Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The castle woke before dawn, but Logan had been awake long before it.
Now, he stood in the courtyard with his cloak fastened at one shoulder, watching men move through the grey morning, preparing.
Saddles were checked twice. Blades were sharpened along the whetstone by the stables.
Waterskins were filled and tied, bedrolls secured, reins tested beneath rough, careful hands.
Logan moved among them issuing quiet corrections, his tone controlled.
“Check the girth again,” he told one of the younger men, nodding toward a bay gelding that stamped near the stable wall. “If it slips on the south road, ye’ll lose more than pride.”
The lad flushed and bent at once. “Aye, me laird.”
Conn came up beside him, his gait just uneven enough for Logan to hear it without looking. “Twelve men, as ye asked. Fergus, Bram, Ewan’s second lad, and the others. Steady hands.”
“Good.”
“Alasdair sent word from the eastern road,” Conn added, lowering his voice. “Nay sign o’ English riders near the first pass. The village beyond saw two strangers yesterday, but they were merchants by the look o’ them, heading west wi’ cloth.”
“By the look o’ them isnae enough.”
Conn’s mouth tightened. “I said as much. They’ve men watching now.”
Logan gave a short nod, but the tightness beneath his ribs did not loosen. He turned toward the cart where provisions were being packed and stopped.
Rose was there.
For a moment, the courtyard, the men, the horses, even Conn at his side seemed to fall slightly away.
She stood beside Christina near the kitchen steps, wrapped in a soft wool cloak the color of pale blue smoke, her hair pinned with its usual care. She had a folded list in one hand and was speaking quietly to one of the servants while pointing toward the bundles being loaded into the supply cart.
He saw the way her eyes kept moving toward the gate, then back to the provisions, then toward him when she thought he was not looking. He saw the light in her face that fear had not managed to dim.
That was what troubled him most. For he feared a trap.
Christina said something that made her smile, and the sight of it struck Logan low in the chest.
Conn followed his gaze and said nothing for once.
Rose looked down at the list again. “The blankets for the riders should be tied separately,” she told the servant, her voice carrying just enough for Logan to hear. “If the weather turns colder before we return, they ought not be buried under the food stores.”
The servant nodded. “Aye, me lady.”
“And the smaller bundle there.” Rose gestured with careful precision. “That has the dried herbs and salves, yes?”
“Aye.”
“Set it where it can be reached quickly.” She glanced toward the men near the horses, and some of the softness left her face, replaced by something more purposeful.
Logan’s throat tightened.
She had learned that here. Not from lessons or English halls, but from fear and injury. She had come to them frightened and hunted. And now she stood in his courtyard making sure his riders had blankets and salves.
Conn’s voice came low beside him. “She is trying tae feel useful.”
“She is useful,” Logan said, sharper than he meant to.
Conn looked at him, then away. “Aye. She is.”
Rose turned then, as though she had felt Logan watching her. Their gazes met across the courtyard, and she stilled.
He should have looked away. There were men around them, too many eyes, too many reasons to keep whatever lived between them guarded. Instead, he gave the smallest nod.
Rose’s mouth softened.
It was nothing—barely a gesture—but it still felt like her hand had reached across the courtyard and touched him.
A while later, when the provisions were secured and Conn was arguing with Fergus about whether an additional coil of rope was necessary, Rose came to Logan near the stable arch. She carried herself with that quiet grace that had once seemed like distance to him. Now he saw the effort in it.
“My laird,” she said.
“Lady Rose.”
Her eyes flickered with gentle reproach at the formality, though her mouth held its composure. “The food stores are packed. Christina has seen to the blankets, and I asked Elsbeth to set aside extra cloth for bandages. I hope I did not interfere.”
“Ye didnae.”
Her shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.
Logan glanced toward the cart, then back to her. “Ye thought o’ what me men might need before half of them did.”
A faint flush warmed her cheeks. “Your men are occupied with weapons and horses. Someone had to think of less impressive necessities.”
His mouth curved despite himself. “Less impressive things keep men alive.”
“So I am beginning to learn.”
The softness in her voice pulled at him. He wanted to touch her, to brush his thumb over the faint shadow beneath her eye, to ask whether she had slept enough. Instead, he folded his arms loosely across his chest and looked toward the gate.
“Ye should rest while ye can. We leave before first light.”
“I know.”
He looked back at her.
Rose’s fingers folded together before her. The movement was neat, contained, but her thumb worried lightly at the side of her hand. “I keep thinking of what I shall say when I see them.”
Logan stayed silent.
An uncertain, devastating smile touched her mouth.
“I imagined it would be simple. I would run to my mother, perhaps, though I am sure she would tell me not to do anything so undignified in public. My father would pretend not to be overcome, and Marion would likely cry before anyone else did. Giselle would stand very still until she was certain it was allowed.”
Her eyes glistened, but she blinked once and held herself steady.
Logan felt each imagined reunion like a hook beneath his ribs.
“It will be good tae see them,” he said.
Rose looked at him carefully, and he wondered if she could read his mind. “You still doubt the letter.”
The courtyard moved around them. Men crossed behind her with saddlebags. A horse snorted and struck the ground with one hoof. Somewhere, Christina called for another length of cloth.
Logan lowered his voice. “I doubt the place they asked ye tae meet.”
Her expression did not change at once, but the light in her eyes trembled. “Not them?”
“Nay.” He made himself answer quickly, because hesitation would wound her. “Nae them.”
Her breath left her softly.
He took one step closer, just enough that his shadow touched the edge of her cloak. “But an inn near the border isnae safe ground fer ye. Nae wi’ Henshaw still breathing.”
“My parents may have thought it was the only way.” Her voice remained calm, but he heard the fragile thread beneath it.
“If they are watched at Briar Hall, they cannot send for me openly. If they travel too far north, they may draw attention. A border inn is… imperfect, yes, but it may have seemed practical.”
“Practical can still be dangerous.”
“I know.” She looked down at her hands. “I don’t want to be foolish, Logan.”
His chest tightened. “I never thought ye were.”
“I know you are afraid.”
That struck him deeper than he expected.
Rose lifted her gaze again, and there was such gentleness there that it was almost worse than argument. “You do not say it that way, but I know. You become very still when afraid.”
No one spoke to him like that. No one had ever looked past the laird, past the orders and the steady face he wore for everyone else and named the fear he kept buried there.
His jaw worked once. “I am afraid o’ what hope can make folk ignore.”
Her eyes softened.
“And I am afraid of what fear can make folk refuse,” she said.
Logan looked at her, at the woman who had been forced to run from her home because men had made decisions around her, over her, through her, and he felt the last of his argument fold inward. He had to show her he trusted her, no matter how wary he was.
He would not take this from her, even if every instinct in him wanted to.
“I’ll nae argue it further today,” he said quietly.
Rose’s lips parted as though she had expected resistance and found mercy instead.
“But ye listen tae me on the road,” he continued. “If I tell ye tae stay close, ye stay close. If I tell ye tae ride, ye ride. If anything feels wrong—anything at all—we leave.”
She nodded. “I promise.”
He studied her face. “Say it like ye ken I mean it.”
Something in her expression shifted, the softness giving way to solemnity. “I promise you, Logan. I will listen.”
Only then did he nod.
Rose moved to Christina near the steps, her cloak drawn close, her face pale in the torchlight. Christina had both of Rose’s hands in hers and was speaking too quietly for Logan to hear. Then she pulled her into a fierce embrace.
Rose stilled for half a heartbeat, as if surprised by the force of it, then closed her eyes and held her back.
Logan looked away. It felt too private to witness.
Conn came beside him, leading his horse. “Men are ready.”
“Scouts?”
“Gone an hour ago.”
“Good.”
When Logan turned back, Rose was saying goodbye to Elsbeth, then to the healer, then to a few others who had gathered despite the early hour. She looked overwhelmed by it, though she hid it well. Each kindness seemed to strike her somewhere tender.
Finally, she came to him.
“Ready?” he asked.
Her gaze went to the horses and she inhaled slowly.
“Yes.”
Her horse was the mare she had already ridden, chosen for steadiness rather than speed. Logan had meant to help her mount, had already stepped forward to do so, but Rose placed one hand on the saddle and paused.
Then she looked at him.
“I should like to try myself,” she said quietly.
Logan stilled.
For a moment, all he saw was the woman from the tavern road, exhausted and frightened, admitting she had never ridden alone. The woman who had gripped his arm when the horse lowered its head and had trusted him because she had had no other choice.
He stepped back.
“Aye,” he said softly. “Take yer time.”
Rose set her foot in the stirrup. Her fingers tightened on the saddle, and for one heartbeat he thought she might stop. Her breath shook once.
Then she lifted herself.