But then—quite unexpectedly—Elena’s attention snagged elsewhere.
Jacob stood bare-chested before her, close enough now that she could take in the full measure of him—shoulders broad and square, muscle shaped by labor and war, skin marked by faint, old scars she realized she had been foolish not to expect. They traced him in quiet lines and pale seams, evidence of a life lived hard and fully, their origins unknown to her but unmistakably earned.
Elena’s breath caught, her heart quickening as her gaze followed the contours of him. The awareness came without shock or shame. She did not flinch from the rawness of him, nor feel any urge to look away. Instead, something warm and steady unfolded within her—an understanding of what it meant to see a man wholly as he was, powerful and unguarded, with nothing softened for her comfort.
The Jacob she had carried from girlhood—the one who had once filled her thoughts and dreams—no longer fit the man before her. This was someone fully formed, shaped by years she had not witnessed, by choices and violence and survival shecould only guess at. And yet there was a stark, undeniable beauty in him still, sharpened rather than diminished by what he had endured.
Elena felt a flush creep up her cheeks as she acknowledged her reaction, startled by the unfamiliar sensations that bubbled to the surface. The proximity between them kindled something deep within her, a spark that ignited curiosity and something more. Jacob had only ever been... Jacob, the boy who’d owned her heart for so many years. But now, standing before her like this, he was clearly a man, a complex blend of strength and experience that captivated her.
She swallowed hard, trying to regain her composure, and sensed a shift within herself, a burgeoning understanding of what it meant to feel drawn to someone, not just in that childish way that had occupied so many of her years, but to this man whose very presence stirred her in ways she had never imagined.
She dropped her gaze after an embarrassing amount of time, startled by the warmth that rose in her face.
What Jacob saw or imagined in her lengthy perusal would remain unknown.
He turned and approached his saddlebag, and Elena recalled the reason why he’d removed his tunic, and followed him, meaning to be helpful and not simply slack-jawed over the beauty of him. He pulled out a wad of crumbled linen, which he flapped out, revealing it as imply a long thin strip, not particularly clean.
“Here, let me,” she said, taking the linen from him, having recovered her wits, most of them anyway.
Her fingers brushed his arm as she wrapped the cloth, and she became acutely aware of the warmth of his skin beneath her hands. The muscle there was firm and unyielding, distracting in a way that she was compelled to force herself to concentrate harder on what she was doing.
She kept her attention on the binding, winding the linen carefully, aware of the heat rising in her cheeks and the quickened beat of her pulse. Elena’s fingers trembled slightly as she finished, knotting two ends before stepping back to survey her work, unsettled less by the contact itself than by how severely it had affected her.
She bit her lip, struggling to compose herself as she fought against the swirling emotions.
Swallowing thickly, her throat dry again, she tugged Jacob's plaid more snugly around her shoulders, as though that might restore her composure by force.
He donned his tunic without a word, without looking at her, for which she was profoundly thankful, and then paused to adjust the saddle.
“We’ll move when ye’re ready.”
She swallowed once more, steadying her breath. “I’m ready,” she replied, her voice small.
He lifted her into the saddle and swung up behind her in one smooth motion. This time, when she leaned back against him, the contact felt unmistakably different. She was now more aware of the breadth of his chest, the solid line of his thigh alongside hers, the quiet certainty of his arm as it came around her to gather the reins. It was the same closeness as before—and yet not the same at all.
The mare stepped forward, easing into motion, and Elena found herself sitting more carefully now, conscious of every point of contact. She didn’t stiffen, nor did she pull away, but neither could she pretend the nearness meant nothing. Something had shifted—subtle, undeniable—and she knew she would not be able to set it aside simply by willing it so.
Jacob said nothing, guiding the horse back into the trees, but Elena was unnerved by the silence.
“Why are they still chasing us?” she asked at last, her voice low.
She felt him shrug lightly. “They may ken it easier to reclaim what they’ve already taken than to chance upon another so easily,” he said. “Men like that dinna like being bested.”
She absorbed that, then asked, “Even now? After so long?”
“Aye,” he said. “But they dinna ken the land as well than we do. And yet, they may nae turn away so easily, likely having been paid coin to bring back a hostage.”
“And if they catch us?” she asked.
“They willna catch us, Elena,” he said, not with bravado, but with a certainty that felt settled rather than assumed. “I willna let that happen.”
She nodded once, steadied by the assurance in his voice.
They rode on, the forest swallowing their passage as it had so many before them.
ELENA COULD HEAR THEdogs before she could see them.
They came down from the hills in a rush of noise and motion—sharp whistles, hoarse shouts, the quick, clever yapping of the collies as they darted and wheeled around the sheep, turning the great, woolly mass as if by magic. The animals pressed together in a moving tide, hooves thudding, fleece billowing, the air thick with dust and excitement. It happened only once or twice a year, when the flocks were driven in toward the village folds, and the open ground near the barns seemed suddenly too small for all of it, as though the day itself had swelled beyond its bounds.
