“No,” Meggie said with satisfaction. “You did not.”
“And that,” Isabel added, “leaves little room for misinterpretation. Well done, my love.”
They turned the corner together, leaving the solar—and Lady Hamilton’s curiosity—firmly behind them.
That evening, Elena took her supper quietly in her parents’ chamber, with only her mother and Meggie Jamison for company. She had only to ask to be excused from supper in the hall, crying fatigue, and her mother had readily acquiesced.
They spoke of small and ordinary things, as though they were gathered at Wolvesly or Blackwood and nothing untoward had ever occurred. Meggie remarked upon the condition of the southern wool blankets laid out for the guests, noting that they were finer than anything produced at Blackwood, but that they would never hold up to a Highland winter. They talked of the mild winter that had passed, and how much salted beef they’d managed to put up, and an occasion where the last oats at Blackwood had been mildewed by damp. Isabel revealed how difficult it had been, of late, to keep linen from yellowing when dried indoors. Meggie mentioned a rash of sick lambs at home and wondered aloud whether it was the grass or the water that was to blame. Isabel countered that she had seen the same thing two springs past and suspected the weather had more to do with it than any failing of husbandry. Between them, they debated remedies—charcoal mixed with mash, a tea of bitter herbs, the old trick of driving the flock to higher ground for a fortnight and seeing who rallied.
Elena listened more than she spoke, her plate resting half-forgotten before her. The cadence of their voices, the easy waythey filled the silence without effort, settled something inside her that had been taut all day. This was how it had always been when the Jamisons and MacTavishes gathered, they being outnumbered by males, and often keeping company while the men talked of land and loyalty and politics elsewhere. This had also been how Elena had absorbed a quieter education, one made of care, trial and error, and the management of lives that depended upon theirs.
Only once did Elena’s abduction, and Jacob’s role in her return, surface in their conversation. Later, Elena would not recall what had prompted it, only that her mother had spoken with a calm that surprised her.
“My fear was only half so great as it might have been,” Isabel said simply. “I kent Jacob had gone after ye. And that changed everything.”
Isabel and Meggie exchanged a look—brief, almost imperceptible to anyone else. Smiles followed, small and knowing, shared as if there was some understanding between them.
Eventually, though, the fire burned low and Meggie rose at last, pressing a kiss to Elena’s hair and one to Isabel’s cheek before saying goodnight. Isabel saw Elena through the connecting door into her chamber, advising her to get some rest.
Time stretched. The castle did not sleep as quietly as Wolvesly did. Doors opened and closed at odd hours; boots crossed the corridors; voices carried up from belowstairs.
It was well past the hour when most candles would have been extinguished when a knock finally came at Elena’s door. She froze, wondering if Thomas would dare to knock at her door at this time of night, but then she heard her father’s gravelly voice. “Elena.”
“Aye,” she called out, sitting up, putting her feet to the floor.
Liam entered a moment later, the weariness of the day evident in the set of his shoulders. Dust still clung to his boots, and the chill of the night seemed to follow him into the room.
Before he’d closed the door, Elena had crossed to him. “Did ye find them?”
He turned and nodded. “Aye.”
“And...?”
“'Tis finished,” he said, rolling his shoulder. “They will trouble nae one again.”
Elena knew better than to ask for particulars of what that meant. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “And Jacob?” She bit her lip, waiting.
“A few bruises, one more bit of sliced skin, nae anything to be concerned about.” He gave a small, wry huff. “He’d be offended if I suggested otherwise.”
Elena grinned, knowing exactly how true that was.
“But love, there’s another matter,” her father said, shifting his weight. “Yer mam told me what ye said about Hamilton, and what happened in the orchard.”
Elena met his gaze and nodded. “He dinna move, Da. Dinna draw his sword. Never even touched the hilt.”
Liam’s mouth tightened, though his voice stayed even. “Aye. And I kent he later told a different tale—I heard it myself. Had no cause to challenge it at the time, though it rang false.”
“He lied,” she said simply.
“He did,” Liam agreed. “And that troubles me more than his fear.”
At her frown, he went on. “Fear is common enough. Men pretend otherwise, but some act despite it, and some dinna. Ye’ve seen both.” His look told her he meant the difference between Jacob and Thomas. “But a false tale speaks to a lack of integrity,” he continued. “And that weighs heavier. I’ll beplain with ye—I was impressed with Thomas when he came to Wolvesly last year. And I ken ye were, too.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now, I’m far less so. As are ye, I suspect.”
“But I have to wed him.”
