Page 49

The silence thickens again.

I shift in Finn’s hold. My pulse is still uneven, my body trying to catch up with the chaos that’s only just settled.

His arm tightens around me—not forcefully, but firm. Protective. Reassuring. A response born of instinct, not thought.

My body responds before my mind does. The tension in my shoulders eases, my breath finds rhythm again. The cold crawling up my spine—the one that has nothing to do with the wind—retreats.

And I settle.

Not because the fear is gone.

But because he hasn’t moved.

Finn

Wednesday, 30 April 1823

Triona steps outside, her gaze sweeping over the group as though she has stumbled upon a council of kin in deep discussion. At the centre stands Alexander—Bran’s father—his presence commanding, his authority unmistakable. The resemblance between father and son is striking, their shared lineage evident in their bearing and expression. Easy smiles convey an effortless sense of belonging, as though they have long been a part of the family’s affairs.

Alex carries himself with quiet confidence, a steady demeanour, and tranquil strength laced with wry humour—traits his son has unmistakably inherited. Bran’s smirks mirror his father’s, though his edges are softer, his charm more playful.

Even Callan, typically ensconced in an armour of guarded reservation, has abandoned his customary frown. A rare flicker of approval crosses his face—so brief it could be missed. Yet, it is enough to suggest that even he cannot deny the quiet steadiness the man exudes. Alex’s bond with James is one of deep camaraderie, and it appears forged through years of shared history.

Casey takes it upon himself to play host, waving Triona over with a look that practically sparkles with mischief. “Triona, come meet Alex.”

There’s no denying what the light in her smile means—it’s the warmth that only comes from a sense of belonging. Blood relation or no, we’re family to her, and that now extends to Bran and Alex, just as naturally.

“So wonderful to meet you, officially, Mr Mumford.”

Alex playfully winces at the formality, pressing a hand to his chest as if she’d struck a blow. “Ach, ‘Mr Mumford’—you make me sound ancient,” he laments, though his eyes gleam with amusement. “Just Alex, please, unless you fancy putting a few more grey hairs on my head.”

He casts a knowing look toward her, a grin tugging at his lips. “Much like you and your brothers have done to your poor father, aye?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I imagine the man’s due for sainthood, putting up with the lot of you.”

Triona snorts, tossing her hair back with exaggerated flair. “Aye, well, I’ve two clarty bampots for brothers to wrangle, so if sainthood’s on offer, I’ll take mine with a crown, a castle, and a lifetime supply of whisky. Seems only fair.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Alex says with a chuckle, “you’ve got this bunch of hooligans well in hand.”

His glance sweeps over us as if he’s known us his whole life, and a ripple of laughter stirs through the group.

“They do know better than to cross me—don’t you, lads?” She glances at each of us with a raised brow, daring us to disagree.

Casey is the first to break, his laugh echoing as he nudges Callan. “Oh, Callan most assuredly. She kicked his arse the other day. Laid him out—flat on his back, legs in the air, lookin’ like a tavern girl who’d just been tossed onto a mattress too quick.” The laugher spreads quickly, causing a scowl to form on Callan’s face. A hint of red creeps into his cheeks.

I glance over at him, raising an eyebrow with feigned seriousness. “You failed to mention this to me.”

Casey’s grin stretches wide, pure delight shining in his eyes as he steps forward, arms crossed as if he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment. He rocks back on his heels, savouring the scene, the way Callan’s pride is about to take a hit.

“I tried to tell you the other day when you arrived,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar, too-pleased lilt. “But now? Now seems an even better time to mention it. Bigger audience. Better impact.”

Callan’s glare deepens. “Aye, well, it wasna really worth mentionin’,” he mutters, but his eyes betray a mix of pride and begrudging respect for Triona.

Triona’s grin widens, satisfied, and she leans in, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Och, I’d say it’s worth mentioning, Callan,” she drawls. “How often does one get to witness the great Callan Sinclair—Highland warrior, legend of the glen—sprawled on his back, looking as if he had no idea what hit him?”

Casey’s already mid-performance, lifting his hands dramatically. “Imagine it, aye? Triona—cool as a breeze—sidesteps him so fleetly he stumbles forward like a lost bairn, all arms and no balance. Then—before he even knows what’s happenin’—bam!—she’s got him flat on his arse, his own weight havin’ worked against him, and all he can do is blink up at her like he’s beggin’ for mercy.”

The entire group howls. Someone chokes. Even Eamon’s grinning now, shaking his head.

Callan’s jaw flexes tight, eyes narrowing, but even he can’t fight the twitch at the corner of his mouth.