He said it evenly, but she could hear the warning beneath it. He was warning her about him with them as much as about them.
She set the bread down and met his eyes. “You will be there?”
“Aye.”
“Then I am not afraid,” she declared.
Something flashed across his face, but then quickly vanished. He tipped his head, as if her answer had landed in a place he had not expected.
“I can handle myself,” she added, a little too proudly.
His gaze stayed on her a beat longer, assessing her, then slid back to his plate. “If ye are coming, ye willnae wear those gowns.”
Emma blinked. “You know, it was too late to argue with you last night, so I said nothing. But really, what is wrong with my gowns?”
He put his knife down and let his eyes roam over her, slow and frank. “They mark ye like a banner,” he explained. “Soft English lady wrapped in lace. Ye walk into the cove like that, every eye will be on ye, and half of them will see ye as sport afore they see ye as me wife.”
Her shoulders tensed. Her gowns were the last reminders of London she had left. “I cannot stopbeingEnglish, Logan.”
“That is nae what I said.” His voice stayed even. “Ye need to blend in a little. Look like a Highlander, nae a visiting prize. A dress that can take mud and leather boots that can take a knife. Ye cannae wear silk that will tear if ye breathe too hard.”
It annoyed her that he was right. It annoyed her more that he was the one to say it.
“I do not care to look like a target,” she said. “Or a prize. Or a banner.”
“Good. Then we agree.”
She could have argued that he did not own her wardrobe. She could have reminded him whose blood ran in her veins. Instead, she bit it back and nodded once. “Very well. I will find something more… Highlandly.”
Relief flickered in his eyes, but was quickly gone.
“Speak to Isobel,” he advised. “She kens what will pass.”
Later, when the hall had emptied, Emma went straight to Isobel’s room. Isobel listened with bright eyes while Emma told her about the invitation. Her hands flew to her mouth, then dropped as laughter burst out of her.
“He is taking ye to the cove,” she gasped. “Och, I would pay good coin to see his face when he realizes what he has done.”
Emma tried for a frown. It did not quite land. “You take far too much joy in this.”
“Aye,” Isobel tittered. “Ye in the midst of his pirates, and him watching every one of them like a hawk. It serves him right.”
“He says I must look like a proper Scotswoman,” Emma said. “Apparently, my gowns shout‘English’far too loudly.”
Isobel’s grin softened. “He isnae wrong. But it is sweet, in his own clumsy way. He wants them to understand that ye belong here. And to him.”
Emma ignored the flutter in her stomach. “He wants menotto be stabbed for my lace.”
“That too,” Isobel answered. “Come. I have just the thing.”
The dress she took out of her chest made Emma pause.
It was deep green wool, the color of the hills beyond the horizon. It had a darker bodice, which was cut to the waist, with laces that would hold her firm. The sleeves seemed narrow enough to move in, and the low end looked full enough to ride without showing anything she should not. There was no fragile trimming or silk to catch on every rough edge.
When Emma stepped into it, the weight sat differently on her shoulders. The dress felt lighter than she was used to. In England, she would have thought she was wearing a nightshift.
Isobel braided her hair and tied it back with a matching ribbon, letting a few curls fall where they pleased. In the square mirrorabove the washstand, Emma did not see an Englishwoman anymore. She saw someone in between. Not wholly Highlander or wholly English.
Onlyher.
