Arthur’s gaze flicked to the sword in Jack’s hand. “After a pass or two. For old pride.”
Duncan looked at Jack, and Jack gave a single nod.
“Arthur, ye daenae have to do this.”
Arthur grabbed a sword from one of the men and tightened his hands around the hilt. “I ken. That is what makes it so exciting.”
Jack exhaled and took a step back. What kind of man would he be if he refused a little challenge from his former father-in-law?
They circled each other slowly. Arthur held the blade well enough, his feet steady and his shoulders squared. Jack matched him easily, dodging his strikes and blocking his direct attacks.
They both moved swiftly on the ground, with Jack well aware of the fact that there were eyes on them from every corner. A while later, Arthur drew back, his breathing growing harsh as his teeth flashed.
“I see ye havenae gone soft, MacLeod.”
“I cannae afford to,” Jack responded honestly.
Arthur lifted his blade again. “Nay, I suppose nae. Nae with another bride to guard.”
They traded a few more strikes until Jack executed the fourth strike with finality. Then, he stepped back, resisting the urge to pant. “Enough for now.”
Arthur nodded, and they let the air settle between them for a minute.
“Tell me about the bairn.”
“She sleeps,” Jack said. “She eats well. She is quiet in Emma’s arms.”
“Aye,” Arthur said, his voice softer. “A bairn kens a steady heart. Why daenae we take a walk around the castle? Will that be too much to ask?”
“Nae at all,” Jack said, cleaning his blade on a strip of linen and offering water.
Arthur drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Duncan gathered both swords and handed Arthur’s back with a small bow. Everything felt so mechanical, and no one spoke of the underlying tension between them.
They left the courtyard for the gallery, where the air felt a bit colder. Torches burned in sconces, and smoke climbed and settled near the arched ceiling. They walked past the older faces of Jack’s ancestors and their families.
For a second, Jack let himself wonder where all of this could go. He knew why Arthur was here in the gallery, and he had prepared for it.
“Just as ye remember, do ye nae think?” he asked, his tone as casual as anything.
Arthur stopped before a painting on the inner wall. The canvas was smaller than the grand frames, its colors quiet and more precise. A woman sat in a chair with her hands folded, her head turned a little as if someone had spoken near the door.
Jack exhaled.
Moira.
Her dark hair was braided close, and her eyes seemed to look past the painter toward a spot no one else would ever find. Jack had sent a guard late the previous night to hang the portrait back up after keeping it hidden for months. It was the least he could do to make his former in-laws feel comfortable.
“She looks peaceful here,” Arthur observed, cutting into his thoughts.
Jack stood beside him. “Aye. The painter caught her in a kind hour.”
Arthur’s jaw worked. “She had more than one.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed. “She did.”
They stood in silence as a gentle breeze drifted into the space and made the torches waver. Arthur’s fingers tightened on his scabbard, but he did not reach for the frame.
