Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
By the time night fully settled over the inn, Rose had stopped pretending not to watch the door.
At first, she had managed it with some success.
She had kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, had taken small bites of the stew Logan insisted she eat, had answered when spoken to and smiled faintly whenever one of his men made some quiet remark meant to ease the heaviness gathering around their table.
But every time the door opened, her heart still leapt.
Every time it was only a farmer coming in from the rain, or a pair of travelers shaking water from their cloaks, or the innkeeper stepping out to shout at some stable boy, something inside her sank a little lower.
Her parents did not come.
At first, Rose tried to give the absence harmless shapes.
The roads were wet. Their carriage had slowed in the mud.
Her mother had insisted they stop somewhere along the way because Marion felt ill, or because Giselle had grown anxious, or because her father had decided it was wiser to wait for the heavier rain to pass.
But as the evening stretched on, those gentle explanations began to fray.
What if Barnaby had reached them?
The thought slipped in so quietly that Rose almost did not notice it until it was already inside her chest.
Have they been stopped on the road? Followed? Taken back to Briar Hall before they could reach me?
Her fingers tightened beneath the table, twisting once in the fabric of her gown before she forced them still.
Rose swallowed, but the tightness in her throat only grew worse.
“The roads are poor after rain.” Logan said, turning his head toward her.
She nodded.
It did not help.
Conn stood near the hearth, half in conversation with Alasdair, though Rose could see his attention remained on the door.
Two of Logan’s men had taken a table near the front window.
Another stood outside beneath the awning, visible now and then when the wind shifted the rain.
They had made the inn look occupied and ordinary.
And still, Rose felt something unseen slipping inside with the night.
When the innkeeper came to clear the dishes, Logan stopped him with a glance. “Rooms?”
“Aye, me laird. One in the back fer ye and the lady, more in the back fer yer men. Nae grand, mind ye, but dry.”
“Dry will dae,” Logan said.
The innkeeper looked at Rose then, and his expression softened with the awkward pity of a man who had noticed too much and did not know what to do with it. “If yer party comes late, me lady, I’ll send word up.”
Rose inclined her head. “Thank you.”
She was grateful for that small mercy.
Logan rose first, then offered her his hand. Rose placed hers in it, letting his warmth close around her fingers. His grip was careful, but firmer than usual, and when she looked up, his gaze had already moved toward the stairs, the windows, the door.
“Come,” he murmured.
The room above was narrow but clean, with a low bed pushed against one wall and a small table beneath the window.
Rain tapped steadily against the shutters, finding some thin gap in the wood and breathing cold air into the room.
A single candle burned near the basin. The flame bent whenever the draft slipped through.
Rose stood in the center of the chamber and felt the silence press against her.
Logan closed the door and slid the bolt into place.
The sound made her flinch.
He turned at once. “Rose.”
“I am well,” she said quickly, because the words came to her more easily than the truth.
He did not move toward her immediately. He only stood there, watching her with that careful restraint that always made her feel seen too deeply. “Ye dinnae have tae be.”
Her breath caught in her throat.
For one moment, she wanted to abandon every lesson in dignity and cross the room into his arms. She wanted to press her face against his chest and admit that she was frightened, that every empty doorway downstairs had scraped another layer from her hope, that some small, shameful part of her had begun to wonder whether she had been foolish to believe the letter so completely.
Instead, she smoothed her hands over her hair.
“They will come in the morning,” she said.
Logan’s jaw tightened.
He did not contradict her. That was almost worse.
“Aye,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps.”
Rose looked toward the shuttered window. The rain had softened, but the wind still worried at the frame with thin, restless fingers. “You do not think so?”
“I think we wait until morning,” he said. “Then we decide.”
She turned back to him. “And if they do not come?”
The question left her before she could stop it.
Logan’s eyes changed.
He crossed the room then, stopping before her as he lifted one hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly beneath her eye. The touch was so gentle that it almost hurt.
“Then we find out why,” he said.
The steadiness in his voice held her where hope could not.
Rose closed her eyes for one breath, leaning into his palm despite herself.
“I feel foolish.”
“Dinnae.”
“You warned me,” she whispered.
His hand stilled against her cheek. “I warned ye because I fear fer ye. Nae because I doubted ye.”
Her eyes opened.
Something in his face had gone hard at the edges, but not against her. The hardness looked past her, toward roads and doors and whatever shadow might be waiting beyond them.
Before she could answer, a shout rose from below.
Rose went still.
Another shout followed, louder this time, cut through by the scrape of boots and the startled whinny of a horse outside the inn. A chair overturned somewhere beneath them. Male voices burst into sharp confusion.
Logan’s hand dropped from her face.
In a heartbeat, the man before her changed. The tenderness did not vanish, but it was sealed away beneath command. His head turned toward the door, his body angling slightly in front of hers.
Rose’s pulse lurched. “Logan?”
He was already moving. “Stay here.”
“What is it?”
“I dinnae ken.” He drew his sword, the soft scrape of steel leaving her cold from throat to fingertips. “Bolt the door after me. Dinnae open it fer anyone but me or Conn.”
The shouting outside swelled. Something heavy struck wood below, followed by a burst of angry voices.
Rose stepped after him. “It could be Barnaby.”
His eyes snapped to hers, and the flicker there told her he had thought the same.
“That is why ye stay here.” His voice was low, rough, and absolute. Then, softer, “Rose. Look at me.”
She did.
He reached for her with his free hand, gripping her fingers hard enough that she felt the tremor he was trying to hide. “I will come back.”
The words struck her in the chest.
She nodded once. “Go.”
Logan held her gaze for one more heartbeat, then opened the door and slipped into the corridor. Rose crossed after him and pushed the bolt into place with shaking hands.
For several seconds, she stood with her palm pressed against the wood.
Below, the commotion deepened. Men shouted over one another. A horse screamed. There was a crash, then Logan’s voice, hard and commanding, though she could not make out the words.
Rose backed away from the door.
Her breath came too quickly. She forced herself to stop in the center of the room, just as Logan had taught her in the courtyard when he had placed the dagger in her hand.
Do not freeze. Look. Listen. Move.
Her gaze went to the small table. There was nothing there she could truly use to defend herself. A basin. A candle. A chair drawn close to the wall. Ordinary, harmless things.
She did not need a weapon, she told herself. Logan was below. Conn was below. Armed men filled the inn, and no danger would reach her.
Then the window exploded inward.
Rose screamed as wood splintered and cold rain burst into the room. A dark shape came through the shattered frame with brutal speed, boots hitting the floor hard enough to shake the boards.
For one heartbeat, Rose could not move.
Then the man lunged.
She seized the chair and shoved it between them with both hands. He struck it aside with his forearm, but it gave her enough space to twist away. Her heart hammered in her throat as she grabbed the candlestick from the table and swung.
It caught him across the cheek.
He grunted, head snapping to the side.
Rose ran for the door.
His arm hooked around her waist from behind and dragged her backward so sharply that the breath tore from her lungs. Panic flashed hot and blinding, but beneath it came Logan’s voice from memory.
Use what ye have. Heel. Elbow. Teeth if ye must.
Rose drove her heel down against the man’s boot and slammed her elbow back into his ribs.
He cursed and loosened his hold.
She twisted free, only for his hand to clamp around her wrist. Pain shot up her arm. She bit down on a cry and turned with the movement instead of fighting it, using his pull to bring herself close enough to rake her nails down the side of his face.
Blood welled beneath her fingers.
“You little?—”
His fist struck her cheek.
The room flashed white.
Rose stumbled, her knees buckling. Before she could recover, he caught her by the shoulders and drove her back against the wall.
The impact stole what little breath she had left.
She clawed at his hands, kicked once, twice, caught him in the shin, but he was heavier, stronger, his anger now a living force pressing down on her.
A strip of cloth forced between her lips.
Rose tried to scream. The sound died against the gag as he tied it cruelly tightly behind her head.
No.
She thrashed harder, wild now, no longer graceful, no longer composed, only terrified and furious and desperate. He pinned her wrists together with one hand and bound them with rope, his movements quick and practiced.
Logan.
The thought struck so violently that tears sprang to her eyes. He would return to an empty room.
The man hauled her toward the broken window. Rain struck her face, cold and sharp. She fought him with everything she had left, digging her heels into the floorboards, twisting her bound hands, trying to make herself too difficult to carry.