What pressed most insistently at her was not the aches and pains, but the memory of violence: the speed with which Jacob had moved, the fierce economy of his attack, the sudden and absolute shift from Jacob to killer and back again. She had grown up with the language of violence. In her father's hall, men spoke of battle as if it were weather, a thing to beendured or celebrated according to its outcome. She knew of war, of skirmishes, of the most recent rout at Drumlanrig and the slaughter after. Yet it was another thing entirely to see it up close, to witness the precise way in which a life could be subtracted from the world, leaving behind only awkward limbs and wet, red grass. The sight of death—so swift, so final—unsettled Elena more deeply than her own abduction had. Yet as she’d watched Jacob clean his blade, his movements precise and untroubled, she found herself grateful for the very skill that disturbed her, knowing it stood between her and whatever fate awaited Highland women captured by English raiders.
After a time, all the while keeping to the forest, Jacob slowed the mare to a walk. The quiet felt different now—not the brittle stillness of hiding, but the ordinary hush of a forest with its tiny sounds. Birds called from the branches overhead; somewhere a woodpecker tapped steadily at a trunk. The land felt less claimed here, farther removed from roads and keeps and Lowland order.
Jacob did not speak. He scanned the ground with a level of attention Elena had never fully noticed before, reading the angle of the land, the spacing of the trees, even the way the wind moved the leaves. She had spent her life outdoors at Wolvesly, but she understood now that she had merely looked, not seen. Jacob absorbed everything.
She couldn’t hold back the words and asked once more, “How soon before we turn west, toward Strathfinnan?”
“It’s the direction they’d expect, Elena,” he answered, with a wee bit less patience than last time. “If they ken we’re heading straight for the keep, they’ll spread men along the route. South gives us space.”
“And then we’ll circle back?”
“Aye. When it’s safe.”
His certainty comforted her, even as the idea of traveling further from Strathfinnan tightened something in her chest.
After another stretch of riding, he guided the mare off the more open forest floor and into a patch of bracken, doubling back along a narrow line between trees. They pushed through thickets that grew steadily more hostile—blackthorn snagged at their boots and tunics, and the deadfall beneath the mare’s hooves snapped with sharp cracks. At first Elena thought it clumsy, but then she realized Jacob was deliberately choosing the most difficult terrain, winding back and forth between stands of yew and wind-thrown holly, sometimes even doubling upon their own path. Jacob said nothing, but every so often he would glance over his shoulder, then slow the mare to a near-crawl, listening; then, just as quickly, urge her forward again at a new angle. The progress was maddeningly slow considering their intent to escape those who followed.
“What was that about?” she asked when he guided the horse straight forward once again.
“To muddle the trail,” he said. “If they’re tracking us, I dinna want it clean.”
She looked down, seeing nothing, no sign of them, or anyone.
“It buys time,” he added after a moment. “That’s often enough.”
It occurred to her how little she had ever been asked to think this way. “Do you always plan so far ahead?” she asked.
He glanced back once. “Habit.”
In the saddle, with his strong arms bracketing her, Elena realized with surprise that not since the first moment Jacob had pulled her from the hands of her captors had she thought, not even as a fleeting wish,I want my father. The comfort of his presence, the solid assurance that had shaped her earliest memories, had been replaced with Jacob’s gruff voice and steady hand. The trust that had always flowed so naturally to her father—his commands, his judgments, the very cadence of his footsteps in the stone corridors—had transferred, withoutfanfare, to the man at her back. She trusted Jacob, was mostly without great fear, and didn’t expect to be filled with any shocking disappointment, as she’d been when Thomas had caved to fright, had not lifted a finger to prevent her from being taken by the English raiders.
Another hour slipped by, marked only by the shifting light and the steady labor of the mare beneath them. Elena’s throat had grown dry enough that swallowing was uncomfortable.
“Can we find some water?”
She felt a subtle shift in him at her back, small but discernable, as though he’d nodded.
“Aye. We’re heading that way already. I’m near certain I ken where we are—there should be a wide burn straight ahead.”
He wasn’t wrong, but it was another quarter hour before they found the small river. He brought the mare down to the water’s edge and dismounted, loosening the reins so she could lower her head and drink. Wondering if her legs would support her dismount, Elena was grateful when Jacob turned to help her, sliding stiffly from the saddle, her legs slow to remember their purpose, and stood watching as the horse drank deeply, water darkening her muzzle.
Elena knelt beside the horse, cupping the cold water carefully, the relief immediate.
Jacob knelt a few feet away, downstream, scooping water into his hands, and splashing it over his face. He drank as well—long pulls, unhurried—then bent again to rinse his mouth, gargled once, and spat into the current with the unselfconscious ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before.
She and Jacob stood at the same time, and it was then she saw the blood, dark against the wool of his upper arm, but with enough bright red to suggest his wound was still actively bleeding.
“Jacob—your arm.”
He glanced down, as if remembering it only now. “It can wait.”
“That is nae wise,” she said, brow creasing. “It’s still bleeding.” He began to shake his head, but she pressed on, firmer now. “Jacob, that needs to be addressed. I believe we can afford two minutes. That is nae indulgence, but necessity.”
He argued no further. Without ceremony, he pulled his tunic free and lifted it over his head.
Elena saw the wince he did not try to hide.
The cut was not deep, but it was ragged, with bits of wool caught in dried blood. It was messy and looked as if it needed stitching but presently would only be served by being cleaned and wrapped.
