She walked to the door without rushing. That felt important. Her hand did not shake when she turned the knob. She stepped out, the cold air in the hallway hitting her cheeks.
Exhaling quickly, she turned and headed towards the end of the hallway. Isobel stood there with her cloak thrown over her nightdress. The cat slept on the bench where Emma had left it.
Isobel’s eyes flicked from the cat to Emma, taking in her flushed cheeks and mussed hair.
“Did ye just return from war?” she asked.
“I do not want to talk about it,” Emma muttered.
She lifted the cat from the bench, tucked it against her chest, and walked past her.
23
Later that afternoon, Emma stepped into the yard with the cat cradled against her chest. The air felt too bright, and the sky was a hard blue. Her skin still tingled, and every step reminded her of Logan’s hands in the steaming bathing chamber, his voice close to her ear, his body hot against hers.
She tried to convince herself that it did not matter, but the flush in her cheeks said otherwise.
Isobel sat on the low bench near the pens as if she had been set there and forgotten. Her cloak spread over the stone, and her boots were planted. She had tied her hair back with a strip of cloth that did not match her dress.
The animals drifted around her in a slow knot. The calf especially stood beside her knee with its head lowered, blinking slowly. She had the dog in her lap, and her fingers scratched under its chin.
Possessiveness surged through Emma.
Mine.
Then she remembered that she had stolen it first.
She forced herself to smile as she crossed the yard. A few servants lingered near the well, their buckets swinging faster than they needed to.
Isobel looked up, and her mouth curved at once. “Well, look at ye. “Ye survived.”
Emma stopped a few paces away. “Of course I survived,” she said. Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. “Why would I nae?”
“Oh, ye ken. Logan can get carried away when he’s scolding people.”
Emma coughed, and the flush immediately returned to her cheeks. “Well, that is one way to put it.”
She did not need to say more because the look on Isobel’s face turned into shock, then confusion, then curiosity.
“Did he scold ye too badly?” Isobel asked, her tone sitting somewhere between wicked and pleased.
Emma’s hands tightened on the cat. “It bothers me that you want to know.”
Isobel shrugged. “Ye both have been the castle’s source of entertainment for days now. But aye, I suppose some things are off limits.”
She shifted on the bench and gestured for Emma to take a seat next to her.
The afternoon air grazed Emma’s dress as she took the offer, and the cat nuzzled gently against her inner elbow.
“Logan is…” The first word came out too sharp. She softened her voice. “He is confusing. He says one thing and does another. He leaves. He returns. He argues. He kisses. I have not yet decided if he is a man or a lesson the fates want me to learn.”
Isobel chuckled, and the calf flicked an ear. “Go on,” she urged. “Daenae stop now.”
“Again, Isobel, you should not enjoy this,” Emma said, playful concern crossing her face for a minute. “We are speaking aboutyourbrother.”
“That is why I enjoy it,” Isobel said, stroking the dog’s back. “For months now, I have been the only one saying such things. It is pleasant to have help.”
Emma’s lips twitched despite herself. The heat in her cheeks did not lessen.
