“It will be a grand affair,” she said lightly. “Half the lowland Lords will be present, and half the Highland chiefs besides. Good to see old friends again, and perhaps meet a few new ones.”
Gabriel cleared his throat softly, a sound Jacob had learned to interpret as a preamble to something practical. “Aye,” his father said. “And a good opportunity as well. Peace or nae, alliances matter. ’Tis time we turn our minds to the future.”
Jacob felt the shift in the conversation before the words fully formed, a subtle tightening in the air between around them.
Meggie smiled over her reins, eyes bright, though her words were measured. “Your father means that it may be time to start thinking of a match for you.”
David straightened immediately, interest sparking. “A match? For Jacob?”
“For you, too, in time,” Meggie replied, “but Jacob first. He’s the eldest. And at five-and-twenty, beyond the age forconsidering his future. War has disrupted inevitability long enough.”
David elbowed Malcolm with exaggerated relief. “Did ye hear that? Jacob first.”
“Aye,” Malcolm said.
“Excellent,” David went on. “That buys us years. Possibly decades. Nae woman will willingly throw herself at a man who answers every question with a grunt—terribly uninviting, aye?”
Maggie slanted a disapproving look at David.
“Said with the greatest affection, Mam,” David assured her, hand on his heart, entirely unapologetic.
Jacob exhaled a slow breath, not resisting the conversation but not inviting it, either. “We’re riding to a betrothal already. Seems early to be speaking of another.”
Gabriel’s expression was steady, unaffected, his tone gentle but firm. “But it’s nae. Yer mam’s nae wrong—past time already. Peace gives us room to consider these things now. And a man does well with a good wife at his side,” he reasoned, glancing at his wife and winking.
Meggie returned the glance with a soft smile that said far more than words ever could. They held it a moment longer than strictly necessary, comfortable in a way that came only of years lived well and happy together.
Jacob shifted in his saddle, suppressing a familiar twinge of discomfort. He had grown up with such displays and knew them for what they were, yet that did nothing to make witnessing them any less awkward. But now, as talk turned toward his taking a wife, Jacob frowned, attempting—and failing—to imagine sharing such an easy, wordless understanding and affection with a woman of his own. When he tried to set a face to it, the notion faltered further. No woman rose readily to mind, no pull strong enough to bridge the distance between idea and desire.
And then, Elena MacTavish’s face surfaced—again—not as the bairn she’d been when first they’d met, but older, composed and striking, and with the very thought of her came a faint, unwelcome jolt of awareness. Jacob dismissed it at once, telling himself he was more surprised by the thought than tempted by it. He turned his attention back to the road ahead, hoping his parents would let the matter rest for now.
They did, and yet something in him felt faintly taut, like a bow string drawn tight just before release. He had given little thought to marriage, certainly not for himself. War had claimed too many years; duty at Blackwood had filled what remained—his father hadn’t wed at a predictably young age. And yet, the talk of a match for him, and that on the heels of the mention of Elena, had him recalling her poised smile at sixteen and his brief beguilement with it. The memory, now stirred, refused, for the moment, to be laid neatly aside.
Ahead, the road curved gently downward toward a shallow valley framed by budding trees. The wind carried a softer scent now—sun-warmed grass, the first sweetness of meadows waking after winter’s long hold. David had resumed talking, apparently on behalf of them all as he saw it, but Jacob lent only half an ear. His thoughts had turned forward, toward Strathfinnan and the gathering that awaited them there. He would sit beside his father now in the hall, not as a boy brought along to observe, but as a man expected to listen, weigh what was said, and be seen to do so. Matters of consequence would be discussed, and in truth, Elena MacTavish’s betrothal—necessary though it was—stood well apart from the council’s primary concerns.
STRATHFINNAN REVEALEDitself gradually, first as banners glimpsed through thinning mist, then as pale stone rising above the river in clean, deliberate lines. Unlike the dark, weather-worn keeps of the coast and the north, the castle seemed almost luminous in the spring light, its walls smoothed and fitted with a care that spoke of wealth long settled and carefully maintained. The river curved wide at its base, reflecting towers capped in slate and ironwork that caught the sun like polished steel.
The sound of trumpets carried down from the gate as the MacTavish party approached, enough to draw eyes without making a spectacle of it. Servants in Hamilton colors took up their places along the approach, and the riders slowed instinctively, conversation ebbing as attention turned toward the castle.
Elena felt it then—not nerves exactly, but a heightened awareness. She had never set foot beyond Wolvesly’s bounds before, never been the focus of such attention in a place not her own, and though the council that followed would concern matters far weightier than her betrothal, she knew this reception and the feast that would take place in three days to officially bind her to Thomas Hamilton was meant to mark her presence all the same.
The portcullis stood raised, and beyond it the inner court lay swept and orderly, pale stone washed clean and marked only by the faint tracks of earlier arrivals. A small company waited there: household knights in mail and surcoat, stewards poised to receive guests, ladies of rank gathered in quiet clusters, their attention fixed outward with the composed interest of those accustomed to ceremony. At their center stood a man and woman set a pace apart from the rest, their bearing leaving little doubt that they were the lord and lady of the house.
From her place atop a spirited palfrey, Elena scanned the gathering deliberately, looking for a familiar dark head and friendly brown eyes. She did not see Thomas among those gathered, and disappointment struck her almost as sharply as irritation.
Lord Hamilton stepped forward first, tall and spare, his hair iron-grey, his manner assured in the way of a man long accustomed to being obeyed. His wife stood beside him, broad of shoulder and solidly built, her presence impossible to overlook. Lady Hamilton was a large woman, heavy through the hips and chest, her cheeks full and her chin, softened by flesh rather than age. Her gown was well made and richly dyed, cut to accommodate her frame without apology, the embroidery at the cuffs and neckline precise rather than decorative. She wore no veil, her dark hair braided and coiled close to her head, pinned with plain silver that spoke of practicality rather than display.
Lord Hamilton greeted Elena’s father with open courtesy, clasping his forearm, welcoming him jovially.
Elena bit back a grin. Her father’s reply was scrupulously polite but not anything more; no one who knew Liam MacTavish would ever mistake him for jovial.
“Strathfinnan welcomes you,” Lord Hamilton said. “You honor us with your presence.”
“And your family,” his wife added, her gaze already moving over the retinue.
Introductions followed, formal and unhurried. Elena’s mother, Isabel, was received with particular attention, and she and Lady Hamilton exchanged the careful, measured regard of those accustomed to command within their own halls. Elena watched the exchange closely, as she always did when her mother stood before strangers of any rank. Isabel’s strawberry stain, a noticeable birthmark—so vivid it covered nearly a third of her face—had never detracted from her beauty in Elena’s eyes, but years of experience had taught her how others might react to it. She was, in this one regard, protective of her mother, ever watchful for a glance held a moment too long, or a gaze that slipped away too quickly.
Lady Hamilton did neither. Her attention remained steady and direct, her eyes meeting Isabel’s without hesitation or avoidance, as though the mark were no more remarkable than the color of her gown. She listened to what Isabel said, weighed her bearing and tone, and responded in kind, woman to woman, equal to equal. Watching it, Elena felt a small easing in her chest, followed by a quiet rise in her regard.
