By the time dusk had fallen and Ansel had called a halt to the men’s hand-to-hand combat drills, Logan was sore, exhausted, and sweating despite the snow that lingered on the ground. Still, his relief at the end of a grueling training session did not fully account for his eagerness to return to his hut.

He made a quick stop at Lillian and Kirk’s cottage, which was the nearest to his by a long stone’s throw, to collect a stew that Lillian had prepared for Helena, Mairin, and himself. As he had with the men of the Corps earlier that day, he fended off Lillian’s questions, only stating that Helena was recovering and needed her rest—and that she was under Logan’s protection if anyone took issue with her presence at the camp.

Anxious to see Helena, Logan quickly excused himself with his thanks for the stew, then made his way back to his hut.

The scene that greeted him when he opened the door stirred something primal and warm in the pit of his belly.

The embers of the fire he’d built up that morning glowed in the hearth, casting a reddish glow inside the hut. All was still and quiet. Logan’s gaze immediately darted to his cot.

Helena lay dozing peacefully, her raven-black hair fanned out on the pillow. It shone lustrously in the low light. Her rosy lips were parted and she breathed slow and steady. One slender, creamy arm draped over the side of the cot, and he suddenly longed to run a finger down its velvety length.

Heat jolted through him at the memory of just how soft her skin had been when he’d held her naked in his arms. Unbidden, his manhood stirred despite his exhaustion.

Fighting to control his lust, he crossed the room on quiet feet. She must have sensed his presence through her light slumber, though, for she stirred and her lashes lifted.

Another spike of awareness shot through him as their eyes locked and the lush green depths of her gaze made him freeze for a moment.

“Stew from Lillian,” he said idiotically, lifting the iron pot Lillian had given him.

His heart lurched against his ribcage as a small smile lifted Helena’s lips. “It smells wonderful.”

He turned away abruptly. He needed something to do, something to focus on besides Helena’s black hair cascading around her head, her full, curving lips, and that silky skin of hers.

As he began dishing the stew into wooden bowls, he heard Mairin’s door click open behind him. He glanced up at her, giving her a kind smile.

“How was yer day, Little Bird?”

In the brief moment that Mairin lifted her gaze to his, he saw that her eyes were vacant and flat.

That was not a good sign.

That look, as if she were dead inside, had filled her eyes when he’d rescued her from the root cellar. She had remained silent and ghost-eyed for weeks afterward, and at the time, he’d feared she would never again be the vivacious lass he remembered.

In the months following her release from captivity, he’d seen glimpses of the sister he’d once known. In their month and a half at the Corps’ camp, she’d gradually begun to have more good days than bad, but she still fell into deep pits of silent despair on occasion.

Tonight seemed to be one of those occasions.

Without a word, Mairin pulled out one of the stools from the table and began perfunctorily spooning stew into her mouth.

His jaw tightening with worry, Logan carried another bowl of stew to Helena. He felt her gaze on him and looked up to find an unspoken question in her eyes. He shook his head slightly, and her brows drew together, her gaze shifting to Mairin.

Logan sat across from Mairin, but she refused to make eye contact with him. In a matter of moments, she had finished the obligatory task of eating and stood from the table. Logan watched her retreat back to her room. When the door closed, he dropped his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a long moment.

“I’m sorry.”

He looked up at Helena, suddenly feeling the weight of all his failures—to Mairin, to his clan, to himself—pressing down on his shoulders. “Why? None of this is yer fault.”

“I…I seemed to upset her today,” she said, setting aside her empty bowl. “When she came out to help me earlier, I encouraged her to speak, and—”

“She left her room?” he cut in, his brows shooting up. Normally when Mairin sank into one of these moods, it would begin with her retreating, sometimes for days at a time, into isolation and silence.

“Aye,” Helena went on, biting her lower lip. “I rose to get water for myself, and she came out to help me.”

That wasn’t like Mairin. Whenever Lillian came over to pay her a visit or try to coax her outside, Mairin usually refused to even open her door.

“And she spoke to ye?” he asked.

A tinge of color crept into Helena’s cheeks. “I started prattling on about the weather. I only thought to draw her out a bit. I was thinking of what you’d said, that she’d had a difficult life, and imagined she might appreciate someone to talk to—even just about the weather. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset her.”

“This isnae yer fault,” he repeated.

“Nay, you don’t understand. Somehow we stumbled onto the fact that she hasn’t been in the Highlands these past six years, and that she didn’t want to talk to me because I’m English, and—”

“She said all that?” Logan rose and moved to the cot.

Helena shied away, leaning into the wall. “Aye. I didn’t mean—”

He realized that she mistook his shock for anger. Looming over her like some barbarian wasn’t helping matters, either.

He crouched in front of her so that their gazes were even. “Listen to me, Helena. I dinnae ken why these dark moods take her, but it isnae yer fault. Ye remember that Lillian is English?”

She blinked at his abrupt shift in topic, but she nodded.

“Lillian is a kind-hearted woman. When she learned of Mairin’s…struggles, she offered to keep her company, be a companion if she needed one, seeing as how Mairin and Lillian are the only women in the camp.”

Helena’s dark brows drew together. “And?”

“And Mairin hasnae spoken more than two words to Lillian. She doesnae like Lillian’s English accent, for it reminds her of… past sufferings. But she spoke to ye.”

“Why?” Helena whispered. “Why would she open up to me, even in a small way, when I’ve only just met her?”

“I dinnae ken,” he said, scrubbing a hand along his jawline. “Mayhap she recognizes that like her, ye escaped some sort of torment—and survived.”

Helena’s eyes rounded, and Logan feared he’d said too much about Mairin.

“I’m no’ upset at ye for talking to her,” he said to redirect the conversation. He held Helena’s stunned gaze. “In fact, I want to thank ye.”

Her face softened at his words and she dropped her eyes to her lap. A bonny pink blush rose to her cheeks, making her skin look like strawberries and cream.

He was doing it again—melting inside with the heat of wanting this woman. He needed to cool his thoughts—and his body.

He rose to his full height and gathered their supper dishes, then lifted the bucket of water from the table and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Helena asked, blinking in confusion.

“To wash off the day’s labor,” he said, slipping out of the hut without a backward glance.

In the light of the half-moon overhead, he stripped off his tunic and splashed water over his head and chest. The cold night air made his skin pucker, yet his manhood still pressed hotly against his breeches.

Muttering a curse, he tossed his tunic over one shoulder and carried the bucket to the little stream that ran along the back side of the camp, snow crunching under his boots as he went.

He’d been a long while without a woman, but that didn’t explain the twisting in his gut every time he laid eyes on Helena. She was all beautiful contrasts—black hair against cream skin, eyes that were keen yet soulful at the same time, and an earnest goodness that didn’t square with the secrets she so carefully guarded.

He wanted to kiss her, aye, to claim that soft, rosy mouth and feel the swell of her breasts pressed into his chest—and more. He longed to drag the bare length of her lithe body against him again, and this time not to warm her from the outside, but to kindle a heat within her to mirror his own.

But he wanted something else, too, something other than a bodily exploration of desire. He wanted to know her, to peel away the layers of her defenses until her secrets lay bare. For if he ever learned the truths she so valiantly hid, it would mean that he had gained her trust, and he wanted that most of all.

Yet would she stay in his life long enough for him to earn it? It would be at least another sennight before her feet healed enough for her to move about freely. What then? Would she leave? Or could Logan find a reason for her to stay?

Careful to keep the now-full bucket steady at his side, Logan trudged back toward the hut, his blood running hot even as the icy wind nipped at his damp torso.