“And try nae to bleed through yer shirt again, please?” she added. “I doubt anyone here wants to see more blood at dinner.”
“Out,” he said, but there was no bite in it.
She left, satisfied in the way only a sister could be when she had said exactly what she meant to say and believed it would land where it should.
The room took a long breath after she left. Logan stood in the silence and listened to the crackle of the fire. He looked at himself in the mirror. The new bandage held, but the edge of the linen showed where the shirt pulled across his ribs.
He unbuttoned it again, stripped out of it, and checked the line of the stitches with two fingers. No fresh seep. He changed the wrap anyway, tied it a touch tighter, then grabbed another clean shirt from the chest and slid into it with care.
He tried the shoulder, tried the reach, watched the bandages for blood. The white stayed white.
He tied his waistcoat, smooth and flat. He then fixed his collar and tugged the hem. He grabbed the comb and ran it through his hair, then bound the strands back. The face in the glass looked like a man who had no time for vanity. He allowed himself the smallest adjustment to the fall of the fabric at his cuff.
He then closed the bottle, set it straight, and wiped the table once where the old bandages had lain. The habits from his pirating days had stayed with him, no matter how many roofs sat over his head.He still remembered to always clear the space, check the knot, and look to the door.
He drew in that breath now, steady and measured, and let it out slowly. The ache under the wrap had calmed to a level he could withstand without flinching. He picked up the grey coat he reserved for formal events, shook it once, and slid into it.
It was not anything serious, just dinner with a woman who planned to become his wife sometime in the future.
There was nothing to fret about.Absolutely nothing.
Right?
The Great Hall glowed like a held coal, firelight catching along stone and silver such that the room felt warmer than it should. Emma paused at the threshold, the deep blue of her gown picking up the light in a way that steadied her spine.
She knew she was being watched.
The knowledge quickened her pulse and straightened her posture rather than shrinking it. Then she stepped in.
Logan looked up and swept his gaze over her. It was open, assessing, and unashamed. Like he was looking at something he did not know if he liked or not. She felt the attention like a touch along the silk.
“I hope that isnae the gown ye meant to wear to the wedding,” he said.
“It is not,” she said dryly. “That one is for another life.”
He cocked his head, something like approval in the set of his mouth. “Well, this one serves ye.”
Isobel rose from her chair with a brightness that matched the room. “Ye look splendid. Come sit by me, till we put proper food into that stomach of yers, which I assume is likely hungrier than a caged lion by now.”
They took their places. Isobel sat at the other side of the table by habit, with Emma to her right and Logan at the head.
Servants moved with quiet efficiency. A dish of roasted rabbit came first, then bread still warm enough to steam when torn, and a couple of plates of green beans that tasted of summer even in this colder light.
“It is very good,” Emma said, surprised at the clean flavor after weeks of travel food.
“Aye.” Logan nodded. “Since the compliment is coming from an Englishwoman, I will take it with a grain of salt.”
She shot him a glare. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, daenae ask for tea unless ye like it sweet by accident.”
Emma laughed before she could stop herself. “I do like sweet tea.”
“Then ye will be overindulged,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Isobel’s eyes darted between them, which did not escape Emma’s notice. She looked pleased, almost the way a host would once a table found its rhythm.
“Tell me, Emma,” she began. “Is it true that yer people drink tea with salt instead of sugar sometimes?”
