Her gaze dropped,shy and pleased, and he felt an unexpected warmth in his chest.
She said,“I feared ye would think me foolish for meddling.”
He shook his head.“I feared I had failed,” he replied. “If me people could nae tell me of their cold, then I must learn to hear better.”
She studied him. “Ye listen now.”He nodded. “Because ye taught me how.”
They ate in companionable quiet,the brook whispering time away. Gracie dipped apple in honey and offered it to him. He accepted, brushing her fingers, and the touch lingered. Neither spoke of it, yet both felt the shift.
After an hour,Jaxon rose and folded the blanket.
“We should go,”he said gently.
She stoodand dusted grass from her skirts. “Aye, the folk of Glenmoor wait.” He helped her mount again, steady and sure.
As they rode backtoward the road, he glanced at her. “Gracie,” he said, “ye are doin’ well.”
She smiled,small and sincere. “So are ye, Jaxon.”
Hours later,the sky dimmed as they rode, clouds knitting together above the hills, and a fine drizzle began to fall. At first it was gentle, cool upon Jaxon’s face, carrying the clean scent of rain. He glanced at Gracie, worried she might be chilled, yet she only lifted her chin and smiled at the sky.
“Perhaps Glenmoor shallken mercy at last with this rain,” she said, and he found himself hoping she was right.
The road darkenedbeneath their hooves, turning slick and heavy, and the carts slowed. A wheel caught in a rut with a wet groan, and the line halted.
Jaxon dismounted at once,motioning to the guards. “Come, lads,” he called, “let us free it.”
Mud suckedat his boots as he braced his shoulder to the wood, and Gracie watched with anxious eyes from her saddle.
The men strained together,breath clouding in the damp air. “Push, now,” Jaxon commanded, and with a heave the wheel lurched free, spattering them with muck.
Gracie laughed softly,relieved. “Ye look like ye wrestled the earth itself,” she teased.
He grinned,wiping his brow. “And the earth near won.”
She handedhim a handkerchief and he wiped his face clean.
A guard namedGale rode up through the mist. “Me laird,” Gale said, tipping his head, “the road to Glenmoor grows steep beyond the ridge, and when it is wet, it turns treacherous.”
Jaxon studied the hills ahead,their slopes darkened by rain. “Aye, I ken it well,” he replied. “We’ll nae risk the carts nor the folk. We’ll stop at the Rose Inn as we always do,” he said. “We’ll hope for drier weather come morn, though these rains are a blessing all the same.”
She nodded,thoughtful. “Even if we are delayed, the land is drinkin’,” she said. “That matters.”
He admiredhow easily she held both patience and purpose.
They mounted again,and the procession moved on at a steadier pace. Jaxon rode beside her, mindful of every slick stone.
“Are ye cold?”he asked.
“Nay,”she answered. “Only a bit wet.”
He offered his cloak,but she shook her head. “Me own cloak is just fine.”
The rain thickened,tapping upon leather and wool, softening the world into gray. Jaxon felt the weight of command settle again upon his shoulders, yet it did not press as harshly as it once had.
Gracie rode with quiet resolve,her presence steady as the rhythm of hooves. He thought of Glenmoor, of cold hands and empty hearths, and of the warmth she sent.
When at lastthe roof of the Rose Inn appeared through the veil of rain, relief passed through the line.
