Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Barnaby Henshaw sat alone in his study, the curtains drawn against the damp evening pressing upon the glass. The room smelled of sealing wax, old leather, and the sour trace of wine left too long in a cup near his elbow. Beneath his palm, the parchment lay smooth and waiting.
Even now, after all this foolishness, after the flight, the hiding, the humiliation Rose Algernon had dragged across his threshold and into gossiping mouths, he could still picture her as she had stood before him the last time.
Blonde hair pinned neatly, eyes lowered when propriety demanded it, that slender throat held too stiffly, foolish enough to believe that dignity was enough to keep a man like him at bay.
He dipped the quill into the ink and let the first words form slowly.
My dearest Rose,
He paused, studying the line.
Not too formal. Her mother would not write like a frightened magistrate.
Barnaby had watched her closely enough to know she looked at her daughters with love that could build walls around them.
There was no need to imitate her perfectly.
Rose would not examine the letter with suspicion if the feeling inside it was what she most wanted to find.
And Rose, he knew, wanted to be wanted home.
A faint smile touched his lips as he continued.
I pray this reaches you safely. Your father and I have had word that you are alive, and that good people in Scotland have taken you in.
A passing merchant, one who had seen you near the border some weeks ago, brought us news that a lady matching your description had been sheltered by a Highland clan.
Barnaby’s quill moved carefully, each stroke patient, each lie gentle enough to be swallowed.
He wrote of relief. He wrote of tears. He wrote that Lord Henshaw had been driven away from Briar Hall, that his influence had weakened, that there was no immediate danger if only Rose would come to them cautiously and without drawing attention.
That part amused him most.
Do not draw attention, my dearest. Come quietly.
His grip tightened around the quill until the feather bent.
The Scottish laird had become a complication.
Barnaby did not yet know how deeply the man had entangled himself in Rose’s affections, but he knew enough.
Men did not shelter another man’s intended bride without wanting something from her.
Scotsmen, especially, were base creatures beneath whatever scraps of honor they pretended to wear.
Still, love made people stupid. Careless.
Rose had been raised on duty, family, and tender little lies about goodness. If she believed her parents were waiting for her, she would come. If the Scot cared for her, he might even bring her himself, dressed in his savage loyalty and thinking caution would save him.
Barnaby sanded the letter, then shook the grains away.
Meet us at the inn near the eastern border road three days from the receipt of this letter. We dare not come farther, and we dare not ask you to return to Briar Hall until all is settled. We only wish to see you, to hold you, and to thank those who have kept you safe.
He laughed softly at that. Yes, he would thank the Scot properly.
He folded the parchment with care and warmed the wax over the flame until it softened and glistened red. Then he pressed the stolen Algernon seal into it, watching the crest sink into the wax as neatly as a blade sliding between ribs.
When it cooled, he held the letter between two fingers and rang the bell.
A servant entered at once, pale and silent.
“See that this rides north tonight,” Barnaby said.
The servant swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
Barnaby handed over the letter.
As the door closed, he leaned back in his chair, staring into the fire until the flames blurred.
Soon, Rose would come running toward the trap with tears in her eyes and hope in her foolish little heart. And this time, when she reached him, there would be no Scottish laird between them.
The next morning, Rose woke to the soft hush of rain against the narrow window.
For several breaths, she lay still beneath the blankets, wrapped in that strange, tender ache that had followed her out of sleep, a warmth beneath her ribs that had nothing to do with the fire.
Rose turned her face into the pillow for one indulgent heartbeat, and the memory of the previous day moved through her in a slow, trembling wave.
Logan’s hands. Logan’s mouth. The rough, low sound of his voice when he had asked if she was sure.
Her eyes opened and a hot flush rose to her cheeks at once.
She pushed herself upright, gathered the blankets to her chest, and breathed, hoping to regain her composure.
She was not a girl in a poem. She was not some foolish creature undone by one man’s tenderness.
She was Lady Rose Algernon, raised to sit straight, speak softly, and think before she let her heart do anything reckless.
Unfortunately, her heart had become quite reckless where Logan MacKenzie was concerned.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and her bare feet met the cool boards. As she reached for her robe, her gaze caught on something set upon the small table near the hearth.
A basket.
Rose stilled.
It was not large, but it had been arranged with so much care it almost hurt to look at. Dark forest berries lay piled inside, their skins shining faintly in the firelight, still beaded with drops of rain. A clean linen cloth had been folded beneath them.
For a moment, Rose only stared as the ache in her chest sharpened.
She crossed the room slowly, almost in a trance.
Her fingers hovered above the fruit before touching one gently.
It was cool, firm. She immediately thought of Logan standing among the brambles, broad shoulders bent to such a small task, gathering berries because she had once said they reminded her of home.
Rose pressed her fingers to her lips.
It was such a small thing. That was what made it unbearable. Grand gestures could be dismissed as duty or pride or a laird’s desire to show himself generous. But this? This was remembrance. Attention. This was Logan reaching into some quiet corner of her past and bringing a piece of it back to her.
Her throat tightened dangerously.
“No,” she whispered to herself, though her voice had no strength. “You will not weep over fruit.”
But her eyes stung all the same.
She dressed with more care than usual, though she told herself it was only because she meant to go down and thank him properly.
Her hands moved smoothly through the motions, fastening, smoothing, pinning her hair into place, and yet beneath every careful gesture, her pulse fluttered with a foolish anticipation she could neither command nor conceal from herself.
When she stepped into the corridor, the air was cool against her warmed cheeks as she made her way toward his study.
She turned the corner near the eastern stairs and nearly walked straight into Logan.
Rose stopped so abruptly that her skirts whispered against the stone floor. Logan halted, too, one hand bracing lightly against the wall.
Neither spoke. His gaze moved over her face, steady and warm, and Rose felt the foolish flutter inside her deepen into something softer that made it terribly difficult to remember the careful words of thanks she had intended.
He stood in the grey morning light with his hair still damp from the rain, his dark tunic open slightly at the throat, and a faint scratch cutting across the back of one hand.
There were shadows under his eyes, but when his gaze moved over her face, all that guarded severity softened, and Rose had to remind herself not to step closer.
“Rose,” he said.
Her name in his mouth loosened something she had spent all morning trying to keep neatly fastened.
“Logan,” she breathed. Her fingers tightened together at her waist, the memory of the basket sitting near her hearth making her chest feel suddenly too full. “I came to thank you. For the berries.”
His gaze lingered on her face, and a corner of his mouth lifted. “Found them, then.”
Her gaze flew to his hand. There were several faint marks over his knuckles. Her heart squeezed.
“You picked them yourself,” she said, softer than she meant to.
Logan glanced at his hand as if only just remembering the evidence. “I did.”
“In the rain?”
“It wasnae raining when I started.”
“But it was raining when you finished.”
“Aye.” His mouth twitched. “The bushes fought back, if that makes the tale grander. I still have thorns in me fingers, but I considered the sacrifice worthwhile.”
A laugh slipped from her, sudden and bright enough that she immediately lowered her gaze, embarrassed by how unguarded it sounded. “Is berry-picking now among the duties of a Scottish laird?”
“Nay.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice until it became something private, meant only for the small space between them. “But I was willing tae make an exception fer ye.”
The corridor seemed to narrow around them. Somewhere behind them, a servant passed the far end of the hall. Rose felt the heat rise into her face, but she did not retreat.
She glanced up. His mouth had lost the faint curve it had held a moment before, and his breathing seemed quieter now, restrained beneath the broad rise of his chest. His gaze stayed on hers, then dropped for the briefest instant to her lips before returning to her eyes with a weight that made her throat tighten.
Her breath caught.
“I was going to your study,” she said. “To thank you. Properly.”
He looked down for a moment, as if fighting the smile and losing.
“Come then,” he said, gesturing down the corridor. “I find meself curious as tae how ye mean tae thank me.”
She tried not to smile. Failed. Then followed him.
The walk beside him felt different now. Each brush of his sleeve near hers was a quiet spark. Each time his stride shortened to match hers, her stomach dropped.