5. Phoebe

P HOEBE Great St Bartholomew's, London, the same day

T HE LOGANS ' HOUSE, UNLIKE the ones that pressed to either side of it, had stables built beneath – three arching stalls that had once held, so I'd been told, the horses of a former Messenger who'd served the eighth King Henry. No doubt that was why this house had been assigned to Logan's father when the family had arrived here and the lease arranged. It was a larger house than ours, and I imagined somewhat grander on the inside, though I'd never seen it.

Just now, I was only seeing Logan.

He stood solidly within the nearer stall, brushing the broad flanks of his horse – a dappled beast so massive it made Logan seem a man of ordinary height.

He would not make a gentleman, like Valentine. His hair was close-cropped to his head and nondescriptly brown. His eyes – I knew from holding his gaze once too long in argument – were undecided between grey and something even more devoid of colour; something like a frozen northern stream into which I had no desire to step.

Yet step I must.

The grey eyes briefly slanted downwards and dismissed me as I came towards him. Logan shifted so his shoulder shut me out, and went on with his measured brushing of the horse. ‘How is your father?'

‘Much improved.' I swallowed. Spoke the words that stung like acid: ‘Thank you.'

It didn't help that he wore his court livery – the scarlet doublet with its royal badge of office, the uncompromising collar showing hardly any lace, and the high boots whose folded tops came to his knees. It made him look still more imposing.

I said, ‘I believe I owe you an apology. My father told me how you helped him when he… fell.' I hoped he would not catch my hesitation on the word. ‘I'm in your debt.'

‘The debt would be your father's, surely?'

‘Either way.' He did not make it easy.

Logan shrugged. ‘I'll take it, then.'

‘Take what?'

Those grey eyes touched mine. ‘Your apology.'

I could feel my temper rising, but I pushed it down. I needed to stay calm. ‘I'm sorry.'

Logan gave a nod. ‘Accepted. Thank ye.' When I did not leave, he glanced towards me once again in silent enquiry.

I said, ‘My father also told me that you said he could not go to Scotland with you.'

I'd surprised him there. He took care not to show it, but I saw the slight break in the rhythm of his brushing motions. And his momentary frown.

‘Mayhap your father speaks too much.'

‘Mayhap my father trusts me.'

Logan said, ‘'Tis naught to do with trust. We take an oath to keep our business secret.'

‘And he does. He tells me nothing of the details.'

‘Just to ken the place he's going is to ken more than ye should.'

I could not help it. ‘Yet you stride around in scarlet? Pray, how do you plan to keep your movements on the road a secret? I should think within two days a fool would know which way you're bound.'

His mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘There's a point to all this, is there?'

‘Yes. My father needs to go to Scotland.' There it was, I'd said it. ‘He won't tell me why he needs to, but he does.'

‘He cannot go.'

‘Why not?'

‘Ye ken why not.' He stopped his brushing and faced me directly. ‘How often does your father fall?'

I could not lie to eyes like that. ‘Not often.'

‘But this was not the first time. And it is not an easy road to Scotland. He would find it taxing. And I cannot be responsible—'

‘I will come with him.'

This time Logan did not bother to hide his surprise. ‘What?'

‘I will come with him,' I said again. ‘ I'll be responsible for him. I'll care for him.'

I saw the change in his features – a slight loss of focus, as though he were lost in deep thought.

I said, ‘Please, Logan.'

That cost me more than he knew, saying those two words, but he just looked at me blankly a moment and went back to brushing his horse.

‘I will think on it,' was all he said. Which meant no.

I had humbled myself enough. I'd not beg further.

And since Logan seemed always determined to have the last word in our arguments, I let him have it, and hoped he would choke on it.