And then Lady Hamilton’s attention settled fully on Elena with frank interest, not unkind, but thorough. Elena felt the weight of it and met it as she had been taught, steady and composed. Only then did she become aware, in a distant, practical way, of the difference between them: the fine density of Lady Hamilton’s wool, the depth of its dye, the certainty with which it hung upon her frame. Elena’s own gown was good—cleanly cut, carefully kept, her mother’s work evident in every seam—but it belonged to a harder place, one shaped by wind and salt rather than comfort. The thought brought no embarrassment, only a brief, clear understanding of where she stood, and where she was now expected to belong.
Lady Hamilton stepped forward, her expression brightening, and took Elena’s hands in both of her own. “So this is your Elena—our Elena now, it would seem,” she said warmly, her tone making the words sound like possession rather than curiosity. “You are very welcome here, my dear.”
A bit relieved, Elena curtsied smoothly, aware of eyes upon her from every side. She felt her mother’s presence just behind her, steady and reassuring.
“You have your mother’s grace,” Lady Hamilton continued, openly approving, “and your father’s strength, I should think.”
“I would count myself equally well-favored,” Elena replied, meeting her gaze steadily, “if I carried even half my mother’s strength.”
Several ladies inside the courtyard murmured approval, also studying Elena with open curiosity. Their gowns whispered softly as they shifted—fine wool and linen in shades of moss, wine, and sky, sleeves edged with delicate stitching, hair braided and pinned with ornamentation Elena had only seen at a distance before.
Elena held herself straight, hands folded, returning their looks with polite composure. She did not shrink from the attention, though she felt its weight. This was not Wolvesly, where everyone knew her well enough to either love her or leave her be. Here, she was part of the reason they had gathered.
Lady Hamilton smiled, satisfied, and released her hands at last. “Come,” she said. “You must be tired from the road. There will be time enough for everything else.”
As the MacTavishes were led beneath the archway and into the outer hall, Elena’s attention was caught at once by the breadth of it—the pale stone floors swept clean, the carved pillars rising into shadow, the soft gleam of metal and actual glass worked into sconces and railings. Her pace slowed without her being aware. There was simply more to take in here than she was used to seeing all at once.
“Dinna linger, my dear,” Isabel murmured gently, her voice touched with fond amusement. “We are guests here, nae stray cats to wander where we please—nae yet anyway.”
Elena drew her hand back before she would have touched the sumptuous tapestry she reached for, warmth rising to her cheeks. “I was only looking.”
“As were we all,” Isabel replied quietly, threading her arm through her daughter’s, ushering her forward to catch up with Lady Hamilton. “’Tis a grand place. Grand and proud. But dinna let it unsettle ye.”
Elena nodded, falling into step beside her mother, her attention drawn upward now to the height of the ceiling, thecareful symmetry of the space, the way even sound seemed to soften against the walls. At Wolvesly, such touches would have been considered indulgent; there, every inch of stone and wood served a purpose, built to withstand weather and war rather than to please the eye.
Elena had known, in a general way, that Thomas’s family was well-placed, and lived comfortably. One did not host councils of this sort without means, nor maintain Lowland alliances without land and coin to back them. But walking the halls of Strathfinnan, she began to understand the difference between comfort and abundance.
Nothing here was ostentatious, yet nothing was spare. The stone floors were worn smooth rather than cracked, and rugs lay underfoot whereas Wolvesly stone floors were bare or covered in rushes. The tapestries at Strathfinnan were thick enough to hold warmth as well as color. Sconces were brass and not iron, polished to a soft glow, their candles set straight and even. The castle was warm throughout, not only near the great hearths but in the passages as well, smaller fires already laid and burning. Light filtered in through glazed windows set high in the walls, softening the stone rather than sharpening it—Elena had only ever seen glazed windows inside a church she had visited near Wolvesly.
At Wolvesly, every object had been shaped by necessity—iron where iron was needed, wood left plain where ornament would serve no purpose. Here, usefulness and beauty had long since learned to coexist.
Elena felt neither a sense of envy nor any idea that she was ill-suited to live here as she was expected to do. She took it in without longing. It was impressive, certainly, and strange to imagine living amid such ease, but it did not stir envy. If anything, it made her more conscious of herself—of how she hadbeen raised, and what she valued. She did not mistake grandeur for happiness, nor silver for certainty.
Lady Hamilton managed an unhurried pace up the wide staircase and along one of the adjoining passages, Isabel and Elena following in her wake. As they walked, she glanced back over her shoulder.
“You’ll have your own solar once you are wed,” Lady Hamilton said, pausing further ahead. “A place set apart from the hall—for your books and embroidery, and whatever quiet you require. My son insisted upon it for his bride.”
His bride.
The thought stirred something low and steady in her chest—not quite excitement, not quite uncertainty, but a mingling of the two that she had come to accept as inevitable. She followed as Lady Hamilton turned into a smaller chamber set apart from the noise of the hall, the change immediate and unmistakable. The space was warmer, softer than anything Elena had ever known as a bedchamber. Tapestries lined the walls—hunting scenes worked in deep greens and russet, summer gardens alive with birds and trailing vines—and a low hearth of pale stone burned steadily, its fire casting amber light that softened the edges of the room and took the chill from the air.
Lady Hamilton paused just long enough to allow Elena to take it in. “My son would have greeted you himself,” she said then, her tone practical rather than apologetic, as though explaining the weather or the state of the roads. “But he rode ahead several days past. With the council assembling, there are lords arriving by river and by road, and he stands in for his father when such duties fall to him.”
Elena inclined her head, untroubled. She had not truly expected Thomas to be waiting in the yard, scanning the road for her arrival. Such a thing would have required hours on the ramparts, she’d since reasoned, and Strathfinnan was no smallHighland keep where the coming of guests could be marked at a glance.
Lady Hamilton turned then, already shifting her attention. “Come,” she said to Isabel, her hand indicating the passage beyond. “You will wish to be shown to your chambers before the evening.”
Isabel nodded, accustomed to such arrangements, and turned back to Elena. She adjusted the fall of her daughter’s sleeve where it had slipped, smoothed a crease at her shoulder, and gave her an assessing look that was more habit than concern.
“Stay here and rest a little,” she said quietly. “Your father or one of your brothers will fetch ye for supper.”
“Verra well,” Elena replied.
Isabel’s hand lingered briefly at her arm, a light, familiar touch, before she let it fall. With that, she followed Lady Hamilton from the chamber, their voices receding down the corridor, leaving Elena alone in the warmth and stillness of the room.
The thought of seeing Thomas again stirred a mild nervousness, less unease than anticipation, an awareness sharpened by the months since they had last stood in one another’s presence. She found she was hopeful, and a little curious, which felt right.
Unlike many betrothals arranged solely to secure peace or strengthen alliances, Elena already knew her intended. She had first met Thomas the previous autumn, when he rode to Wolvesly bearing messages from his father to hers, and he had remained nearly a fortnight—far longer than the errand itself required. During that time he’d shared meals at her parents’ table, walked the battlements with her brothers, and spoke at length with her father in the evenings, lingering in a way that felt deliberate rather than accidental.
