He had sought Elena out as well, not with insistence, but with quiet intention, asking after her interests, listening when she spoke, regarding her with a steady attention she had not found easy to dismiss. It was not ardor, precisely, but something more contained and persuasive. She had caught herself thinking that he sometimes looked at her as her father looked at her mother, as though her presence settled and pleased him in equal measure.
That, more than anything else, had stayed with her.
And finally, she felt as if she’d been freed from her girlish devotion to Jacob Jamison. She convinced herself it was true. Thomas’s regard, freely given and plainly meant, had at last freed her from the long-held fondness she had carried for Jacob. Time and distance had done their work, of course, but now her heart, given something real to rest upon, had at last let go of what had never truly been hers. It seemed reasonable enough. Sensible even. And it was satisfyingly liberating.
Still, standing alone now, Elena was aware that Jacob and his family were expected at Strathfinnan as well, drawn south by the same council and alliances that had brought her family here. The thought did not trouble her, precisely, but it lingered, and beckoned reflection from within.
Before the week was out, she imagined, she would know for certain if she’d truly put Jacob in the past, or if she were merely fooling herself.
Chapter Two
The great hall buzzed with chatter and laughter by the time Elena took her seat at the high table. Lord Hamilton gestured toward the ornate chair at his right, and Thomas eagerly settled beside her. Just before supper, Lady Hamilton had escorted him to Elena’s chamber for a casual reintroduction before their public appearance. Standing there, he had been a blend of shyness and eagerness, his genuine smile and effortlessly charming demeanor putting her at ease. Elena felt a wave of relief wash over her; he was as handsome as she remembered, with light brown hair that glimmered in the torchlight and warm eyes that sparkled with kindness.
From this elevation, she could see the tops of heads—her father's dark hair, her mother's carefully coiled chignon—clustered at a table far below. Her fingers tightened on the carved armrests, disliking being so distant from her family. She’d not ever in her life taken supper so far removed from her family. Every time she swallowed, the weight of the silver pendant at her throat—a long-ago gift from her mother—seemed to press a little harder against her skin. Wolvesly’s hall had never arranged her this way, lifted and displayed. At Wolvesly, meals had been a family affair, her elbows brushing Michael's as they leaned in to share whispers, her father's raised eyebrow carrying entire conversations across the table. Here, the high table seemed to demand a different sort of daughter. One whosat with her spine straight, hands folded in her lap, waiting for conversation rather than starting it. One who smiled and nodded at the proper moments, who occupied her ornate chair like a carefully arranged ornament rather than a living, breathing person.
Across the breadth of the hall, her family sat lower, where the MacTavishes properly belonged among allied chiefs and visiting men of consequence. Liam MacTavish carried weight in the Highlands, but this far south, in a castle that had hosted councils before Liam MacTavish had been a man grown, influence sat differently. Her father was honored, but he was not the lord of this place, and Elena’s position at the high table did not pull him upward with her.
She could see them, though. Liam’s dark head was bent toward her mother, listening as she spoke, as though the press of the hall did not exist. Alexander sat to her father’s left, alert and half-listening even when he looked relaxed, while Michael sat beside Isabel. Michael shifted now and again, gaze scanning the room the way he always did. When her parents straightened, some jest passed between the four of them that sparked laughter, and Elena felt a pang of longing, a newfound distance she hadn’t anticipated.
Thomas spoke to her now and again, and she answered him; she was grateful for his company. He was attentive in a way that did not demand performance from her, quick to fill a silence with something gentle rather than anything that demanded too much of her. He asked for her opinions on the weather at Strathfinnan versus that of Wolvesly, on whether she preferred the old Hamilton family crest or the new one designed by an Italian artisan, and on the merits of Highland honey versus Lowland. She found herself answering easily, surprised by how little effort it took to bask in such undemanding attentiveness. He leaned slightly toward her when someone farther down thetable spoke too quickly, murmuring a name or title that helped Elena keep her bearings. It was kindness, and she did not dismiss it, not entirely.
Try as she might, however, her eyes betrayed her; they wandered again and again to the distant table where her family sat, where her father’s laughter sounded more than once and Alexander at one point attempted to balance an entire flagon of wine on his nose. Isabel's laugh burst forth, then caught in her throat as she darted glances at the surrounding tables, her cheeks coloring at her eldest son's antics while the other noble mothers looked on. Each time Elena looked, she was met with some bright little reminder of the world she was leaving behind: the way Michael drank his wine in two gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, or how her mother tilted her head to the right when she wanted her way with her husband.
The intensity of Elena’s scrutiny did not escape Thomas, for he slowed his speech and gave her the space to observe.
After a while, though, it seemed Thomas grew weary of her silence, her pointed inattention.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he said, not accusing, only observant. “Am I boring you already?”
Elena drew a steady breath and turned back to him, determined to do better, recalling her manners. “Not at all,” she replied. “I was only thinking how different this feels from Wolvesly. Supper there is rarely so... orderly.”
“Should I perceive that as a compliment?” he asked, amusement touching his kind eyes.
“Absolutely,” Elena assured him. “At home, Alexander would have by now stolen plenty of food off Michael's trencher and Michael would have retaliated by replacing Alexander's wine with vinegar when he wasn't looking.”
Thomas laughed. “Then I count myself fortunate not to be seated among them.”
“You would survive,” she said. “But only barely.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said after a moment, his tone simple and sincere. “I worried the journey might be unpleasant so early in the season. I wasn’t sure if winter still had a grip up north.”
Elena glanced toward the high windows where hard rain now slashed at the glass. "The mountains at home still wear their white caps, but each day of our journey south brought warmer air. At least the skies held their peace until we crossed your threshold," she said, smoothing her skirt. "A kindness I dinna take for granted."
“That is something, at least,” he replied. “A new place takes time to settle into. If there’s anything you need, you have only to say so.” When he only stared at her, still smiling gently at her, Elena knew her first bit of discomfort, to be stared at so unabashedly. She glanced over the crowded hall, catching several pairs of eyes on her, and confessed to Thomas, “I still feel as if I’m sitting on a shelf.”
