“Double the watch at the southern border,” Jack instructed. “If their lads stray, turn them. Nay blades or any kind of weapon. Am I understood?”
“I’ll see it done.” Troy nodded and bowed again before stepping back.
Silence settled again, and Troy was about to leave when Jack looked up.
“Troy.”
“Me Laird?”
“If Buchanan answers, I want him walked through the gate like a guest,” Jack said. “I daenae want to hear a word about anything. Am I understood?”
Troy’s mouth flattened, but he nodded again. “Aye, me Laird. Good night.”
He stepped out and closed the door behind him, leaving Jack to the silence again.
Jack exhaled, thinking about the conversation he had just had. Laird Buchanan would bring trouble if he could, but he had no time for all of that now.
Trouble could wait for its turn.
He opened the ledger again and tried to make sense of the numbers. When he realized he wouldn’t make any headway tonight, he closed it with a thud and pushed back his chair.
His shoulder ached where it always did when he sat too long, and he rolled it until the tension eased. The fire had died down, and the room smelled more of ink than beeswax at this point. He dropped the quill and stepped out of the study.
He took the passageway toward the guest rooms, his feet steady on the stone floor. Torches burned in iron sconces along the wall and cast small light circles that did not touch. He had intended only to cross the pathway to the Great Hall, not to stop.
But he did.
He saw the door before he let himself think of it as hers. It stood just a finger’s width open, and flickering light poured out of the opening. He moved a little closer to see what the cause was, but the scene behind the door held him spellbound.
Emma stood by the fireplace with her back to the door. Her gown hung open at the shoulders while she unpinned her hair. The candlelight glowed on her back and neck as she loosened her gown even further.
Good God.
His throat went dry, and he swallowed thickly.
Her hair fell like a dark curtain to her waist, and she moved slowly, lazily. As if she wasn’t aware that the door wasn’t completely locked.
For a fraction of a second, Jack did nothing. Then, he squeezed his eyes shut and stepped back, turning toward the wall instead. He took a few deep breaths before rapping twice on the wood with his knuckles.
It was clear from the way her breath caught that the sound had startled her.
“Who is it?”
“‘Tis me,” he replied, managing to keep his voice even. “I’m only checking in to see if ye’ve settled well.”
The door swung a little wider, and she stood behind it with a dark cloak wrapped around her body. Her hair still hung loose over one shoulder. The fire had put a little color in her face. She did not try to hide that she had been startled, and for some reason, he liked that she did not pretend.
“Is there somethin’ wrong, Laird MacLeod?” she asked.
He ground his teeth at the mention of the full title. She had to know what she was doing, right?
“Nothing wrong,” he responded. “Has a maid been assigned to ye yet?”
“Nay, nae yet.”
“I’ll see to it,” he said. “Ye’ll have one before mornin’.”
“Thank ye.”
