Chapter 20 #3
“I understand what my people did to your family,” she said, and the formal restraint in her voice broke just enough for him to hear the desperation beneath it.
“I understand why the thought of me writing south would unsettle you. But I am not plotting against you. I wrote to my mother because I miss her. Because I am frightened for her. Because Barnaby threatened my sisters, and I had to put the fear somewhere before it swallowed me.”
Logan felt the words strike one after another, each one loosening something he had tried to keep locked.
Rose’s hands dropped to her sides.
“I have trusted you enough to stay when every sensible part of me said I should run,” she said, her voice lower now, trembling at the edges from the effort of holding herself together.
“I have eaten at your table, learned from you, stood inside your walls, and tried every day not to bring trouble to your door. So if you mean to mistrust me, then do it honestly. Say you do not know how to trust an Englishwoman. Say your father’s blood still speaks louder than anything I have done. ”
His chest tightened painfully. “Rose?—”
Her eyes glistened, but her chin lifted.
“But do not make my love for my family into proof of betrayal.” The yard went silent. Even the distant sounds of supper seemed to fall away. Logan stood with the practice sword hanging uselessly in his hand, feeling like a fool.
He set the blade down slowly against the dummy.
“I was wrong,” he said.
Rose’s eyes flicked over his face.
The words were not enough. He knew that. They looked small beside the hurt he had put in her.
“I shouldnae have touched the letter,” he continued, voice lower. “And I shouldnae have let an old fear speak before I gave ye the trust ye’ve earned.”
Her lips pressed together. For a moment, he thought she might forgive him at once.
But she only nodded once.
“If you ever have a question about something I have written,” she added, her voice colder than he had ever heard it, “ask me before you go searching for treason inside my grief.”
Logan took a step toward her before he could stop himself. “Rose.”
“I think I should go.”
He stopped.
Everything in him strained against letting her walk away, but he had just told himself he would not be another man who mistook wanting her for owning her. So he made himself stand still.
“Aye,” he said, though the word scraped his throat. “If that is what ye want.”
She looked at him for a heartbeat longer. Her eyes softened, but not enough to close the wound.
Then she turned and left the training yard with her spine straight and her steps even, and somehow that composure was worse than if she had wept.
Logan watched until she disappeared through the archway. Only then did he exhale.
“That went well.”
Logan closed his eyes.
Conn stepped out from the far side of the yard, where the shadows had gathered near the weapon rack. His arms were folded, his expression dark.
“How long were ye standing there?” Logan asked.
“Long enough tae ken ye’ve lost what little sense God gave ye.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “Careful.”
“Nay.” Conn limped closer, his voice low and hard. “I willnae be careful while ye stand here making a wound o’ the one woman who has brought light back intae that miserable skull o’ yers.”
Logan looked away. “This disnae concern ye.”
“It concerns the clan when our laird starts seeing wi’ old grief instead o’ his eyes.”
Logan’s gaze snapped back to him.
Conn did not flinch.
“She wrote tae her maither,” Conn said. “Nae Henshaw. Nae English soldiers waiting in a ditch. Her maither.”
“I ken that now.”
“Dae ye?” Conn’s mouth tightened. “Because it sounded tae me like ye suddenly switched yer personality since yesterday and ye were punishing her fer being born south o’ a border she didnae draw.”
The words landed hard.
Logan said nothing.
Conn stepped closer, his limp dragging slightly in the dirt. “It is plain tae every soul in this castle that ye are happier when she is near ye. Dinnae scowl at me, it is. Ye breathe differently. Ye look less like ye’re waiting fer the next grave tae open under yer feet.”
Logan’s throat worked once.
“She has done naething tae deserve yer mistrust,” Conn went on, quieter now, and somehow that struck harder than the anger.
“She has been frightened, hunted, dragged across half the borderlands, and still she worries over our wounded men and kneels in wet grass tae help a bairn wi’ flowers.
Aye, I heard of that. If ye cannae see the difference between her and the men who killed yer father, then Henshaw disnae need tae take her from ye. Ye’ll drive her away yerself.”
Logan stared toward the archway where Rose had vanished. The yard felt colder now.
Conn let out a slow breath. “Old pain can keep a man alive. Aye. But if ye let it hold the reins forever, it’ll ride ye straight past the best thing that ever found ye.”
Logan’s hand curled at his side. He had no answer.
Conn seemed to know it. He shook his head once and turned back toward the hall.
“Fix it,” he said over his shoulder. “Before she stops waiting fer ye tae.”
Then he was gone.
Logan remained alone beside the ruined training dummy.
For a long time, he did not move.
Conn’s words stayed with him, settling beneath his anger, beneath the old fear he had mistaken for wisdom. And in the quiet left behind, all Logan could see was the hurt on Rose’s face.