The road to the shore curved between low green hills while the green grass brushed the horse’s legs. The air was thick with the salt of the sea and the faint sweetness of the sandy banks. People looked up as she rode past, their hands lifted. A woman nodded and went back to her washing. No one crossed themselves at the sight of the pirate’s English wife.
At the dock, the world narrowed to wood and water and work.
The men there shouldered crates toward a ship at anchor while others spread out nets that required mending. Emma spotted an old man writing numbers on a board, and a part of her wondered if this was the easiest job they could find for him.
“Me Lady,” one of the men greeted, lowering his head in a short bow.
Emma smiled. “Has anyone seen my husband?”
The man gestured to the end of the pier, and Emma turned in that direction.
Logan stood there, his shirt open at the throat, speaking with two old sailors. He turned as if he had felt her before he heard the horse.
The warmth on his face still managed to surprise her. He had kept his jaw clean these past weeks; the hard pirate lines were still there, only clearer.
“What mischief are ye bringing me at this hour?” he called over the sound of the waves.
Emma swung down from the saddle, and the horse pushed its nose against her sleeve. She laid her palm on its neck until her breathing slowed.
“None,” she replied. “For once.”
He glanced past her up the track, as if expecting a goat or a stray hen to appear at her heel. When he saw there was only her, his shoulders dropped an inch.
“What brings ye here, then?” he asked. “Have ye changed yer mind about ships?”
Emma crossed toward him, the planks shifting under her boots.“I came to tell you something.”
He gave his men a quick nod, and they retreated without a fuss. He stayed where he was, close enough now for her to see the pale line on his forearm—the mark of an old fight.
“All right,” he murmured. “Tell me.”
She thought of the straining cow, of the calf on the straw, of her own hands in that mess, steady when they needed to be.
“A year ago, I could not look at blood without shaking,” she began. “I was sure if I carried a child, I would die before I met it. Or be left to do it alone.”
“Aye.” His eyes never left her face. “I ken.”
“This morning,” she said, “I helped bring a calf into this world.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “There was blood. I stayed anyway.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he shook his head once, as if he could not quite believe her and was proud he had to.
“Ye have more courage than me, Emma,” he praised.
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It is not courage. It is enough of fear. I am tired of letting it choose for us.”
The hard lines around his eyes softened. “So ye are ready now,” he said. “For what comes.”
“For home,” she answered. “Foryou.”
She took his hand and brought it to rest low on her belly. His knuckles felt solid through the fabric. Her belly was still flat, nothing yet to see, but she felt the change in her body all the same.
“I am with child,” she announced.
Logan did not move. His fingers spread a little, careful, as if the wrong pressure might hurt her.
“Are ye sure?” His voice came out rough.
She smiled, small and certain. “Yes.”
