The image was so clear that she had to blink it away. It was foolish to wonder where he had gone. Foolish to wonder if he had ridden far or if he had thought of her at all.
Put him out of yer mind, Emma.
But she couldn’t. All she could think of was the look on his face the previous night as he trained her and the way his hands covered hers.
She moved to the table near the fireplace and began arranging the flowers left from breakfast. At this point, she would welcome anything to keep her hands busy. Perhaps she could try to see if she could write some lines on paper?
As she dabbed at the vase with a cloth, she thought better of writing the poem. She knew that nothing else would come to mind except thoughts of him, and the last thing she wanted to do was make him immortal in her book.
“Ye’re getting soft,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all this is.”
A maid entered, carrying a basket of folded linen. “Shall I set these in yer chamber, me Lady?”
“Aye,” Emma replied. “Thank ye.”
When the maid left, the hall felt too large again, so Emma crossed to the window once more.
Outside, a pair of guards walked along the wall. The taller one paused to speak to a messenger at the gate. She strained to hear but caught nothing. A moment later, the rider turned his horse and galloped down the slope toward the woods.
“Where have ye gone, Jack?” she whispered, then shook her head.
Nay. Laird MacLeod. Call him Laird MacLeod.
It didn’t matter anyway. All of this would clear up in three nights. Then Ava would stop disturbing her because she knew she would have made a proper decision by then.
CHAPTER 16
This partof the castle was dark. So dark that even the air seemed to thin out.
Jack couldn’t remember the last time he had visited the dungeons, but they felt different. The walls, the stairs that led below, and the suffocating atmosphere that was designed to instill fear into the heart of whoever was being imprisoned here before any interrogation took place.
He took the steep stairs anyway, one hand on the rail, Duncan and Troy close behind. The smell of rust on chains placed on the floor for far too long invaded his nostrils, but he didn’t stop.
“Keep the door shut until I tell ye,” he ordered.
“Aye, me Laird,” Troy answered. He moved ahead, lifted the bar, and pushed the heavy door.
The cell was low and cold. Barrels lined one wall where salt and pitch were kept, and the floor had a runnel for water that never quite found its way out.
The prisoner sat chained to the post, his wrists and ankles bound, his head tilted to the side from the pull of the iron. Jack noticed the dried blood that darkened his sleeve from the night before.
Troy set the torch higher on the bracket. “He’s nae said a word, me Laird. Sat there all night, staring at the wall.”
“Oh, he will talk,” Jack assured him.
He circled the man once, studying him under the faint candlelight. He seemed to have grown ten years older in just one night. It was either that, or Jack hadn’t properly paid attention to the man’s face the previous night to realize that he was older than he seemed to be.
Jack stopped in front of him and waited. “Ye are nae a common intruder, are ye?”
The man lifted his chin. His eyes were bloodshot and stubborn and not the least bit surprised. “Ye think ye frighten us? We ken what ye have done.”
Jack pressed his lips together. “Then ye ken what I will do if ye daenae answer.”
Duncan stood by the door, with his arms folded and his jaw set. Troy stood on the other side, close enough to intervene and not close enough to invite trouble or give the prisoner any ideas.
“Tell me, what is yer name?” Jack demanded.
No answer.
