Page 3 of Dark Side of the Laird
The king shouted a final order before turning his mount around in the courtyard and pushing him into a trot. Without a helmet, his hair flopped in the wind. He filed out the gate of Gealach in a line with his men and servants. The entire caravan marching with purpose, flags raised and trumpets blaring.
“No,” I whispered, searching the rows of riders for Isabella’s back. No women.
Where was Lady Isabella?
Then a flash of red caught my eye. Standing directly below my window was the tart. Dark, glossy hair perfectly coiffed. A gown as elegant and regal as a queen. She shimmered, literally. So many jewels clasped to her fingers, neck, wrists, even her gown. They sparkled in the sunlight. Isabella waved a red, silk scarf in the air at the departing caravan. The way it wafted in the breeze with such peaceful intent filled me with rage. I wanted to trample her like a bull when taunted by a matador.
She was staying. No freaking way.
I slapped the stone casement of the window. A flash of memory spiraled through my mind—Logan’s heavy, erotic breathing, the feel of his hands on my naked breasts as he’d pounded into me while I leaned over this very spot. However much the thought should have heated me, I was filled with an icy dread.
Isabella was going to make my life a living, breathing hell.
As the last of the horses rode beneath the gates and the gatekeepers rushed to close the heavy wooden doors, the woman peered up at me. She’d known I was there all along. The cruel smile that peeled her lips back had me gritting my teeth. Her gray eyes, which I’d once thought were dull and lifeless, were in fact quite heavy with negative sentiment—mean and calculating. The bitch knew I wanted her to leave. Knew that I was against the king’s wish for her to marry Logan.
He was mine.
And she was determined to see that she was the only one he ended up with. Lady Isabella had a plan up her sleeve and given that her uncle was the worst of Logan’s enemies, I had a feeling that her plan was hatched not of her own accord but greedily accepted when broached.
I watched with mounting dread and pain in my heart as the king’s caravan rode over the dirt-packed road, disappearing over the ridge and rising again until all that was left of them was a cloud of dirt.
No one had returned for Isabella. No one in the courtyard seemed confused by her presence. I wanted to scream in frustration to shred the shutters from the stone and toss them down on her head.
I could do none of those things. To the outside world, and even to Isabella, I was nothing. She’d asked me and I’d told her that there was nothing between Logan and I. Having woman’s intuition, she’d guessed that he and I were an item. How could she not? The way we stared at each other across a room was hot enough to light a fire in the hearth.
I was screwed.
If Logan had indeed told King James that he wouldn’t marry Isabella, then the only reason she was here was because the king had chosen for her to remain behind in hopes of changing Logan’s mind. Maybe she wanted to seduce him. If he got her pregnant he’d be bound to her. Wasn’t that the way of things in this era? Even though I trusted Logan not to go after her… Isabella was a conniving, deceitful woman.
Despite her nature, Lady Isabellawasa noblewoman andthebride the king had chosen for Logan. Just as I’d suspected, there was little he could do to get out of it. He was bound, more so than anyone else, to his brother and what the king chose for him as his fate.
Damn it.I slammed the shutters closed and stomped my foot, feeling powerless. I wouldn’t let Isabella come between us, and I just couldn’t share.
The thought of it made me physically ill. I doubled over, clutching at my belly.
Going back to my own time was out of the question. I felt too deeply for Logan to go back to that life. And I was scared of what I’d find there. My husband—exwas what I considered him—was a vicious worm. I shook my head. No way was I ever going back to him. Steven was dead to me. Logan was my future.
Another inaudible shout had me opening the shutters again, in desperate hopes that the king had realized Isabella was left behind. But all that greeted me was the normal routines of the castle’s inhabitants. How awful that everything should appear so normal when I felt so off.
Outside the trees were nearly barren, a few straggling red and orange leaves hanging on to branches as though their lives depended on it. They refused to let go, clinging to the tree with every last ounce of strength they had.
Much like me clinging to Logan and this time, fearful of the time when nature took its course and I would have no choice but to let go, swirling down into the depths of some place I didn’t want to be. Dying.
I turned from the window and trudged over to the chair. My cold breakfast looked pathetic in its austerity. I sat down determined to eat the bowl of porridge which had long since formed into a hardened blob of mush. Tunnels of honey and almond milk made rivulets in the center of the oats.
I’d barely slept in the last week since Logan had taken me through the secret door. The one I’d been through on my own before. The one that scared the shit of me. Down a hundred stairs and into the hidden chamber, he’d led me. Shown me the maps on the doors. Doors that represented different fates—life, death, honor and the unknown. Logan had opened up to me. Trusted me and shared with me the secrets of the castle. The thing that startled me the most was unearthing yet another clue that proved I was meant to be here. Evidenced by the rune tattoo on my hip was the same as the one etched onto the door holding a sealed treasure box, the contents of which even Logan wasn’t privy to. He trusted me. And I trusted him. That was all that should matter.
“Emma.”
I glanced up, startled.
From the doorway, Logan cleared his throat, his face serious, worry lines etched at the corners of his dark eyes. His black hair was pulled back in a queue, longer than it was when I’d arrived at his stone fortress some months before. His shoulders were broad, nearly as wide as the door frame, and he had to duck an inch to get inside. Long, muscular legs. Thick, sculpted arms. Chiseled chest and abs. All regretfully covered except for his athletic calves. He stared at me intently, as though he would know everything that went on inside my head, my heart. Like he wanted to devour my soul, and lord help me, I would hand it to him on a silver platter.
I tossed my linen napkin onto the table and started to stand.
He held up his hand, staying me. “Nay, dinna get up. Your meal will get cold.”
“Too late,” I said with a nervous laugh staring at the stiffened porridge that appeared to have taken on a gray hue.
