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—Endure, and prevail.

R.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JAMES

Friday, 17 August 1798

The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara

Ihave paced the same strip of floor so many times, the boards ought to be worn down to dust.

I’ve faced down men with blades in their fists and worse in their eyes without so much as a tremor. Yet the thought of Ellen MacGregor looking at me properly, with that composed, cutting attention of hers, ties my stomach in knots.

A fortnight ago, on the old primrose bank, she looked me full in the face and told me that if I meant to ask her anywhere, I ought to do it proper. I haven’t known a moment’s peace since.

I drag in a breath through my nose, slow. Count it. Hold it. Let it out.

Get a grip, Sinclair.

A knock comes, brisk and familiar.

Before I can answer, the door opens and Robert and Alex slip in. Robert’s expression is too calm to be natural, the kind of calm that means he’s forcing it. Alex looks near smug, as if he’s watching a man about to step into a noose he chose himself.

Robert’s gaze runs over me, taking in the pacing, the half-tied cravat, the effort I’ve made in all the places that matter and the fact I still look like I’m coming apart.

He says nothing at first. He only steps in and reaches for my cravat as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

“I am,” I huff.

A soft breath leaves him, nearly a laugh. His fingers work with quick, practiced precision, tugging the fabric into sense. He smooths my collar flat, straightens the plaid brooch at my shoulder, then brushes a speck from my sleeve with a care that feels almost ceremonial.

He steps back and appraises me, head tipped slightly.

“There,” he says at last, civility settling back into place. “Now you look dapper.”

Alex lets out a low whistle. “Dapper?” he echoes, grinning wider. “That’s one word for it.”

Robert’s mouth tugs. “It’s the polite way.”

Alex’s gaze drags over me with theatrical appreciation. “Yeah, well. If she still turns you down after seeing you in that, it’ll only be because she’s got a saint’s restraint.” His grin turns wicked. “Or she’s too stubborn to see sense.”

I stop and stare at him.

“If I throw ye out the window,” I say evenly, “will ye land on yer feet, or will it keep yer geggie locked up tight for the rest of the day?”

Alex lifts both hands, still smiling. “I’m just admiring you. Like a loyal friend.” He jerks his chin at my waist. “A loyal friend who notices how well your kilt is doing its duty.”

“Gods,” I mutter.

Robert clears his throat, his composure fraying at the edges. “Everything is ready,” he says, refusing to engage with Alex’s observations.

Alex’s grin widens. “It’s near perfect. If she’s displeased with the presentation, it won’t be because you didn’t choose a view that was a fine place for romance.”

“Aye,” Robert says. “If it goes poorly, it’ll undoubtedly be due to a profound lack of talent on your part.”