Jacob watched in brief confusion, not recognizing her at first—only the energy of her, the unmistakable life of her. It had been years since he had last seen Elena, four at least, before he had returned to Blackwood and then ridden out again with the MacTavish host the previous winter. She was no longer the sharp-eyed child he remembered, forever climbing and daring correction. She had grown into her height, into herself, though that spark remained, barely contained beneath the effort at composure she had already cast aside.
He stood quietly at the edge of the firelight, aware of the odd dislocation of it—the way time passed whether one marked it or not—watching a daughter greet her father as if no months of absence had intervened at all.
Elena released her father at last and turned, catching sight of her brother near the hearth.
“Alexander,” she said, and whatever restraint she had attempted earlier vanished entirely.
He barely had time to open his arms before she collided with him, laughing as he steadied them both.
“Careful,” he said, though he grinned all the same. “I’ve only just survived the campaign.”
“That’s nae what ye said in your last letter,” she replied. “According to ye, Da fed ye naught but crusts and regret.”
Alexander shot their mother a look over Elena’s shoulder, eyes alight with mischief. “Well, when ye’ve spent weeks ankle-deep in black mire, crossing burns that could’ve swallowed horse and rider whole—”
“Alexander,” Isabel said sharply, though there was already a note of long-suffering familiarity in it.
“—with arrows flying and nae shelter but damp wool,” he continued blithely, “a man earns the right to complain.”
Michael, standing just beyond them, gave a soft snort and shook his head. “He leaves out the parts where he was warm, fed, and loudly certain he’d live.”
“Details,” Alexander said, unapologetic.
Isabel made a sound that might have been a reprimand or a prayer, and turned back toward the hearth, though Jacob noted the way her gaze flicked once more to her sons, counting them still.
It was then that Elena looked past them and saw Jacob.
She stopped short, surprise registering openly on her face, and for a moment he thought she might pass him by entirely.Then she smiled—not the unguarded, teasing grin of the girl he remembered, but something quieter, more composed—and crossed to him without haste.
“Jacob,” she said. “Ye’re home. Or, here.”
“Aye,” he managed, aware of a sudden and unfamiliar self-consciousness. He had not realized until that moment how much she had changed—how the angles of her face had softened, how her height matched his eye now rather than his shoulder, how the bright, heedless girl had settled into a woman he scarcely recognized.
She stepped closer instead of stopping where she was, hesitation flickering only briefly before she leaned in and embraced him. It was an easy thing, familiar and unselfconscious, her arms light around his shoulders.
Jacob went still for the space of a breath. She smelled of clean wool and woodsmoke, with lavender teasing as well, and the warmth of her caught him unawares. He became suddenly, absurdly aware of the way she fit against him now—not the coltish child he remembered, all sharp angles and restless motion, but a young woman grown fully into herself.
“Wolvesly’s been poorer without ye,” she said quietly, near his ear.
“And I for want of it,” he replied, the words coming a moment later than he meant them to, though he did mean them.
She drew back slowly, smiling still, turning toward her family, and the spell of it broke as quickly as it had come.
Alexander was talking again, in fine form.
Dougal, one of Liam’s oldest lieutenants, liked to say, “Take an axe to any of Alexander’s tales and split it clean in two. Ye might at last arrive at something resembling the truth.”
“—and I told Da, if he means to march us through another stretch of bog come spring,” Alexander was saying gravely, “he’dbest be ready to carry us all himself. The ground was alive, Mam. Actively hostile.”
“It was wet,” Liam acknowledged dryly. “We dinna see an Englishman for six weeks—nae another soul in all that time.”
“Wet enough to swallow a man to the thigh,” Alexander went on, warming to his game to annoy his father and concern his mother.
“Sucked up thesolesof our boots,” Liam corrected mildly.
“And that wasbeforethe arrows rained down from the cliff,” Alexander recounted.
“There were two arrows, and we happened upon them on the ground at the bottom of a beinn,” Liam said blandly. “Could’ve been there for days, weeks mayhap.”
