“If only we could have understood that then.”
“If only,” Elena echoed, her voice soft as wool, her thoughts just as soft.
She found herself staring at Jacob's hands, rough and scarred but deft in everything they touched, while a thousand small memories crowded her thoughts. So much of her childhood was tangled up with her heartfelt affection for Jacob Jamison. So many actions and decisions were made with him in mind. She learned to ride better than most girls, thinking she would race with him along the beach at Wolvesly—sadly, they did that only once. She made Dougal teach her how to wield a sword, thinking she might be able to spend more time with Jacob, sparring with him as her brothers regularly did; by the time she’d been at least proficient enough to offer a challenge,Jacob had been gone. She pretended to enjoy cabbage with onions, knowing it was one of Jacob’s favorite dishes.
And she thought that eventually, he would just know that she loved him.
And then do something about it.
She wondered, now, what she might have done differently if she’d known sooner that nothing waited for her. Would she have spoken up, confessed something? Begged something of him? What might she have done four years ago, when he’d last ridden away from Wolvesly, if she’d known that was the last time she would see him until now, when she was to be betrothed to another.
It struck her that Jacob had never once, not in all the years she’d known him, regarded her with anything other than the sturdy but offhanded affection of a brother. Yet now, sitting together in this small world carved out by necessity and chance, she wondered if there might have been another path, if only she’d done something...more.
Her gaze drifted from the flames to him, studying the set of his jaw, the stubble that shadowed his chin, the way the firelight made his eyes burn with a strange, flickering gold. What did he see in her? Elena wondered. Did he see the girl who had always trailed behind him, or the woman now sitting across from him, her life a tangle of obligations and secret longings?
Chapter Eight
Elena liked to believe herself invisible to the world. Or, she liked to imagine that she was when she was stalking Jacob Jamison.
She pressed herself into the ground at the crest of a knoll just beyond Wolvesly’s training yard, the tall grass prickling her skin and the scent of crushed wild thyme curling in her lungs. No sooner had her mother announced their chore inventorying the storeroom complete than Elena was flying outside, looking for him.
Below, the lads of the household were arrayed in a loose circle, wooden swords clacking in the air. Jacob stood among them, on the perimeter, the sun coating his shoulders with molten gold. From her perch on the knoll, Jacob and the other lads—even her brother—looked like toy soldiers next to the towering figures of her father, Liam MacTavish, grizzled old Dougal, and the other battle-hardened men. Yet whenever she stood near enough to him, he filled her vision completely, as vast and overwhelming as the mountains themselves.
The sight of him—shirt plastered to his back and clinging to the spread of his shoulders, hair whipped in sharp strands across his brow, brown eyes narrowed with such fierce purpose—sent the same peculiar thrill through her as it always did. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes at night, she saw him like this: a figure apart from the others, as if he were cast in bolderhues, every breath and gesture magnified. The other lads might have been sparrows, chittering and hopping and pecking at each other, but Jacob was a hawk, swooping from above, terrifying and graceful all at once.
She watched the way he sparred with his peers, never the largest or the loudest, but always the most relentless. He ducked a blow from her brother Alexander, twisted low and came up with a perfectly timed jab to Alexander’s ribs. The two of them grinned—boys being boys, her mother would have said—but then Jacob caught sight of her father observing and instantly straightened, the mask of discipline dropping over his face like a knight donning a helm. Elena watched intently, making sure her father didn’t scold Jacob or even give him that skinny eye that her brothers sometimes received, his displeasure known. Jacob hadn’t done anything wrong; Alexander had started it.
She liked this vantage point best of all. From here she could see everything clearly, even the sweat plastered to Jacob’s temples and a small grass stain on his shoulder. Of course, she rooted for him, always and only for Jacob, sometimes imagining that her silent will could push him to victory. Once, when Jacob took a nasty knock to the head and staggered, she nearly stood up from the grass, heart thudding, but he righted himself almost instantly and glared murder at Alexander, who only shrugged and offered a barely apologetic grin.
He was so brave—the bravest and cleverest of the lads. Even her father said so. Elena had overheard her father saying as much to her mother at supper one evening.
Elena propped her chin on her fists, elbows digging into the warm earth, and let herself drift on the pure, wordless pleasure of watching him.
In moments when the training was paused, Jacob often glanced skyward, watching birds and clouds, sending Elena’sattention heavenward to see what held his interest. Once, his gaze lingered on the hills, and Elena imagined he might have sensed her watching. She quickly ducked her head, cheeks flaring at the idea of being caught.
The practice shifted: wooden swords were abandoned, and the boys hurried to bring out their mounts for the next training, with the quintain. Jacob’s stallion was a rangy, coal-dark beast with a white star on its forehead, the kind of horse even Wolvesly stablemaster handled with caution.
Elena knew the animal well; she’d spent hours sneaking apples to it, soothing its temper with whispered nonsense, wanting to be friends with anyone Jacob adored, and Jacob clearly adored his horse. She watched as Jacob approached, his gait unhurried, voice low and steady as he stroked the stallion’s neck. The horse, wild for most, trusted him utterly. It was the sort of thing that happened in stories her mother invented for her—the stubborn horse tamed by the hero’s gentle hand. Elena felt her heart thud against her ribs, the heat rising in her chest a mixture of pride and something more urgent, less nameable to a nine-year-old.
One after another, the lads took their turn, the watchers hooting and whistling at every attempt. The quintain—a wooden post topped with a rotating arm—stood at the far end of the field. The objective was simple, to ride at it full tilt, strike the target, and avoid being clouted in the head by the sandbag that whipped around in response. Most of the lads bungled it, either missing the target or getting knocked sideways by the sandbag. Elena noticed that sometimes the older soldiers, well-versed in warfare, also failed at this endeavor.
When Jacob’s turn came, he crouched low on the horse, his sword angled with precision as he advanced at top speed. He hit the target dead on. The arm spun, the sandbag arcing through the air, and for a heartbeat it looked as though Jacobhad timed it flawlessly. But then the horse shied at the last moment, a slip in the turf throwing their balance off, and the sandbag caught Jacob square in the back of the head.
Elena gasped as Jacob tumbled from the saddle, landing hard in a tangle of limbs and dirt. Panic surged through her and she scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest as she raced down the hill without thought. “Jacob!” she screamed, her voice cracking with fear.
