Her mother reached her at a near run, skirts gathered in both hands, heedless of dignity or decorum. Isabel MacTavish caught her with a force that startled her, arms wrapping tight, one hand fisting in the back of her gown as though Elena might yet vanish if not held fast enough. Elena sagged into her mother, overcome anew with relief and by the familiar lavender scent of her.
“My heart,” Isabel whispered fiercely, her voice breaking outright. “My darling. Oh, thank God. Thank God.”
Elena clung to her, tears rising again, her face pressed into her mother’s shoulder as Isabel rocked her slightly, murmuring half-formed prayers and endearments, some of which made no sense.
Over her mother’s shoulder Elena watched as Meggie Jamison came barreling out of the castle, in much the same frantic manner as had her own mother.
She crossed the courtyard with no regard for who stood in her way, tears already spilling as she reached Jacob and seized him by the front of his cloak, as though needing to feel solid proof beneath her hands. For a heartbeat she only stared up at him, searching his face with desperate intensity, and then she pulled him down into a fierce embrace, clutching him with a strength that didn’t exactly surprise Elena.
“Jacob,” Meggie whispered brokenly, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
Jacob closed his arms around her without hesitation, bowing his head to hers, his own composure fracturing just enough to be seen. Gabriel stood close, one hand resting firm at Meggie’s back, his jaw tight as he looked upon his son with an expression that wavered between stern relief and perilous joy, as weak as she’d ever seen Jacob’s stalwart father.
Only when Meggie finally drew back—brushing her hands over Jacob’s shoulders, his arms, his face, as if counting him piece by piece—did she seem to remember Elena. She turned then, eyes still bright with tears, and crossed the short distance between them.
“We feared the worst,” she said softly, cupping Elena’s cheek with trembling fingers. “Every hour.”
Elena nodded, unable to trust her voice, and Meggie drew her into a brief, heartfelt embrace—gentler than the one she had given her son, but no less sincere—before stepping back, wipingat her eyes with an unsteady laugh that did nothing to hide her relief.
Isabel strode to Jacob, stopping before him and laying both hands on his arms. For a moment she only looked at him, possibly trying to put the depth of her gratitude properly into words.
“Ye brought my daughter home,” she said at last, her voice steady. “Ye kept her safe when others could nae.”
Jacob inclined his head, instinctively modest, but Isabel would not be put off. She reached up then and pulled him into her, brief but firm, her embrace unmistakably maternal and profoundly sincere.
“I will nae forget it,” she said quietly, stepping back at last. “I will allow nae MacTavish to forget,” she added, giving him the highest honor.
Finally, they were ushered inside, out of the rain, by Gabriel.
Thomas stood waiting just inside the door, his expression arranged into something earnest and relieved. His hair was neatly bound despite the weather, his cloak clasped properly at the shoulder, untouched by mud or rain. He came toward her quickly, his hands outstretched, his voice pitched to carry.
“Elena,” he said, breathless. “Thank God. We had such fears. Such fears.”
He caught her hands before she could step back, his grip tight and oddly desperate, his thumbs pressing into her palms as if to anchor her there. Wearing a bright red flush that was not entirely becoming, he searched her face with a grim desperation that confused her.
“You must have been terrified,” he said, pitching his voice to carry. “I did everything I could. I fought as much as a man might, but there were simply too many of them.”
Elena’s eyes widened. She understood his intent at once. This was not genuine, either his fear for her or his relief at herreturn—this was calculation. He was not recounting what had happened; he wassetting it in place, advising her of the tall tale he’d likely been telling for three days.
“You know how it was,” he said, softer now, though his desperation seemed to have grown. “How sudden. No one could have stood against them.”
Another squeeze. A silent command.
She was appalled.
Elena dropped her gaze then, deliberate, tracing the line of his lean shoulders, the fall of his immaculate cloak, the nervous set of his stance. She pulled one hand free and reached instead for his sleeve, fingers brushing the fabric as though searching beneath it.
“Ye must have been gravely wounded,” she said, feigning fright, laying her hand over her heart. “I was so afraid—thinking of the wounds ye had taken trying to stop them.”
His smile faltered. “I—no,” he stammered “They—there was no time.”
She frowned faintly, the picture of earnest concern. “But surely, fighting as hard as ye did, ye must have suffered terribly.” She pulled back to look him over. “Nae even one cut? Nae bruise at all?”
Thomas shifted, a small, betraying movement, drawing back just enough to escape her touch. “They overwhelmed us,” he said, the words tumbling now. “I was lucky to come away whole.”
“Lucky indeed,” Elena echoed quietly.
She lifted her eyes to his then, holding them just long enough for him to understand that she saw exactly what stood before her: a man without honor, wrapped in someone else’s valor.
