All the color drained from the lass’s face, and Logan thought for a moment she’d taken a sudden turn for the worse.

But when he searched the depths of her green eyes, he saw not illness but fear, raw and base.

He silently cursed himself. He hadn’t meant for his question to come out as a harsh demand. He’d spent too many bloody years as a bounty hunter, shutting off his emotions and building a wall of ice around his heart.

Drawing a breath, he tried again. “Ye are Helena from England. Do ye have a last name, lass?”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Her eyes were as wide as a deer’s when it sensed a wolf closing in.

“Nay,” she said at last.

She was obviously lying. Logan had learned long ago how to read people—his life had depended on it. No doubt she was afraid—of Logan, aye, but also whatever or whoever had caused her to run.

He tried a different tack.

“I spent several years in England no’ so long ago. Whereabouts are ye from?”

She shook her head slowly. “I…I cannot say.”

“Cannae or willnae?”

Her lips pressed together in a refusal to answer.

“Why?” he tried again, resting his hands on the edge of the cot. “Because ye dinnae wish to go back?”

Her slim, pale throat bobbed. “Aye.”

“And ye think I would turn ye away, send ye back to wherever ye came from?”

“I don’t know you,” she murmured, looking down at his hands. “I don’t know anyone here, or even where here is, or if—”

She cut off, drawing in a breath. Her bare shoulders hunched defensively.

“Easy, lass,” Logan said. “I promised to help ye. I’m no’ going to turn ye out into this storm, nor am I going to send ye back to whoever hurt ye.”

Her head whipped up in surprise, her eyes questioning.

“Let me tell ye what I think,” he said. “And ye dinnae have to tell me if I’m right. Ye dinnae have to say aught at all.”

Eyeing him, she nodded reluctantly.

“Someone back home hurt ye,” he began. Clenching his teeth against the familiar surge of anger, he slowly lifted a hand toward her as if he were approaching a cornered wild animal.

He drew his thumb along the shadow of a bruise on her jawline. She flinched at the first brush of his skin but didn’t pull back.

His fingertips barely touched the faded discoloration under her eye. When his thumb grazed over the almost-healed cut on her lip, it was his turn to flinch. Aye, his blood boiled at the violence done to her, but a different kind of heat spiked in his veins at the soft, plush feel of her lip.

Logan quickly drew his hand away. “Ye feared that he would do it again, so ye decided ye had to leave.”

Helena’s eyes widened, but she remained silent.

“Ye fled—on foot.” Though her feet were covered by the blankets, his gaze still swung down the length of the cot. The image of her torn and tattered soles had him gritting his teeth once more.

“But ye didnae ken where ye were going, or if ye did, ye didnae understand just how harsh the Highlands can be. Ye dinnae have a plan, and ye are realizing now that mayhap what ye fled into is just as bad as what ye fled from.”

Helena’s jaw slackened. “How did you—”

“Ye said ye didnae ken a soul here,” he reminded her. “And from the fear in yer eyes, ye arenae sure if ye can trust me.”

She watched him with those penetrating green eyes, waiting. At last, a crack appeared in her brave visage. Her dark brows drew together and her hands clenched where they rested in the blankets.

“Please,” she whispered. “Just—just don’t send me away. I have no one.”

“Never forget, lass,” Logan murmured. “I made a promise to help ye. And a Highlander’s promise is more solid than stone. Ye have my protection.”

He kept his gaze steady on her, but inside he winced. Aye, the promise of a Highlander was worth something—but Logan was a sorry excuse for a Highlander. He’d long ago lost the right to stake his honor on his clan name or his origin of birth, but in this he would be steadfast. Helena would never have to be afraid again.

“Rest now,” he said, rising from the stool. “There is much more to say, but it can wait until morning.”

Helena eased back onto the cot, pulling the blankets up around her chin and letting her lashes droop.

Logan turned and gathered up her sodden clothes. He carefully spread them out over his and Mairin’s little table next to the fire, hoping they’d be dry by tomorrow. Then he took up his cloak from the peg by the door and wrapped himself in it.

As he lowered himself to the ground before the fire, he let his gaze land on Helena once more. From her easy, slow breaths, she had already fallen into an exhausted sleep. The fire cast flickering shadows over her smooth, delicate features, making her look vulnerable and innocent.

Vulnerable she certainly was, but Logan sensed that darker mysteries lurked behind the lass’s captivating eyes. He could not fault her for wanting to keep her secrets, though. He had plenty of his own, and he’d long ago vowed they would never see the light of day.

Though he was exhausted from a long day of training and the harrowing scramble to save Helena, sleep eluded him until the fire burned low. He fisted his palms in the scratchy wool of his cloak, but the velvety texture of her bare skin was branded into his mind. The memory of her dark lashes lifting and those haunting eyes holding him tangled his thoughts until he’d run his brain ragged.

Desiring this mysterious Englishwoman was dangerous. Darkness, death, and sorrow followed Logan like a wolf ever nipping at his heels.

Aye, he needed to protect the lass—from himself.