Jacob must have noticed. Elena wondered what, if anything, escaped his notice.
“It’ll warm once we crest the rise,” he said, his voice calm, unhurried. “We’ll leave the wind behind.”
Without slowing the horse, Jacob shifted behind her, and she felt him reach between them, his large knuckles scraping warmly against her back. A moment later, heavy wool brushed her arm and shoulder as he drew his breacan around her from behind.
“Help me,” he said quietly, guiding one edge forward into her hands while his other arm remained steady and on the reins and he returned his hand to her middle.
She did as he asked, shifting until she was almost sideways, to work more of his plaid from his belt and then drawing the heavy wool over her shoulders until they were both under the same blanket. The warmth followed quickly, thick and enclosing, cutting the bite of the wind that had gnawed at her bones since the ride began.
The night lay ahead, long and uncertain. She did not know if or where they would stop, or what safety would look like whenthey did. But wrapped in his plaid, carried by the destrier’s steady pace and Jacob’s sure hands, Elena felt the tension ease at last.
For the first time since being seized from the orchard, she realized she was no longer afraid.
Chapter Five
Twilight had surrendered to darkness, turning the forest into a sea of shadows, when Jacob steered the mare between tightly clustered trees. The narrow passage of brush closed around them like a curtain, hiding their presence from any eyes that might search the woods. He slowed the horse to a walk, keeping one hand light on the reins while the other pressed against Elena to steady her when she swayed.
The mare’s breathing had grown rougher over the last mile. The destrier had been pushed hard today, once in the long pursuit and then again in the desperate escape. As the night wore on, Jacob became aware of tremors in her flanks, and a certain strain in her step. They needed to stop.
“We'll rest here awhile,” he murmured, even as he was fairly certain Elena was asleep.
She had grown quieter with the fading light, her rigid posture gradually softening against him. Fear had kept her vigilant at first, but exhaustion had eventually overtaken her. Her head now rested against his shoulder with the unguarded weight of deep sleep. He was grateful for it. Better this than the sharp trembling of earlier, when she had tried so hard to remain alert, as if vigilance alone could undo what had happened.
When he finally brought the destrier to a halt, easing off the narrow track and beneath a low sweep of branches, Elena stirred at once. The sudden stillness seemed to reach her before fullwakefulness did, her body registering the change even as her mind lagged behind.
He guided the horse into a shallow alcove formed by rock and pine, the ground soft with needles, the air thick with the scent of pine. Sheltered and quiet, buffered from the wind, he imagined it would suit for an hour or two. He slipped the reins over an exposed root and let the horse lower her head.
“Elena,” he murmured, steadying her as she shifted.
“Are we stopping?”
“For a wee bit.”
He slid from the saddle and turned to her at once, keeping one arm around her as he lifted her down. The breacan slipped with them, still wrapped around her shoulders, and he caught it before it could slide free, settling it more securely as her feet met the ground. She swayed, unsteady, and caught at his arm until her balance returned. Even in the low light, he could see how pale she was, the strain of the day drawn tight around her mouth and eyes.
“Sit,” he said quietly, guiding her toward the shelter of the rock wall. “The mare needs rest, and so do ye.”
She did not argue. She eased down onto the bed of pine needles, movements slow and careful, and he drew the plaid closer around her, tucking the edge in at her shoulder before stepping back. Only then did he turn to the mare, settling the reins and making sure she stood easy before returning to Elena’s side.
Jacob sat beside her at last, leaving a small, deliberate space between them, though the quiet of the alcove made it feel narrower than it was. The forest pressed in around them, branches whispering overhead, the faint rush of water marking the stream somewhere beyond the trees, and for the first time since the orchard, nothing demanded that they move again at once.
Still, he listened.
He had been listening since the moment they fled—to the cadence of the mare’s hooves, to the wind whistling through the trees, and more importantly to any sound that did not belong. Years of war had honed that habit, but this was not how he was accustomed to keeping watch. On campaign, there were men posted, rotations kept, a perimeter shared. Tonight there was only himself, one horse, and the woman beside him. There were no sentries to relieve him, and no margin for distraction.
