s smaller hands through the stems of daisies while Marion demanded more blue flowers and Giselle cried because hers would not stay round.
Beautiful, my love. Try again. Rose looked down at her hands.
Logan came to stand beside her, close enough that his shadow touched her skirt.
“The lass seemed quite charmed by ye,” he said quietly.
Rose tried to smile. “She was charmed by success.”
“I dinnae think that was all.”
She looked toward Elsie and her mother, watching as the woman bent to set the wreath gently on the child’s head. The girl went still with pride, and her mother laughed softly before kissing her brow.
Something inside Rose ached so deeply she could hardly breathe.
“My mother used to do that,” she said.
Logan said nothing.
Rose’s fingers curled lightly in the damp grass. “She was always patient with us in the garden. I had forgotten that. Since leaving, I keep remembering only her fear. Her hands shaking.” Her throat tightened. “But before that, she was warm.”
Logan lowered himself beside her.
“She still is,” he said. His eyes held hers steadily. “Fear disnae take that from her.”
Rose looked back at the mother and child, at the wreath sitting crookedly over dark curls, at the small, ordinary tenderness of it.
For the first time since reading Barnaby’s letter, she breathed without pain.
And beside her, Logan remained solid, close enough to remind her that she was not alone while she remembered what love had looked like before terror touched it.