The words sat in her chest. They did not change the fact that he was going to leave again in two days.
“Well,” she said, curling her fingers over it. “You won’t have to worry for long. You will be at sea. I will manage the castle. We will both have what we chose.”
He did not answer.
She turned toward the door, and leather creaked behind her as he shifted. He did not call her back.
The iron knob felt cold and a little greasy under her hand. She hesitated, waiting for his voice. When nothing came. She opened the door and stepped out.
The air in the hallway was cooler and sharper with smoke. A gust of air slipped along the wall and brushed the bare skin at her throat. She shut the door and let her hand fall from the panel.
No sound came from inside.
She walked, her slippers tapping softly. At the corner, she glanced back. His door was only a dark shape. He did not step back out.
By the time she reached her chamber, her chest ached from holding everything in place. She slipped inside, turned the key in the lock, and leaned her shoulders against the wood. She crossed to the rug and sank onto it instead of the mattress. The wool scratched through her gown. It felt real.
Logan knew about the humiliation she had faced in London. About her fear of being abandoned. He knew about all the ways he might hurt her by leaving her alone. He knew, and he still meant to go.
Emma tipped her head back against the wall. The women in her life had all had their methods, but it always came down to patience. She had no wish to wait for this man to become different.
If the raw truth would not keep him, she would stop throwing it at him. Let him believe that she had settled into the role he wanted. She would smile, nod, run his castle, and make this place into something he missed when he was gone.
She curled her fingers against her ribs and inhaled deeply.
She would be the perfect wife.
20
Later that evening, Logan sat behind his desk. The only light in the study came from the weak fire in the grate, but he wasn’t bothered about it anyway. He liked the dim lighting. It did not let him confront his thoughts more than he would like.
His eyes flicked to the map that lay across his desk. One showed the familiar line of the horizon, and another bore marked routes. A list of supplies sat beside them, his own handwriting tight and spare.
He tried to fix his mind on the list and even tried to picture the ship. He tried to imagine the feel of wet boards under his boots and the clean pull of the oars.
Every time he reached for it, he saw Emma instead.
He saw her smile. The pleasant one she had plastered on when she told him she would be the perfect wife. No trouble. No chaos. He could still see the way her mouth had curved. It had felt like being shut out of his own study.
Something about it felt rather off.
He set the quill down harder than he meant to, ink dripping from the nib. He folded the supply list and set it aside. If he stained it, he did not care.
A knock sounded at the door in that moment, pulling him back to the present.
“Come in,” he called.
Isobel did not bother waiting for the word to fully leave his mouth. She pushed the door open and slipped inside, already scanning the room as if searching for smoke. The door stayed ajar behind her. He had told the servants to leave it that way since his return. Being locked in a room, even if it was his own, was the last thing he needed right after his voyage.
Isobel’s gaze landed on him. She took in his loose collar, his rolled sleeves, his tense shoulders. Her lips thinned.
“For some reason, Braither, ye look like ye are ready to fight the desk,” she remarked.
“I have fought worse things.”
She did not smile. Instead, she crossed the room to the fireplace and nudged a half-burned log with the toe of her shoe, as if checking whether the fire meant to die out.
“I heard ye sent for more powder. And extra sailcloth. Those willnae get here until tomorrow evening, I hope ye ken that.”
