“This place is full of talk already,” she murmured. “They watch you. They watch me. When you vanish, they watch me harder. If I sit here while you go, they will say what they like, and I will be expected to smile. I would rather you look me in the eye when you make a foolish choice.”
The hint of a smile curved his mouth.
“So that is why ye wish to come,” he said. “To scold me sooner.”
“Among other reasons.” She shrugged.
They sat opposite each other, the long table stretching out on either side, the hall back to feeling too big. Logan could still tell her no. He could say that one more Englishwoman on the road was more trouble than she was worth. He could leave her with her animals and a neat little promise to send word.
He could do all of that, and she knew she would not be able to stop him. She could throw tantrums all day, but that would not help anything.
Logan let out a slow breath, as if he had reached something he did not like but could not avoid.
“Very well,” he relented. “Ye can come.”
Emma held still. The last thing she wanted to do was show him just how much her happiness had revolved around whatever response he gave. “At what hour do we leave?”
“Well, usually, I would leave by first light, but some changes can be made.”
“I see.” She nodded. “This will affect my beauty sleep, but it is certainly a sacrifice I can make.”
He smiled again. “I am certain it is. Nay gowns with ribbons that will snag on every thorn between here and there.”
Any other night, she would have argued about the gowns. Now she only nodded again. “I will be ready.”
The worst shape of the story shifted. She would not wake up to a cold chair and absent horses. She would wake up to a road that led beyond the gate.
Logan pushed his chair back, and the scrape echoed. “Sleep. Ye will need it.”
It still sounded like an order.
Emma rose, too. Her legs felt a little unsteady, and she was not sure whether to blame the wine or the promise, or both.
“Good night, my Laird,” she said.
His gaze stayed on her a moment longer. Then he turned and walked toward the dark end of the hall.
The next morning, the early light poured in through the high windows in thin pale strips. It lay across the long table, caught in cups and crumbs and the hard edge of Logan’s jaw where he sat opposite her.
Breakfast this time was quiet, and every scrape of a spoon sounded sharp while servants moved in and out on soft feet. At the far end, Isobel chattered to David, his replies low and short. Between Emma and Logan, there was nothing at all.
He ate the way he did everything—with that taut control. Emma tore a piece of bread into small bits and studied the crust. She waited for talk of routes and clans and what she should or should not say when they arrived.
Instead, without looking up, Logan exhaled and drank some water. “I want to take ye to meet me men tonight.”
Her fingers stopped moving. “So, we are not leaving this morning?”
He lifted his gaze to her. “I figured ye could use the time to prepare. I would like ye to meet the men at the cove. Nay riding yet. Call it a trial.”
Atrial.
Her heart lurched.
“‘Tis just a glimpse of what the road will look like,” he added.
“Yes. Of course. I would like that.” The words came out too fast. She cleared her throat and sat straighter. “I mean, I would love to meet them.”
He watched her over the rim of his cup, one eyebrow lifting a little. “They arenae gentlemen, Emma,” he said. “They are pirates. They talk loud, they drink hard, and they sound rather crass. Some of it willnae please ye.”
