Logan didn’t wait for her to finish. He pushed the door open.
Emma sat rigid in a chair that had been made for heavier men. The study felt too large, the ceiling too high. The shelves were neat, and a map lay under glass on the desk, pins pressed into it with care. She folded her hands in her lap so that they would not wrinkle the same patch of her dress again.
She rehearsed the lines in her head.
Sir, I am Lady Emma Huntington. Remember? The woman you were supposed to marry two weeks ago? Yes. I have come to confront you and ask why you decided to abandon me. And you better have a good reason, or I am going to break your nose.
Maybe the last part was a bit too much.
My Laird, thank you for receiving me. I am Lady Emma Huntington. I have come to inquire why you refused to appear at our wedding. Did I do something wrong? Did you choose not to come because you were simply a coward?
No.
For some reason, the study made her feel small. Like a piece in a game where the rules had not been explained.
Laird MacLellan, I am here to?—
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and she jumped to her feet, her breath quickening. She inhaled deeply, the way she had learned to do when she had to say difficult things to Aunt Agnes.
The door opened without warning, andheentered. His shirt hung open at the collar, revealing a sliver of golden skin.His hair was long, and the muscles of his chest flexed with every step he took.
Her knees went weak.
He looked surprised, almost shocked to see her standing there.
Her throat went dry.Had they not informed him of her arrival?
As he stepped closer to her, his features grew clearer. Emma took quick notes, as it was the only way to stop herself from descending into awkwardness. Brown eyes. Long black hair. A scar from the outer corner of his right eye to his jaw. A scowl that made him look even more handsome in the muted light.
Everything she had planned to say to him stuck in the back of her throat.
She had planned to yell, to be angry at him. To demand an explanation.But she did not.She couldn’t do any of that. She was not sure her knees would hold her up.
Instead, she cleared her throat and balled her hands into fists. She could see the question in his eyes.
“I assume you are Laird MacLellan,” she began.
He narrowed his eyes before giving her a brief nod. “Aye.”
“Good,” she uttered, keeping her voice steady. “We have a lot to talk about.”
3
Emma told herself to look at his face, not at his chest. He was indeed in a plain white shirt, but it did not hide what was underneath. His shoulders were broad and strong.
Heat rose to her cheeks, and she despised the feeling.
Focus, Emma!
She could only imagine what he was thinking. Was he also as surprised as she was? Was she nothing like he had expected? Would this actually reinforce his decision not to wed her?
“Let me guess,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “Ye are one of MacTavish’s men.”
She blinked. “If that is your idea of a joke, I will have you know?—”
“‘Tis nae me idea.‘Tisa joke. I ken very well who ye are.”
“What gave it away? My accent?”
