PROLOGUE
My Laird,
I accept your proposal, and I shall be pleased to become your wife.
I must, however, be frank about a matter that has already stirred the ton. I once struck a gentleman in the face, and the incident has left my family in an unfortunate position. For that reason, our wedding must take place in London, where a proper ceremony will quell gossip and restore our standing.
Afterward, I will gladly travel north with you to the Highlands and begin our life there in earnest.
Soon to be yours,
Lady Emma Huntington.
1
The yard held a pale chill that softened the edges of the stones. Logan stepped out and felt the morning cold slowly settle on him. He crossed the courtyard already dressed for the day, shirt clean, hair tied back, knife at his belt.
He did not look left or right.
He did not need to.
A young woman came out of the kitchens with a wooden bowl and a torn apron.
“Morning, Freya,” he greeted.
She lifted her eyes and saw him. The bowl tipped, and broth sloshed over her fingers. Her mouth opened, and she began to cry silently at first, then with little sharp hiccups. She turned and ran, feet scraping, shoulder striking the doorframe in her hurryto get away. The door closed with a bang, and the dog barked once from the byre before thinking better of it.
Logan did not slow down or even try to follow her.
His sister Isobel met him at the door to the Great Hall, fixing him with a pointed look. “What did ye do?”
“I only greeted her. I daenae ken why she reacted as though I was some kind of monster.”
Isobel exhaled. “This is what they see when they see ye.”
He arched an eyebrow.
She lifted her hand to the door and pushed it open. “I have a letter.”
“From whom?”
“England.”
He felt a stillness in his chest, the kind he felt when a wave rose wrong under a dull sky.“Are we still doing this?”
“Aye, we very much are.”
He followed her inside. The hall was cool and smelled of wood that had not yet burned that day. He watched as she set the letteron the table and studied it. The seal was red and neat. The hand that wrote the address was careful and fine.
He did not sit. “Another refusal.”
“Read it,” she urged.
He broke the seal with his thumb, unfolded the page, and let his eyes skim over the lines. The name was the first thing he gleaned, despite it being at the bottom of the page.
Emma Huntington.
As he read the letter, he felt the air shift, as if the walls had drawn nearer.
