Chapter 21 #2
She thought of the carved horse on her table, the careful lines of its mane.
She thought of Logan finding her letter, of the wound in his eyes before anger had covered it, of the way he had stood still and let her leave, perhaps because he did not want to become another man who confused love with ownership.
She was still hurt, but the thing in front of her now was not pride. It was a man placing something tender and hidden into her hands because he did not know how else to prove he meant it.
“Logan,” she said softly.
He looked as though her saying his name pained him.
“I ken I hurt ye,” he said. “I cannae take it back. But I am sorry fer it. Truly.”
Rose looked away, toward the river below. The water flashed under the sun, restless and bright. Then she drew in a slow breath.
“When you looked at me that way,” she said, her voice quiet, “I felt as though I had crossed a distance I could never uncross. As though no matter what I did, no matter what I felt, part of me would always be standing on the wrong side of your trust.”
His face tightened.
“I dinnae want that,” he said.
“I know.” She turned back to him. “But it frightened me.”
His eyes lowered for a heartbeat. “I ken.”
Rose studied him. The rigid set of his shoulders. The hand hanging at his side, curling once, then forcing itself open. The discipline it took him not to reach for her before she had given him the right.
That was what finally loosened the ache in her.
She stepped closer.
His breath caught. Only slightly, but she heard it.
“I am still hurt,” she said.
“Aye.”
“But I believe you.”
His eyes lifted to hers, and there was something raw in them now, something almost boyish beneath all that sternness.
“And I am still here,” she added.
For a moment, he did not move. Then his eyes closed briefly, as if the relief had gone through him too deeply to bear with them open.
When he opened them again, his voice was rough. “Will ye come inside?”
Rose looked toward the hut.
“Yes.”
The inside was small but carefully kept. A narrow table stood against one wall, a few hooks beside the door, a hearth dark with old ash, and a wooden bench beneath the only window. The air smelled of dry timber, cold stone, and faint smoke from fires long past.
Logan stepped in behind her and paused near the bench.
“We sat there,” he said, nodding toward it. “Me faither and I. He would pretend tae bring me here fer punishment after I’d made trouble, but half the time he only wanted quiet himself.”
Rose moved toward the bench and laid her fingers along its worn edge. The wood had been smoothed by years of use.
“What did you speak of?” she asked.
“Everything. Naething.” Logan’s mouth softened faintly. “Horses. Weather. Whether I’d ever learn tae swing a blade wi’out nearly cutting me own foot off.”
A small smile touched her mouth.
His expression warmed at the sight, but grief remained beneath it.
“The last time we came here,” he said, quieter now, “was a few days before he rode tae meet them. He told me peace was worth the risk o’ bravery.”
Rose’s hand stilled on the bench.
Logan looked at the small window, not at her. “Fer years I thought he was wrong. Thought peace was only a pretty word men used before drawing knives.”
“And now?”
His gaze returned to hers.
“Now I think he was brave,” he said. “And I think I mistook being wounded fer being wiser than he was.”
Rose’s chest tightened until it hurt.
She crossed the small space between them and stopped close enough that her skirt brushed his boot. “Logan.”
His eyes dropped to hers.
“I am sorry for what they took from you.”
Something flickered across his face, a pain so old it had learned how to stand upright. “I’m sorry fer what I nearly let it take from me.”
Her throat tightened.
He lifted a hand, then stopped before touching her. “May I?”
The question was so gentle that it broke the last of her distance.
Rose answered by stepping into him.
His hand came to her face at once, warm and careful, his palm settling along her cheek as though he had been waiting with every part of himself. Her hands rose to his chest. Beneath her fingers, his heart beat hard.
“I am still here,” she whispered again.
Logan bent his head and his lips caressed hers.
The kiss was slow at first. Almost aching. His mouth touched hers with a restraint that felt like apology, his thumb brushing her cheek, his other hand hovering at her waist before settling there. Rose closed her eyes and let herself feel the difference in him.
She pressed closer and his breath changed.
The kiss deepened by degrees. His hand at her waist tightened, drawing her against him, and Rose’s fingers curled into his tunic as the warmth in her chest spilled lower, turning heavy and bright.
The small hut seemed to grow quieter around them, the world outside narrowing to the wind at the stones and the low sound Logan made when she parted her lips beneath his.
He drew back with visible effort.
“Rose,” he breathed.
She opened her eyes.
His were dark now, but not guarded. Searching. Asking. “Da ye––?”
Rose lifted her hand to his face.
“Yes,” she said.
His jaw tightened. “I need tae hear ye say it.”
She held his gaze. “I want you.”
The last words left her softly, but they changed him.
His control slipped in a breath.
Logan kissed her again, and this time the hunger in it surged through her. His hand tightened in her hair, his mouth warmer and more desperate than before. Logan caught her with one arm around her waist, drawing her fully against him, anchoring her until there was no space left between them.
As he turned them toward the bench beneath the window, Rose’s back met the cool stone wall, and she gasped into his mouth, the sound a soft, helpless surrender. His fingers moved through her hair, loosening the pins.
His tongue traced the line of her throat, his mouth lingering where her pulse pounded against her skin.
“Ye undae me,” he whispered.
Rose’s fingers tightened at his shoulders, clutching the wool of his tunic as she rose into him. “Then we are even.”
A rough sound left him, half laugh, half groan, and then his mouth returned to hers to deepen the kiss until she felt the heat of it everywhere, traveling through her veins.
He began to unlace her gown, his hands trembling.
The green wool slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her waist, exposing her skin to the cool air for only a heartbeat before Logan’s grounding warmth followed.
Rose clung to him as he lowered her carefully onto the bench, his heavy cloak spread beneath her to soften the hard wood.
He looked at her then, his dark eyes searching her face.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
Heat rushed into her cheeks, but she did not turn away, her eyes locked on his.
“Logan.”