Ignoring him, still intending to have his fun with his mother, Alexander continued, “Och, and the rain, Mam. Driven sideways at times by the wind. I couldnae see the enemy in front of me.”
“It rained one afternoon during the siege,” Liam corrected, “And nae again until this past week, as we marched home.”
Alexander wasn’t done yet, but shook his head as if contemplating tragic memories. “Argh, and the misery, Mam, men weeping quietly into their cloaks. Praying for dawn, for peace, to be spared.”
Liam cleared his throat, a rare grin teasing. “That was ye, son, the one weeping.”
“I was leading by example,” Alexander said cheekily, giving in to his own grin. “And let us nae forget the march itself—days without proper food, surviving on crusts and sorry regret—as stated in my missives.”
“Ye ate my rations,” Liam stated.
Alexander spread his hands innocently. “A man who sleeps on his supper shouldna be surprised when it walks away.”
Jacob caught the conversation only in fragments, his attention seized instead by Elena. It struck him all at once howcompletely she had changed in the years since he had last seen her. The awkward, half-grown girl he remembered—too quick in her limbs, too sharp in her angles—was gone. In her place stood a young woman of her mother’s slight build, compact and neatly made, yet unmistakably her father’s daughter all the same. Her hair, black as Liam’s, fell thick and dark against her shoulders, and when she turned, laughing at something Alexander said, Jacob caught the flash of her eyes—clear green, striking, and far more self-possessed than he recalled.
He found himself staring, unsettled less by her beauty than by the realization that he had missed the change entirely. Time had moved on without consulting him, and Elena had moved with it.
She no longer hovered at the edges of her family as she once had, nor tucked herself behind her mother’s skirts, as she had in those years when being the youngest in a household of strong, sharp males had encouraged a certain watchfulness. Once, she had looked at Jacob without reserve, openly and often, trailing after him wherever he went. Now her attention rested on her father and brothers—and it was Jacob who found himself watching her, struck silent by the change. He had been well aware of her regard back then; it had been difficult to miss, given how openly she had followed him and sought his attention. He had been aware, too, of how merciless her brothers were in return, forever needling her for it, He’d always been faintly amazed that she had endured the teasing simply to remain near him.
Jacob had never encouraged her interest, nor had he given it much thought at all, except when Alexander and Michael were on a tear, making sport of her. Now, as he watched her covertly, this composed, self-possessed Elena, he decided that whatever had once lingered between them was quieter, more contained: something acknowledged and then set aside, belonging to thepast and the girl she had outgrown rather than the young woman she had become.
Or... perhaps not entirely.
As if aware of his present regard, she glanced his way then and caught him outright. Color rose swiftly in her cheeks, a brief, unmistakable warmth she did not quite manage to conceal before turning back to her family. Her smile returned a moment later, carefully placed, a shade more deliberate than before as she listened to Alexander continue his antics.
Jacob looked away a moment later, aware of a faint, unexpected warmth that had nothing to do with the fire or this homecoming. He told himself it was simply the surprise of it—of seeing her now, fully grown, self-possessed, and far more striking than the bold girl he remembered.
His gaze moved on, settling briefly on Liam and then Isabel, noting a touch of grey at Liam’s temples and lines at the corners of Isabel’s eyes that spoke less of age than of years lived fully. Even Alexander and Michael bore the marks of it now—Alexander broader, more assured, Michael steadier, less boy than he had been when Jacob arrived to foster with the MacTavish chief.
Voices inside Wolvesly’s hall rose and fell, as familiar and steady as if he were actually home at Blackwood Keep. Jacob remained on the periphery of the MacTavishes, taking it in, contemplating the idea that time had not stood still for any of them.
Chapter One
Spring 1326
THE ROAD SOUTH, PRESENTLYnavigating through Blair Atholl just west of the Tay Forest, unfurled ahead in long ribbons of damp earth and trampled grass, the spring morning sun low enough to cast a pale gold shimmer across the fields.
Jacob Jamison kept his horse to a steady pace beside his father’s, listening to the muted thud of hooves and the quieter rhythm of his family’s voices carrying behind him. The air tasted faintly of river water and thawed soil—milder than the Highland winds he’d grown up with, and pleasant enough for their journey south.
It was a rare thing, all of them traveling together. His father, Gabriel, had remarked on it earlier with a note of satisfaction, and his mother, Meggie, had smiled the way she did whenever her husband revealed a softness he pretended not to possess. She rode just behind them, reins held confidently, her cheeks flushed with color from the breeze. She’d refused a carriage, no surprise. Jacob could not imagine his mother tolerating such confinement even for a short journey, or being separated as she would have been, from her husband and sons.
Harry de Quincey, the long-time Jamison captain, rode in the rearguard with Telly and Edwin, both veteran lieutenants inthe Jamison army, along with six other outriders. Two Jamison scouts ranged far ahead of the traveling party.
Behind Meggie Jamison, Jacob’s brothers David and Malcolm rode side by side—though “rode” might be too generous a word for David’s loose-limbed, half-lounging posture. He sat his horse as though it were a fireside bench, one hand loose on the reins, the other gesturing broadly as he spoke. Malcolm, as quiet and contemplative as David was not, listened with half an ear and a distant look, nodding occasionally at David’s rambling commentary with the dutiful air of one fulfilling a familiar obligation—someone had to pretend to be listening.
