Isabel reached Elena, smoothing back a loose curl from her daughter’s flushed cheek.
“Jacob’s nae wrong, love,” she said quietly. “Climbing so high is only inviting an accident.”
The brightness of quiet devotion vanished as Elena turned her startling green eyes on her mother. A child this young should not, Isabel thought faintly, possess such a practiced look of defiance.
“Tell that to Alexander,” Elena replied, her chin lifting.
Isabel huffed a breath that might have been laughter. “Come on, then,” she said, taking her daughter’s hand. “Violet will be wanting help with the bread-making.”
She did not bother to caution Elena further about her tender regard for Jacob Jamison. There would be time enough for lessons later—about hope and hopelessness, about restraint, about the shapes a woman’s life was so often pressed into. For now, she let her daughter walk beside her, clutching her reclaimed doll and carrying her admiration just as openly.
Wolvesly had taught Isabel many things over the years, not least of which was that not all feelings faded simply because they were inconvenient, or unknown to the admired.
Some only waited for their season.
Late Fall 1322
THE MACTAVISH DEMESNEhad not changed, though at least four years had passed since Jacob Jamison had last crossedits threshold. The sea still hurled itself against the black cliffs below, its endless roar rising like breath drawn through stone. Wind swept in off the water, carrying brine and kelp—a scent that belonged to this place as surely as Liam MacTavish himself. Within the hall, nothing seemed altered: the same heavy timbers, the same smoke-darkened beams, the same long tables polished smooth by generations of elbows and spilled ale. It had been the most recent home Jacob had known, though not truly home—not when his father, mother, and brothers were at Blackwood, and he was not. Still, his years here had been made comfortable, though not by Liam, who had been entrusted with fostering him, shaping him into a warrior, hardening him into a man. No, that warmth had come from Liam’s wife, Isabel, and, to a lesser degree, from the people of Wolvesly themselves—friendly folk, all of them. Isabel, especially, had always drawn him in, made him feel woven into the fabric of the place, not merely tolerated but wanted. Perhaps the closeness between their families had fostered such generosity of spirit, such genuine warmth; or perhaps it was simply Isabel’s nature—to include, to accept, to embrace without reservation.
They had ridden hard for the better part of a week, driving north from the coast after a grinding campaign that had yielded little glory and less comfort. For nearly a month they had laid siege to an English-held castle squatting above the marshlands, its walls stubborn, its garrison well-provisioned, the ground beneath it a sucking mire that swallowed boots and wagons alike. Summer had bled into cold autumn during those weeks—rain without mercy, wind that cut through wool, and nights spent huddled against damp earth. By day, they’d fought the English, by night they’d struggled against the cold. When at last the castle had yielded, it was not to sword or flame, but to hunger and exhaustion, and even that victory felt thin, purchased dearly in time and bone-deep weariness. Cloaks werestiff with salt and sweat, and boots were caked in the black mud of the northern lowlands, and the sour scent of wet wool clung to every man in the hall.
The hearth’s fire struck Jacob first, heat rolling over his face, as welcome as a warm hand laid to chilled skin. The savory scent of garlic, onions, and roasted venison reached him and his stomach tightened in sharp appreciation; for weeks the MacTavish army had subsisted on hard cheese and bread tough enough to scrape the gums.
Servants offered ale and water and gestured toward the wash basins set near the door, but most of the men—travel-worn and cold to the bone, boots heavy with mud, plaids damp, weapons still belted at their sides—paid them little heed. Movement had been the only thing keeping the chill at bay, and now that they had stopped, the ache of it settled in deep and slow. Jacob eased his shoulders and rolled his neck once, feeling the long pull along muscles that had known little rest since they’d turned south.
He was still doing so when Isabel MacTavish entered the hall.
She did not pause to take in the men or the fire or the bustle of their return. Her gaze went straight to her husband, and she crossed the floor with long, purposeful strides, skirts gathered in one hand, her face alight with a relief she did not bother to mask. Liam had barely turned before she was upon him, her hands finding his shoulders, her brow pressing briefly to his chest as if to reassure herself that he was truly there. He bent to her without hesitation, one arm coming around her, the other still half-occupied with sword and belt, and for a moment the noise of the hall seemed to soften around them.
Jacob watched, still and curious, as he always was in moments like these, aware of the quiet certainty between them—the ease of long affection, the kind that did not require words or display. He had seen it before, and often over the years, inthe reunions of his own parents after campaign seasons had ended, his mother’s hands finding his father without hesitation, the brief, private way Meggie Jamison would inspect Gabriel to assure herself of his well-being before either of them spoke. Jacob had been young then, too young to ride with his father, but the memory of those returns remained with him still, neither vivid nor sentimental, simply known.
Isabel released her husband at last, though one hand lingered at his arm as if unwilling to let go entirely, and turned at once toward her son. Alexander had barely straightened before she reached him, her hands already at his shoulders, then his arms—brisk, searching—as if months of waiting had sharpened her need to see for herself that he stood whole before her. She drew him into a tight embrace, murmuring her joy against his shoulder, and when she finally pulled back, she looked him over with the same intent scrutiny.
“Turn,” she said.
Alexander obeyed with a half-smile, indulging her, and she gave a short nod of satisfaction, fingers pressing briefly at his ribs.
“Ye look thinner,” she added, frowning.
“Talk to Da about that,” Alexander replied lightly. “Stingy, is he nae, with the rations.”
The corner of her mouth twitched before her gaze moved, sweeping the hall as if counting heads, and found Jacob where he stood a little apart, near the edge of the firelight. The change in her expression was subtle but unmistakable; she crossed to him without hesitation and embraced him as warmly as she had her own son.
“And ye,” she said, lifting her eyes to his face, assessing him with the same careful attention she had given Liam and Alexander. “Returned safely, Jacob—praise God.”
A sharp sound—half laugh, half shriek—turned Jacob’s head, and more than a few others besides. Elena MacTavish came tearing into the hall, reins on her pace pulled too late to be of any real use. She slowed abruptly at the threshold, drew herself upright, and made a visible effort to walk the remainder of the way, chin lifted, steps measured. She managed three.
Then she abandoned all pretense and crossed the floor at speed, skirts swaying as she flung her arms around her father’s middle.
“Da!”
Liam caught her without difficulty, though the force of her impact sent him back a half step before his arms came around her. The hard lines of his face softened at once into a smile Jacob had seen only rarely, and never without cause—one reserved for his wife and his daughter alone.
“Easy, lass,” Liam said, though there was no rebuke in it. “Jesu, but ye’re a foot taller.”
Elena drew back just enough to look up at him, her hands still twisted in his sleeves. “Ye took long enough,” she said, breathless and grinning. “I was beginning to ken ye’d forgotten the road home.”
“Never that,” he replied, brushing a hand over her hair with an ease that would have startled any man who knew him only as laird and commander.
