“And heavier in grievance,” David Jamison added readily. “All because our esteemed brother couldnae keep his wits about him long enough to get through it.”
“Couldnae keep his hands to himself, ye meant to say,” Alexander supplied helpfully.
“I suppose,” David continued the harassment, “if one had to sacrifice a feast to a lass, ye could do worse.”
“Hard to fault a man’s taste,” Malcolm observed, joining in for once, “even if his timing’s shite.”
“Jesu,” David went on, like a dog with a bone on this subject, “I hope ye kissed her well enough to make it worth it.”
“Tell me ye dinna doom an entire alliance with a half-hearted effort,” Alexander furthered.
Jacob shot them all a murderous look over his shoulder, which only earned him a chorus of laughter.
Elena, riding a little behind with her mother, felt heat rise to her cheeks, unable to heed her mother’s whispered caution to ignore them.
Jacob faced forward again, jaw tight, but she thought she saw the faintest shake of his head, as though resigned to the fact that he would never hear the end of it.
Alexander was not done yet, though. “Waste of perfectly guid—”
“Cease,” came Liam’s directive. “'Tis nae a jest.”
“Aye, Da,” Alexander agreed with perfect solemnity. “More the grand, monumental disaster.”
Meggie stifled a laugh behind her hand. Isabel failed to stifle hers, letting it slip free briefly.
Even Gabriel shook his head, though a reluctant smile pulled at his mouth. “Yer tongues are likely to get yourselves killed one day,” he muttered.
“Aye, like as nae,” David said, “but I’d rather perish smiling than crying.”
Elena felt heat rise to her cheeks, but it wasn’t shame this time, but more an embarrassed fondness, looking at these young men who had grown up knit in each other’s lives, raised alongside one another, knowing each other’s faults and strengths too well to let scandal hinder their affection.
Jacob rubbed a hand across his face, and glanced sideways at his brother, David, who just appeared about to add to the ragging. “If ye open your mouth again,” he said, “I’ll bury ye into the next bog we pass.”
“Calm down there, lover,” David replied cheekily, maneuvering his horse a fair distance from his brother’s.
The wagon driver ahead of them chuckled. Isabel covered her mouth with her shawl to hide her amusement. Liam made a deep, grumbling noise that could have been disapproval, but he did not chastise further.
A few moments later, Elena saw him glance subtly at Jacob, the faintest nod of tolerance breaking through the last of his resentment.
Elena didn’t imagine it was a full pardon, not yet, but she deemed it a fine beginning.
THE FAMILIES MADE CAMPin a shallow hollow just off the road, where a young stand of spring-bare trees curved around a stretch of level ground and cut the worst of the wind. The wagons were drawn into a loose ring, lanterns hung low from their sides and throwing soft amber light across the churned grass, while horses were tethered and watered at the perimeter.Fires burned small and careful, more for reassurance than warmth, and even the women—Elena among them—had ridden until dusk, stiff and sore in their saddles, before retreating to blankets and the narrow shelter of the wagons. It ought to have been peaceful, a simple night’s rest after a long road, yet the quiet carried a restless edge, as though no one entirely trusted sleep to keep what the day had stirred at bay.
Sleep eluded Elena with a deliberate cruelty. She lay on her side, chin burrowed to her collarbone, one fist curled under her jaw, the other clutching at the edge of the wool blanket, worrying a loose thread.
Isabel, beside her, was already well and thoroughly asleep, her breaths long and regular, her whole body slack with exhaustion; in the darkness, Elena could almost forget the lines of recent worry around her mother’s lips. She watched them now in the faint shifting of the moon’s glow, how they faded when Isabel slept, how the years seemed to recede from her face in repose, leaving only the bright, gentle girl that must have once made her father fall so completely in love. Elena envied her that peace, envied that she had no questions, that she knew already, and had no cause to doubt that she was well and truly loved.
Every effort to empty her head led only to its flooding: first with the bright, fierce memory of Jacob’s mouth on hers, the crushing certainty of his hands on her back, the greediness with which she had met him. She was embarrassed only by how little embarrassment she felt. And then, it was simply too easy, in the protective dark, to imagine herself back in the lee of the wall, her tentative hand finding the fabric of his shirt, feeling the heartbeat behind it. The memory burned against the cold, and yet, the longer she dwelled there, the more the moment blurred at the edges, the more uncertain she became about what, exactly, it had meant. She had loved Jacob Jamison so long, she couldn’t recall a time when she had not. It was as if the feeling hadslipped under her skin as a bairn and had grown roots there, deep and quiet and impossible to extricate.
But what now? The question hovered, unanswered and unanswerable. Most of all, she tried and failed to imagine what Jacob thought, if he thought of her at all—did he relive their kiss as many times as she had? Had he kept his distance deliberately today, a performance to appease her father and his? Or was it something else entirely—regret, perhaps, that made him unable to meet her eyes throughout the day?
Restless, she turned onto her back and watched the canvas above her, the subtle bulge of each rib, the way the night’s moon cast a faint amber glow through the weave. She could hear, just barely, the low hum of conversation from the men’s side of camp, punctuated by the soft nickering of horses and the occasional rattle of tack. Somewhere, a man coughed and shushed himself. Isabel stirred once, rolling onto her stomach, and let out a low, contented sigh.
She lay there, counting slow breaths, until at last the air inside became too close, too thick with unspoken words. With a care born of years tiptoeing around Wolvesly at night, Elena eased up from the bedding, gathered her cloak about her shoulders, and slipped out through the canvas flap. The night air, damp and sharp, hit her with a jolt of clarity.
Outside, the world had gone mostly quiet. The campfires were banked low, only a few embers glowing under careful watch. The horses, tethered along the perimeter, shifted and stamped their hooves, tails flicking at invisible pests. The wagons, arranged in their haphazard ring, loomed like silent sentinels. Elena pulled the cloak tight at her throat and stepped into the hush, letting the darkness swallow her; she had not intended to go far, merely to walk the stiffness from her legs and to clear her head before surrendering again to the confusion inside her.
But as she made her slow, meandering circuit around the camp, she heard voices—two of them, speaking low but with the intentness of men who would not risk being overheard. She stopped, nearly stumbled, and listened.
