“Perfectly.”
That single word explained nothing.
He glanced toward the seawater, then back at her, as though the answer might ripen in the tide. “Ye’ve been lying there a while.”
“Aye.”
“Doing what?”
Her lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. She shifted, folding one knee over the other as sand cascaded down her skirt’s pleats. “Nothing.”
He frowned, genuinely puzzled. “I dinna understand.”
She laughed softly, a sound like distant bells, and rolled over, propping herself on her elbows. She lifted her startling green eyes to him, squinting slightly against the light. “Ye ride alone often, do you nae?”
“Aye,” Jacob said, after a beat. “Most days.”
He watched as her gaze drifted beyond him, a veil of contemplation settling over her features. “'Tis just the same. I thought ye, more than most, would understand,” she replied, her voice almost wistful.
With her words, of course, he did.
He had always preferred the quiet corners of the world—the stillness of the woods where he could breathe without the weight of conversation, where the sounds of nature filled the silence he cherished. It was not that he disliked the company of others; he loved his family and the MacTavishes dearly. Yet, he often found solace in withdrawing from the chaos, relishing in the clarity that came with solitude.
“Is it...” she began but then seemed to change direction, with a quick shake of her head. “What’s it like, Jacob? Fighting? What happens when men face each other with steel?”
Jacob blinked, momentarily dumbstruck—no one had ever asked him such a thing before. Fighting was something he did, not something he dissected. It happened in a blur—so fast and so final that there was little time to give it a name or texture. It simply was. And it had always been that way, even from his earliest drills with wooden swords alongside his brothers and hers, and then the sickening leap to real steel, real blood, real consequence. He was tempted to laugh, but something in Elena’s gaze—serious, unblinking—staved off the want..
He searched for words, swinging his gaze toward the slow rolling surf, as if they might be hidden there. After a lingering pause, he shrugged and said what he knew. “It’s quick. Nae as long as ye’d think. Ye remember fragments after, bits of sound or pain or the way your hand feels cold even if it’s covered in blood.” He shrugged, almost embarrassed by his answer, or by the subject, or maybe by being the subject; he wasn’t sure. “It’s loud, sometimes, but the worst bits are quiet. And it is nae half as grand as the old stories make it.”
Elena sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, her bare toes peeking out from under the hem of her skirts. “I always thought if it happened to me, I’d freeze,” she said, tone more musing than afraid. “My father says nobody knows how they’ll react until steel’s at their throat. Some men drop their swords before the fight’s even begun.”
Jacob nodded. “Aye. That’s true enough.” He flexed his hand unconsciously, recalling the strange numbness that lingered after each fight—the way the air always seemed too thin, the noise of battle ringing in his ears long after silence had resumed. He looked up, searching Elena’s face for judgment, but found none.
They stared for a moment but said nothing.
Rather than retreating from it, Elena filled the hush with another question. “Are...are you ever afraid?”
He hesitated, a thoughtful frown emerging. “Aye, but nae while it’s happening. Only before. Or after, sometimes.” He looked away again, out to where the sea blurred into the sky, a soft line indistinguishable in the morning haze. He wondered what it would mean to admit to her, of all people, that he was not fearless. Would it lessen him in her eyes? Or would she see the truth and respect him all the more for it?
After a moment, she added, almost absently, “Da says that courage is nae the absence of fear, but the strength to act despite it.”
Jacob nodded, having heard those very words from Liam MacTavish himself many times by now.
He turned back to her, to find her watching him still. Her expression was thoughtful, her eyes reflecting the soft light of the sun. With her chin resting on her knees, her attention was fixed wholly on him.
Jacob found himself oddly conscious of the quiet between them.
After a moment, he shifted in the saddle, clearing his throat. “Is that why ye come down here?” he asked, the question sounding a wee bit forced. “To be alone, I mean. To set things aside.” He hesitated, then added, more quietly, “To outrun what follows ye.”
One eyebrow arched upward while the corner of her mouth curled into something mischievous—not quite mockery, but the kind of smile that suggested she knew something he didn't.
“Nae,” she said, with a frankness that surprised him. “Nothing so dramatic.” She leaned back into the sand, bracing herself on her hands. “I come because my brothers dinna follow me here. Because nae one tells me to mind my skirts or comb my hair—here I can simplybe.”
That startled a short breath of laughter from him. “So ye’re nae haunted, then?” he said.
“Only by Alexander,” she replied lightly. “And sometimes Michael, when he’s bored.”
Jacob shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That sounds aboot right.”
