Behind the Plaid (15 page)

“How are your arms?” I sent a teasing smile her way.

She rubbed her arms and fingers. “Fine.”

I chuckled. “Ye did well for your first time.”

Her hands still trembled and she looked a little shaken. “We’ll have to climb down that rope, won’t we?”

“Aye, lass. But not for a little while.” I turned to the men, seeing the piles of crates behind them. “Is that everything?”

“Nay, laird. We’ve several more store rooms to go through. There are also the captain’s quarters.”

I nodded toward the crates. “Have ye looked inside?”

“Nay, laird.”

“Let’s have a look, then.” I walked toward the crates, my men following, but I noted that Emma stayed behind. “Come, lass.”

Biting her lip she followed, huddling close to my side. I resisted the urge to grab her hand in mine. The crates were not labeled. No discerning scents came from them. I lifted one from the top of the pile.

’Twas heav
ier than I thought. I placed it on the ground, pulled my
sgian dubh
from my sleeve, and used the blade to open the lid. Straw covered the contents and I wiped it away to reveal iron shackles.

I recoiled at once. ’Twas as I worried. The
galleons were meant to take my people away in chains. The MacDonald would seek to imprison us. Make my people his slaves. Never. Not even over my dead, bleeding, broken body would I allow it to happen. If I had to come back from the dead as an avenging demon, I’d keep my people safe. Stealing them wouldna get him closer to Gealach’s secrets.

I slammed the crate shut, completely disgusted.

“Melt the iron for weapons. Break up the crates for fire wood.”

Turning to Emma, some of my anger ebb
ed. Our gazes locked. Unexpectedly, a sensation of being whole swept over me. I shoved it aside. There wasna time to ponder it. Wasna time to entertain it. Scotland was in trouble, and no one realized how deeply, except for me.

“Wait.” Before the men went about my orders I opened the crate again and took out a set of ankle and wrist shackles.

Chapter Eleven

Emma

I
watched as darkness clouded Logan’s features. A shiver stole up and down my arms and I pulled my cloak tighter. The crate he’d opened held shackles, which angered him—that much I’d garnered.

Why would a ship contain crates upon crates of shackles?
Such an odd thing to have on deck. I knew there were slaves throughout history, and perhaps I was being naïve to believe slavery wasn’t here in Scotland. I’d heard stories of Vikings in medieval days coming to shore and taking slaves, but not of Highlanders. Yet again, I was being shown the cruelty of a world previously only romanticized.

I shuddered, imagining if those who’d held this ship had been able to capture Gealach. I might be handcuffed now, with rusted metal biting into the flesh of my wrists. Maybe even dead. I stepped a little closer to Logan, already feeling the power of his presence and how it calmed me. Made me feel safe.

“Check the rest of these crates. If they contain the same, ye know what to do with them.” Logan turned from the man he’d been addressing, back to me. His gaze was steady, unreadable. “Come with me.”

I followed without question. Not because I thought to take orders from him, but because there was nowhere else to go, and I didn’t want to stay behind with hundreds of handcuffs and warriors I didn’t know.

I trailed behind him, looking over the side and taking note of how far down it was. My arms still shook from the effort. Climbing the rope ladder had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done. Physically exerting, yes, but also the fear of falling, of my hands slipping or muscles giving out. It was terrifying, but when I finished I’d felt a sense of accomplishment, too.

I’d never been on a ship before. Funny that the first one I’d ever been on was in a different era.
All the surfaces were made of sleek wood, which looked as though it’d been polished or washed just that morning. The sails were white, billowing fabric. Dark iron nails, hinges, hooks. Thick, corded ropes were coiled on the deck and tied up nearly everywhere. Against masts, against the rails, piled here and there. And barrels, too. A lot of them. I envisioned they contained the bodies of the wannabe Vikings’ victims, but knew that had to be my imagination.

Tripping over a bit of rope, I righted myself with Logan looking at me over his shoulder. “Watch your step, lass. Most men would say a ship’s no pla
ce for a lady.”

“And you?”

“I’m not most men.”

I had to agree there. Logan was nothing like any man I’d ever met. His arrogance was growing on me, and in fact, I was starting to find it charming. We went down a few stairs, more slippery than the deck and I held tight to the railing with one hand, lifting my skirts with the other.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To the Captain’s quarters.”

I’d only read about captain’s quarters in novels. They seemed so romanticized, and automatically my blood rushed faster. What would we find there? Would Logan kiss me again?
There
?

A slick patch of wood caught me off guard and m
y feet slipped out from under me. I fell forward into Logan’s back with an, “Oof.” His muscles were taut, bunched and I gasped at the feel and with embarrassment at having fallen.

Logan
turned around with me still clutching him. “Be careful, the decks are usually damp.”

He set me upright, his large hands circling my upper arms. His gaze went from my eyes to my lips and I licked them, with both nervousness and anti
cipation. But he shoved me back, and turned to trudge ahead. I didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved that he didn’t want to kiss me.

If we’d been seen kissing by any of his men, then I would have been labeled the laird’s whore
. And while most probably suspected it, it wasn’t a title I was readily able to accept.

I tread even more carefully along the wooden planks, which put me several feet behind him. Logan stopped and waited, his face blank as he studied me.

“What?” I asked, wanting to know his thoughts.

“
’Tis nothing. This way.” Logan led me up about eight stairs and toward a stately metal studded wooden door with carvings in the corners and intricate iron handles and hinges.

“Is that the captain’s door? He’s not inside is he?” I had the sudden image of a man gagged and strapped to a chair. While I understood Logan’s need to interrogate his prisoners, that didn’t mean I wanted to witness it.

“Aye, ’tis, but he is not within.” His voice was filled with such coldness when he talked of his enemies.

“Why would anyone attack you?” I asked.

Logan paused with his hand on the door knob and again turned around to look at me. His eyes bored through mine and I had that odd sensation he wished to see inside my soul.

“Dinna ye know?”

I frowned and shook my head. “Should I?”

He shrugged
, opened the door, and walked through without answering. What were the secrets he held? What was the appeal of Gealach to so many? Obviously, the castle was beautiful, had a lot of interesting and ornate relics, but to be attacked weekly? Seemed odd to me, for sure. Then again, I was no historian. Maybe it was normal.

I stepped through the door and gazed around the room. It was mostly as I’d imagined it. A desk nailed to the plank floor, a chair tucked beneath. A large bed, also nailed to the floor—but the bedding was not plush, nor beautiful.
It looked dirty and old. A cleared table was also nailed down with four chairs around it.

Logan went straight for the desk beneath two porthole
s. He fumbled with the drawers, then took out a long screwdriver-looking instrument from his boot and fiddled with the locks. While he did that, I went to another table covered with maps—a dagger slicing through the old paper and into the wood of the table, just by a body of water and the word, Gealach.

There were no other places marked on the map, but a long black line from
the North Sea was drawn down into Loch Ness. Gealach was very obviously the target of an attack. But I was still confused as to why, and the laird of the castle wasn’t forthcoming with information. I traced my finger along the route, wondering about all the things I’d seen but didn’t understand. Logan made it clear he didn’t like my questions. I’d have to figure out another way to find answers.

The way he stared at me when I asked questions was unnerving. Like he expected me to already be privy to the things I
asked. And maybe if I was from this time period, I would be. Or maybe he suspected me of knowing more than I should. I tried to remember that women of this era were different than those of my own time. Inside, I groaned, wishing I’d paid more attention during history class. Even during the tour of Gealach. I’d been too preoccupied over Steven’s reaction to everything instead of paying attention to my surroundings. I was always so skittish around him. Hated myself for walking on knife blades every waking moment of the last eight years.

“What are ye looking at?”

I jumped, my back hitting Logan’s thick chest. I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.

“A map.”

Logan glared down at the map. Stepping beside me, he pulled the knife from it and rolled the map up. Another document was beneath it. This one was written in a strange language I didn’t recognize. Logan rolled that up as well. He grabbed a leather satchel from beside the bed and stuffed the map and letter inside, then a wool bag of something else he must have found in the desk. I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking what it was.

If I’d been here with
Steven, the urge to ask would never have taken over me. No, with my husband it was always about self-preservation. That one time I’d push him too far, he’d raise his fist instead of his voice. Why did I feel so differently about Logan? It couldn’t have been simply that he’d pleasured me, or his repeatedly telling me I was safe. There was something else altogether. The way he made me feel, his presence. His aura, even.

“What?” he asked me this time, and I realized I’d been studying him, my brows creased.

“Nothing,” I answered.

Logan stepped closer, his feet nudging mine. “’Tis not nothing.”

“What do ye mean?”

“Ye’re frowning. Tell me what ye’re thinking.”

I sighed. “I can’t.”

“Canna
or willna?”

“Won’t.”

He raised a brow at that. “Obstinate little lass. I suggest finding the will to answer.”

He didn’t add in the “or else” but I could hear it all the same.

“Fine. I was just wondering what you found in the desk and what that weird letter said.”

I
wrung my hands, waited for the explosion, waited for him to drag me to the mast where he’d shackle me and whip me as the men of the medieval ages were known to do.

Logan just grinned. “Ye’ve an avid curiosity.”

I nodded, cringing.

“I bet your husband didna like it.”

I shook my head.

“Most men, wouldna
. I shouldna. But I do. I find your interest…interesting.” He traced the outline of my jaw. “But I also canna help but wonder why a lass like ye is so curious. Tell me, Emma, do ye seek to destroy me?”

I gasped. “What? No!”

He chuckled. “We’ll see about that. Whatever your task is, whatever the reason ye’ve come here, know that I canna be fooled. Many have tried. Many have lost.”

“You have it all wrong.”

“Do I?”

Why did he have to be so dangerously handsome? His brows
arched, eyes sparkling, lips curved and all I could think about was kissing him. Licking him. Not my usual line of thinking. It was extremely disconcerting. Logan brought out a side of myself that I didn’t know or understand. A side that was frightening. A side that could be controlled by him, with just one look. Every time I was near him, I melted, changed. Had the overpowering urge to let him have his way with me.

A different domination than
with Steven. My husband had been cruel. Logan wasn’t cruel. His dominance was…sensual. And he allowed me to lead it.