“It looks abandoned,” she noted.
Logan’s mouth twitched. “Ye wanted to see me world. Ye are in it now. There is nay running.”
“No,” she said. “I am not running.”
His gaze softened for a beat. “Ye are quite the brave thing, are ye nae? Daenae worry, nothing will touch ye while ye are with me,” he promised. “Ye have me word.”
That lodged in her chest and stayed there as he swung down and came to her side. His hands closed around her waist and lifted her. For one breath, she hung between the saddle and the ground, then her boots hit the dirt, and his hands let go.
Inside, the heat of the tavern hit her like a wall. Her eyes scanned the area almost immediately. She caught the fire under the rafters and the heat from the hearth. Men were jammed onto benches, and a fiddler played in a corner. The smell of strong ale invaded her nostrils, coupled with smoke from the fire.
She did not know whether to be fascinated or overwhelmed by how loud and bright everything around her was.
The noise died down when Logan stepped in, and heads turned. Their eyes swiveled to Emma as she squared her shoulders and walked beside him. Her pulse quickened, but her spine remained ramrod straight.
“This way,” he said, guiding her toward a table by the far wall.
A man with a scar on his jaw and a swagger that matched Logan’s pushed to his feet. His grin was pure trouble.
“About time ye dragged yer hide in,” he said, gripping Logan’s forearm. “We thought the stone had managed to claim ye again.”
“Ye still talk too much, Pete,” Logan said, rough affection in his voice.
Pete’s gaze flicked to Emma, and he gave a quick, crooked bow. “Me Lady.”
“Emma,” she returned. “No titles.”
“Nay,” Logan was quick to interject. “Ye’re the Laird’s wife, and he will address ye as such.”
Pete nodded once.
More men crowded in, and their faces and names came in a rush. She caught a few and lost the rest in the smoke and growing music. A giant cup thumped down in front of her, and dark ale sloshed over the rim. She glanced at Logan, but he gave no sign that he meant to save her.
Great.
She lifted the cup and drank anyway. The ale was bitter and strong, unlike the one they had back in the castle, and it burneda path down her chest. She swallowed without choking and set it down.
The fiddle kicked in even faster, and benches scraped back. Men and a few women dragged the tables aside, and their boots hit the floor in time with the drum.
Of course, they could manage to create a dance floor in a tavern this busy.
“Ye can stay seated,” Logan murmured. “They get wild.”
She watched the whirl and then returned her gaze to him.
“I asked to see this world,” she said. “I will not stare at it from a corner.”
He studied her, then nodded. “Watch yer feet.”
A sailor broke away from the crowd and headed straight for her. He had fair hair and skin that looked like it had been burned by the wind. Emma studied his crooked grin, and soon, he stopped before her. He smelled like salt, sweat, and cheap smoke.
“Evening, lass,” he greeted. “Ye look like ye owe yerself a dance.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He held out his hand. “Come on. Ye will turn to stone if ye sit there. The tune is begging ye.”
Emma felt Logan at her side like another wall. The air around him had tightened.
