Emma twisted again, and the sailor tightened his grip, thumb digging into her wrist.
“If ye ken what is good for ye,” Logan said, his voice strained, “ye will release her, now.”
The sailor turned, squinting at him. His gaze roamed over Logan, taking in the coat, the ring, the face. Sense flickered there, then vanished in ale and foolishness.
“She is nae yer business,” he sneered. “I asked her, and I will have me turn. Ye can wait for yer own, Captain.”
The chatter quieted, and the fiddle died mid-note. For a brief second, nobody moved.
Logan exhaled. “Suit yerself.”
The dagger was in his hand in the next breath, before the sailor could move. The sailor swore and fumbled for his own knife, but he was too drunk and too slow.
Logan caught his wrist with one hand and drove the blade under his ribs with the other. The sailor’s eyes went wide, and a choked sound tore from him. His legs gave out from under him, and he hit the floor, blood pooling beneath him. A breathescaped him as his body went limp and life left his bloodshot eyes.
Nobody rushed forward or tried to grab Logan. They knew better than that. Logan, on the other hand, did not bother looking down. He knew what a dead man looked like.
His attention shifted to Emma instead. All the color had drained from her face as her gaze followed the spreading blood. Her freed hand dangled while her breathing grew ragged.
“Emma,” he said.
She did not answer.
He stepped closer, took her elbow, then put a hand on the small of her back. She tipped toward him because there was nowhere else for her to go.
“Look at me,” he murmured. “Nae at the floor.”
Her eyes dragged up, and he watched it all slam into her. He could see in her eyes that everything had suddenly become too bright, too loud, too dark.Too still.
“Christ,” he muttered, tightening his grip on her.
The sailor had earned the blade, but the shock had hither.
Behind him, Pete cleared his throat. “We will sort it out, me Laird.”
“Aye,” Logan said, eyes still on Emma. “Clean up the mess and keep everyone else safe.”
Without waiting for Pete to respond, he slid his arm around Emma’s waist, taking more of her weight. “Come. We can find a room upstairs.”
She gave one small shake of her head, but then Logan felt her knees give.
Oh well, she most definitely would not be able to move now. He did not ask her to walk. Instead, he hooked an arm under her knees and another behind her shoulders and lifted her. She made a faint sound that died against his chest as her weight settled in his arms.
The stairs to the upper floor were steep and narrow. Worse, there was no light but a dirty candle that seemed to have been burning for the better half of a day.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, and she shook as he climbed. Once they cleared the landing, the noise below faded into a muffled roar. Her breathing turned shallow, like she was fighting back nausea.
“Nearly there,” Logan said, voice low. “Hold on, lass.”
He shouldered open the door of the room. There was nothing in it but a narrow bed and a thin blanket. The basin, if it could be called that, was cracked. He ignored it and lowered her onto the edge of the mattress, keeping his arm around her shoulders until he felt some strength return to her spine.
She sat hunched, palms pressing into the blanket, eyes too wide. Her gaze snagged on the smear of blood on his sleeve, and she flinched away from it.
“Is that your…” she trailed off.
“Nay,” Logan said, knowing exactly what she was going to ask. “Nay. ‘Tis nae me blood.”
Her throat worked. “I tried to warn him. I told him not to?—”
