Helena started as the hut’s door swung open once more. But her surprise at Logan’s return was naught compared to her shock at finding him shirtless and dripping as he stepped in from the cold night.

Wordlessly, he crossed to the table and set the full bucket down. Then he lifted the tunic draped over his shoulder and rubbed it across his face and through his wet auburn locks.

With every motion, the muscles banding his torso subtly flexed and bunched. Distantly, Helena realized she was staring, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away.

He was all lean strength and coiled power. He moved with a certain unconscious ease, as if he knew every inch of his body, its abilities, and its limits.

Helena knew something of that. Adam had given her lessons many years ago on how to carry herself, and how to defend herself if need be. Physically exerting herself had given her confidence as a young girl—which had been especially necessary given her confusion and fear about the visions.

Still, the handful of defensive maneuvers Adam had taught her should she find herself in trouble paled in comparison to the hard-earned strength and unconscious confidence Logan bore. His presence in the small space of the hut—bare-chested, with his muscles dancing hypnotically in the light of the embers—was nigh overpowering. His broad frame seemed to loom before her, filling her vision and making her heart hammer against her ribs.

 

As he dragged the tunic over his torso, catching the remaining droplets of water there, he moved to the large wooden chest at the foot of the cot. He lifted the lid and drew out a fresh tunic of simple brown homespun, then pulled it over his head.

Now that his body was covered, Helena managed to wrangle her wits into order.

“You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor on my account. Please, feel free to use the cot,” she said.

The truth was, she found the clean, masculine scent that lingered on the pillow strangely intoxicating. She would miss it, but she was an uninvited guest in Logan’s home. He had a right to sleep in his own bed.

Logan’s eyes widened ever so slightly and his Adam’s apple bobbed before he spoke. “Ye…ye arenae suggesting that I…join ye in the cot, are ye, lass?”

Heat flooded her face as she realized how her words could be misunderstood in that way. “Nay!” she squeaked. She pulled in a breath and tried again. “I meant that I would sleep on the floor and you could have your bed back.”

He blinked, his russet brows dropping. “Nay,” he said flatly, then moved to the fire and prepared to settle in for sleep.

“Why not?”

Logan looked at her over his shoulder as if she’d just insulted his mother. “Because ye are a guest. Because ye are still healing and need proper rest. Because ye are a woman and I am a man.”

“What does that—”

“Because ye are a gentle-bred woman and I am a coarse-bred man,” he cut in. “Because even if ye werenae gentle-bred, I am no’ some savage to make a woman sleep on the ground when there is a perfectly good cot to make her more comfortable.”

To Helena’s shock, he cocked an eyebrow at her and gave her that wry half-smile that lifted the white scar on his face. “I cannae be giving the English more reason to think all Scots—especially Highlanders—are savages, after all.”

Her lungs compressed and a little huff that was almost a laugh escaped her lips. “I don’t think you are a savage,” she said, but then sobered. “And I have met enough Englishmen to know that savagery isn’t confined to a certain country of origin.”

Logan’s features hardened at that, but he gave her a little nod. “Good night, then.”

He dragged his cloak around him and lay on his side, facing the fire. Helena studied his back for a moment before easing herself down.

She knew so little of the man. He’d said he’d spent time in England—why? And how had he come to be in a secret camp for Robert the Bruce’s elite warriors?

Mayhap it was wrong to want answers from him—she certainly wasn’t willing to reciprocate. But an itching desire to know more about the mysterious Logan Mackenzie left her staring at the hut’s thatched roof for a long time before drowsiness at last began to pull at her.

Just as she sank into sleep’s embrace, a sharp scream pierced the air.

Helena bolted upright instantly, but somehow Logan moved faster. He had already thrown back the cloak and was scrambling to his feet. He snatched an unlit candle from the mantle over the fire and tipped the wick into the embers.

“What was—”

The scream came again, cutting Helena off. It was high and terrified—and coming from Mairin’s chamber.

Helena threw back her blankets and started to rise from the cot without even thinking of her feet.

“Nay, stay here,” Logan snapped, striding past her with the now-lit candle.

She toppled back into the cot, feet throbbing, but her gaze followed Logan as he barged through the door leading to Mairin’s chamber.

He didn’t bother closing the door behind him, so in the soft glow of the single candle, Helena could see Mairin thrashing in her cot, eyes squeezed shut and face contorted in fright.

“Dinnae leave me in here!” she howled, her hands clawing at thin air.

Logan hastily set the candle on the ground and knelt next to the cot. He took Mairin’s shoulders and gave her a firm shake.

“Mairin,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Wake up, lass. It is a dream. Ye arenae there anymore. Ye are safe.”

He gave her another shake, and Mairin’s eyes popped open, looking hollow and haunted in the candle’s flickering light.

“Ye are safe,” Logan repeated, easing his grip on her shoulders. “Ye are safe, Little Bird.” He stroked her hair gently, and the tension slowly began to drain from her slight form.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice hitching. She began to cry softly, her small body shaking and her tears glinting in the candlelight as they slid down her cheeks.

Logan lowered his forehead to hers, murmuring reassurances that Helena could not quite make out. A lump rose in her throat as she watched from her cot. What had the poor girl been through?

Even as tears stung her own eyes for Mairin’s sake, warmth expanded in her chest to see how Logan cared for his sister. Aye, she knew little of the man, but there was no denying his goodness.

When at last Mairin’s tears had ebbed and she fell into a sound sleep, Logan rose, bringing the candle with him. He backed out of Mairin’s room and softly closed the door behind him.

His gaze landed on Helena, and she saw the tightness around his eyes and the ticking muscle in his jaw that he had hidden from Mairin.

“I’m sorry she woke ye.”

“Don’t,” Helena blurted. “There is no need to apologize.”

Logan dragged a hand over his face. “Just like the dark days, the nightmares still hound her.”

Seeing his vulnerability, the pain in his stormy eyes, made her want to reach for him, to take comfort in the contact of his solid form.

But she did not want to take more from him, for he was clearly drained from soothing his sister. Nay, she wanted to offer him something—offer a part of herself.

“You needn’t apologize,” she said again. “I…I get nightmares, too. Of a sort.”

Was that too much to reveal? Her father and brother had warned her that even a whiff of the truth about her visions would put her in danger. In uncertain and violent times, people were quick to blame their problems on others. They were more inclined to demonize someone who was different—such as a woman who saw visions of ill fortune.

Helena could feel Logan’s piercing gaze searching her face. She realized her features had tightened, and she forced herself to relax.

Could she trust him? Nay, not with all of it. Like Logan, Geoffrey had seemed kind and caring, too—until he’d learned the truth.

Still, it felt…right to open up to Logan, even in this small way.

He nodded slowly, not pushing her to say more.

“Ye’d best get yer rest now,” he said, moving back to his makeshift bed before the fire. He blew out the candle and set it back on the mantle, then hunkered down once more.

Her heart just a pebble’s weight lighter, sleep claimed Helena quickly. She sank into a blessedly dreamless rest.