Chapter Seven
Logan stopped his spoon at his lips when she shouted at him.
“What is it?” he asked her, suspicious of the uncertainty in her bonnie eyes staring at his spoon.
“A fly. There was a fly on yer spoon.”
He looked at it. He hadn’t seen any fly. Did she have second thoughts about what she was feeding him? Was she feeding him anything other than hare stew?
He watched her lift her spoon to her mouth and eat. He did the same.
He hadn’t planned on coming to the hall and confessing that he considered her pure and that he regretted what her life had become. But he remembered her shining under the sun as if she’d just tumbled from the heavenlies, conversing with a butterfly as it paused above a daffodil.
He remembered. And, as he had for the last six years, wanted to believe stealing a second glimpse of her was worth it.
But he’d only considered if it was worth it for him. He didn’t know she was alive somewhere, living the consequences of his admiration.
He regretted that. If she was going to die by trying to kill him, he wanted her to know that he regretted it all.
“Can ye cook fish?” he asked, eating more stew.
“I can cook anything,” she replied with pride lacing her words, and reached for the bread.
“There is a stream behind the house. I’ll get us some fish after supper.”
“Mnnh.”
He was not taken aback by her cold responses. She hated him. She told him enough times. He’d hated the loss of the use of his arm and the clan that ran their sword through him.
If he’d known she lived, he might have hated her too. But all he’d had was the haunting, though fading memory of a faerie and a butterfly.
And an angel—
“Miss Woodburn,” he said, putting down his spoon. “Ye didna visit yer father’s dungeon when I was in it, did ye?”
She dropped her bread into her stew, then fished it out. She shook her head when she set her gaze on him again. “I often wish I had.”
“Why?”
“Are ye finished eating already?”
He picked up his spoon again and scooped some stew from his bowl. “What would ye have done if ye had gone doun there?”
“I would have done my best to set ye free so my parents and brothers didna have to die.”
“Ye lost much.”
She nodded, looking angry with him for the comfort of his words. “Aye, I did.”
“I dinna recall bein’ awake long enough to stop what happened when my kin arrived at yer home, lass.”
She didn’t reply and didn’t eat anymore.
“But,” he continued after a moment. “I dreamed ye were there.”
Still silent, her gaze slipped to his. Blood draining from her face, she waited for more.
“I dreamed ye were tryin’ to help me.”
“I wasna there,” she claimed woodenly.
He nodded, not pressing it. He couldn’t remember the angel’s face.
He didn’t think it was Miss Woodburn.
He finished his stew and then carried their bowls to the pot, then curled them under one arm and left the house through the kitchen back door.
When she followed him, he turned to have a look at her. “Do ye have an aversion to bein’ alone, lass?”
She looked away as if she didn’t want to answer, then, “I am unused to being alone, Mr. Cameron. All my masters had numerous servants.”
All her masters. He did not like the sound of it.
Even though her father was a Covenanter, he had been a baron—and she was still a nobleman’s daughter.
He couldn’t imagine his mother or sister as anyone’s servant if their husband and brother were killed.
The woman would hate the man who caused the death of those they loved.
“Ye are no one’s servant here,” he told her, keeping the cold edge in his voice. After all—he glanced down at his arm—he’d still been torturously punished for looking at her. “Ye are free to walk beside me.”
He waited for her to keep up. When she did, he continued. “I canna bring ye home to my kin, but I will find a place fer ye where ye willna be alone any longer.”
She was quiet for the remainder of their trek to the nearby stream.
It was not far, but Logan took a moment to admire her delicate profile in the twilight.
Her alluring brow and pertinent nose…the bewitching curl of her lips.
His belly knotted and flipped…or flipped and knotted.
He wasn’t sure which. Both. Here she was, that faerie he remembered, who had taken his breath from his poor body. And still did.
He looked away. They reached the stream. He didn’t spare her a glance while he knelt on a large rock and dipped the supperware into the stream.
“Allow me to do it,” she said, kneeling beside him and reaching for the bowls.
“I am no’ incapable, Miss Woodburn,” he told her, tossing her a smirk. “My cousins never wash their bowls or plates.”
“Why do ye cook fer them then?”
He looked away again, ignoring the fathoms in her bonnie blue-green eyes under the full moon. She didn’t have secrets. She had deep emotions. They often appeared in the snap of her tone, but there was so much more. He guessed there were six years of emotions ready, at any moment, to burst forth.
“They are my kin.” He couldn’t think of any other reason why he cooked for them. “They like my food.”
“They should help.”
“I dinna need help.”
“Ah, I see.”
He looked at her again. “Och? What do ye see?”
“Ye speak with pride. ’Tis not always a good thing.”
He swallowed; sorry he’d returned his gaze to hers. “Am I prideful to say I dinna need help if I have nae trouble completin’ the task? If I failed this one thing but still insisted I didna need help, that would be prideful.”
This time, she broke eye contact first to watch him rubbing stones in the pot to loosen the food before soaking it in the running stream.
“Can ye not move yer arm at all?” she asked, breaking the comfortable silence.
He looked down and moved his fingers, then his wrist. He gave his arm all his attention, willing it…to…move.
It rose from his side, and then, slowly lifted. He smiled at the achievement. Aye, mayhap he was prideful. He’d worked hard for six years to lift it. The castle physician at Tor had said he would never move it again, but Logan would never give up.
“Why are ye no’ using it then to help ye wash?” she asked with a touch of irony staining her tone. “Are ye prideful against yer own arm?”
“It takes much to do this.”
“All the more reason ye should move it every chance ye have. It doesna have to move much, but dinna just leave it dangling there if ye have attained so much already.”
He stared at her, his smile remaining. Did she just insult him or pay him a compliment?
He knew she was correct about moving his arm every chance he had. He just needed reminding.
He lowered his arm, then lifted it again and bent his elbow.
He’d practiced on his horse. Why not washing bowls?
“If ye would have been here over the years, I would have been back to fightin’ by now.”
“If I would have been here, I would have killed ye by now. If not, why would I help my enemy return to fighting against Covenanters?”
He nodded. She was likely correct about that too.
He looked down at his left hand holding onto the bowl while his right tipped its contents into the stream.
She took the opportunity to snatch his bowl from the rock where it waited for its turn to be washed. She plucked three smaller rocks in her hand and scrubbed them against the inside of the bowl in a circular motion.
Slipping her gaze to him, she motioned to the movement of her hand.
He mimicked her movement with his left hand. Scraping the bowl in inward circular motions and then outward motions.
She cleaned the bowl as if she hadn’t just helped him—and enjoyed it.
It made him laugh softly, almost to himself.
When the cleaning was all done, he gathered the pot and she took the two bowls. They returned to the house, and after shelving the supperware, she followed him to the sitting room.
“Would ye like some wine?” he asked her, striding to the small table housing a jug and four cups.
“Nae. I dinna trust that I wouldna try to do something foolish. Fer the time being, at least.”
“Ah, then I am safe fer the time bein’.” He scoffed, pouring himself a cup.
“Scoff if ye like, Mr. Cameron, but yer time on this earth is not long.”
“I imagine there was no one to tell ye the proper way to threaten yer enemy is no’ to let them know yer plans.” He sipped his drink and let his gaze pierce hers. “Ye never stop tellin’ me.”
She tossed him a black look and fell into the cushioned settee across from him. “I canna help it. Every time I look at ye, I am reminded of the horrible darkness ye brought into my life.”
Aye, she was telling him that there could never be anything between them but hatred and contempt. She was correct, he reasoned. He had to take her threats more seriously. He should show her less mercy. He should treat her more like what she was: his property, granted to him by the king.
But he had no stomach for it. “Go to bed, Miss Woodburn. I’ll get us fish in the mornin’.”
“I will cook it,” she volunteered.
He waved his hand away and took another sip of his drink, watching her leave from under his thick lashes. At least her last words to him were not a threat.
He thought about where he should take her. Muirshearlich was a small, intimate hamlet. She might fit in there. But, the Abernay brothers lived in Muirshearlich. They were known to harass the lasses in the hamlet.
He did not want Miss Woodburn to be harassed.
Torlundy was nice but too close to the castle and to the house. Fort William was large and pleasant to the eye. But many times, the king stationed his army there. He did not want Miss Woodburn to be surrounded by Royalist soldiers.
He downed the rest of his wine and closed his eyes. He didn’t remember dreaming but it had to be a dream.
Sir, I willna hurt ye.
He opened his eyes to his faerie, Miss Woodburn. Ye must wake up and escape. Do ye hear me, my lord, ye must leave now. There is nae time to—she stopped whispering and looked up.