She could have declared that she was the Laird’s wife and put an end to the sailor’s advances. But she had not come all this way to hide behind her title.
“Very well,” she relented. “One dance.”
His grin widened, and he dragged her into the open space. The steps were blunt and quick. They were even rougher than the dances Emma had to learn in preparation for her wedding. However, she loved the way her skirt flared and how hard her boots slapped the boards.
“Ye move well,” the sailor yelled over the music. “Thought English lasses tripped over their fancy hems.”
“We survive,” she said, breath short. “Some of us even improve.”
He barked a laugh. “Bonny and sharp. Ye’re a dangerous one, are ye nae?”
They turned again, and her eyes caught Logan by the wall. His arms were folded, and his shoulders were squared. Her heart jumped against her ribs. The look on his face told her everything without him saying a word.
She looked away and let the rhythm drag her forward. When she turned back to the sailor, his hand slid from her fingers to her waist.
“All right, that is close enough,” she said firmly, stepping back.
He followed like she had tugged a rope.
“Come now,” he murmured in her ear. “Nay harm in a bit of fun.”
“It is a dance,” she said. “Nothing else.”
“That depends on the lass,” he breathed, mouth near her neck.
She moved back again. “I said no.”
He smiled as if she had told a joke. When she turned around to leave, his hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. Her stomach dropped.
Oh dear.
She yanked, but his grip only tightened, fingers locking around bone.
“Trust me, this is for your own good,” she hissed.
He chuckled, obviously drunk. “Really? Ye daenae mean that.”
“I do,” she insisted. “Let. Go.”
He did not release her. Instead, his thumb dug into the inside of her wrist, where her pulse kicked hard. Emma wondered what the best thing she could do in this situation was. She could shout or struggle. She could also smash her fist against his face.
She did not have to choose.
The crowd opened in front of her as men edged out of the way. A narrow line cleared itself without anyone saying a word.
Logan walked through it.
Logan saw her first, her face pale and her eyes tight. She tried to yank back her arm as a big hand clamped around her wrist hard enough to bruise.
“Let. Go,” she was saying.
The sailor laughed in her face.
Logan’s temper did not flare. It dropped straight through him like a rock in a river.
He walked into the circle until he stood over them. “Let her go.”
The sailor did not even glance up. “I will, when she stops playing hard to get.”
