Halfway down, she slowed.
Arthur, Moira’s father, stood at a tall window with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were trained on the courtyard below, and his lips were twisted into a grimace. Something about his rigid posture made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end.
She hesitated as she drew closer. She could slip past him, or she could stand as the future lady of the castle and addressthis tension between them. She chose the latter and resumed walking.
A few paces from him, she cleared her throat. “Me Laird,” she greeted softly.
The older man turned to her, the striking grey in his hair sharp against his somber features. “Lady MacLeod.”
Emma swallowed. Something about the way he pronounced that title felt even more unsettling.
Now isnae the time to wander.
She cleared her throat again. “About earlier. I may have spoken too boldly. I wish to apologize.”
Arthur gave a nod that seemed to signify understanding but not pity. Emma felt her knees tremble under his stone-cold gaze.
“Aye,” he said. “Blunt, but honest. I can hardly fault honesty.”
Emma clasped her hands, waiting for a sign to leave. None came.
Arthur turned back to the window, and she followed his gaze. Below was the courtyard. From here, they could see the space that spread from the gate to the woods ahead.
Jack and some of his men were training below, swinging their swords with precision and force. The men seemed to target him, and he moved as fluidly as water in a stream. She was almost enchanted by the way he deftly dodged every strike or blocked it with his sword.
It was like watching an angel gain its wings.
Arthur spoke into the stillness. “Quite magnetic, is he nae?”
Emma kept her voice even. “Folks follow him. They trust him.”
“Aye.” Arthur’s mouth barely moved. “Me daughter thought the same. She praised his charm, his grace, and his leadership.”
Emma nodded. “Aye. He is respected.”
“Respected,” Arthur echoed. “Loved by some, feared by many. Strange thing, how one man can be all at once.”
She glanced at him. “We arenae all just one thing, me Lord.”
He raised a dismissive hand. “Ye speak fair.” His eyes stayed on the yard. “When Moira died, did ye ken that he sent a letter? Nothing but aletter. Did he tell ye that?”
Emma’s fingers tightened on her skirt as she shook her head. “I am sorry for the way he handled it.”
“A letter tells a fact,” Arthur continued. “It seldom tells the truth.” He drew a slow breath. “I hope, should any ill befall ye, that he does more than that.”
Silence fell between them.
Emma struggled to find her voice. “Do ye think ill will follow me here?”
“I think men make enemies faster than they make friends.” Arthur looked at her at last, his gaze sharp. “And the more a man holds, the more folks test the locks on his doors.”
She looked back down at the training yard. Jack had disarmed a man and handed the weapon back. He did it with such flourish that it felt almost theatrical.
“I daenae ken yet what sort of wife I will be,” Emma admitted. “But ye must ken that I mean to do right by the child. And by the clan.”
“A good aim,” Arthur acknowledged. “Just beware of the cost.” He shifted his weight as if the cold had found his knee. “Do ye read the room, lass?”
“I try,” she said, tightening her knuckles.
