Jack did not slow down. Instead, he kept his gaze ahead and his hand steady on the child’s back. He did not look at the flowers on the floor or the garlands that hung on the doors.
She ran. Because that was the goal.
She would always run.
This was how it ended when a man set rules and a woman chose freedom. With her running, and with him walking away as if the ground had not shifted under his feet.
He felt the shift, but he did not show it. He had a child to carry and a castle to run. He would make the walls tighter and try to focus on what lay ahead of him. For now, he would try to keep his mind off his future in the castle.
It was clearer than anything that it no longer involved Emma.
CHAPTER 33
Long tree branchesslapped at her arms as she pushed deeper into the woods. The morning mist hung over the field ahead like pale cloth, and wet pine slipped through her cloak. The chill seeped into her skin, so she pulled the hood close and kept moving, her breath short and sharp.
“For Stella,” she whispered. “For Stella. For Stella.”
Saying it steadied her feet. Running felt like the only thing that made sense. The letter had told her to go, and her fear had agreed, and her love for the baby had given her the strength to move.
The track sloped downward, and the ground turned slick. Her boots slipped. She fell to her knees and caught herself with both hands. Tree bark bit into her palms, and mud smeared her skin. She hissed anyway, rose to her feet, and wiped the muck on her skirt.
“On,” she told herself. “On.”
A gap opened between the trees, and from the far side, she could hear the familiar sound of wooden wheels rolling across stone. A carriage. Perhaps that might help her get as far away from MacLeod Castle as possible.
The small carriage came into view soon, rattling along a road that cut along the edge of the wood. Two men sat inside with their coats up to their ears and their hats pulled low. Their breaths plumed in the cold air.
She waved both arms. “Please. Stop. Please.”
The driver pulled the reins almost as if he had to do it at the very last minute. The horse stamped, and the wheels skidded until they stopped.
The closer man leaned out. He had wind-reddened cheeks and honest eyes. “What troubles ye, lass?”
“I need help,” she said, her voice shaky. “Please. Take me to the nearest village. I can pay ye. Just take me there.”
She knew how she must look. Hair loose and wet at the ends, cloak wrinkled, hands scratched. Her voice was thin as well, but something on her face softened the first man.
“Aye, climb in,” he urged, scooting over to make space and holding out a hand.
The second man squinted at her and leaned closer, peering through the damp air just as she lifted a foot.
“Wait,” he said. “I ken that face. Ye’re Laird MacLeod’s bride.”
Her stomach dropped. “I?—”
The first man’s hand wavered and fell back to his knee. He looked past her into the trees, as if the Laird himself might step out of the pines at any moment.
“Nay,” the driver grunted, tugging the reins again. “Nay, we arenae getting involved with him.”
“Ye need to step back,” the other added in a quivering voice. “We want nay trouble with the Laird.”
“Please,” Emma said. “I am begging ye. I need only a short ride. There is danger. Ye daenae ken what is at stake.”
They looked at her with a pity that made no difference. Fear had already decided for them. The horse lurched forward. Leather creaked, and the wheels bit into the dirt. Both men lifted their hands in a helpless apology.
“Forgive us,” the driver called. “I hope someone much more generous steps forward, me Lady.”
The carriage rattled away, and the road swallowed it.
