Page 54

The kitchen goes distant: the fire, the rain, the quiet house. All I can feel is her hand, and the certainty of it. I look up at her, closer now in the low light, and her eyes are darker than I remember, deep and bright at once. It hits me, absurdly, how easy it would be to get lost in them if I let myself.

“Ye’ve got eyes a man could lose himself in,” I say, before I can stop myself.

She snorts, instinctively armouring herself. “Gods, James. Timing.”

I don’t rush to fill the space with words. I don’t laugh it off. I keep my hand beneath hers and meet her eyes.

“I willnae apologise for seein’ clearly,” I say quietly. “Not tonight.”

That stills her.

Her hand remains over mine, warm and solid, but I can feel the faint shift of her thumb as if she’s deciding whether to pull away.

“The world feels as if it’s comin’ apart tonight. Everything’s losses and reckonings and men bein’ told what they’re allowed to want.” I glance down at our hands, then back up. “And then there’s you. Standin’ there like some bright, infuriatin’ proof that not all of it’s rot.”

She starts, then gentles, her thumb rubbing over my knuckles as if it has a mind of its own.

“Ye’re trouble,” she says.

“Only for things worth the trouble,” I say. “The kind of trouble ye’d build yer life around.”

Ellen looks away toward the fire, but she doesn’t move her hand. The flames throw a slow orange pulse across her cheekbone, and I watch her swallow as if she’s steadying something inside herself. Her thumb keeps rubbing at my knuckles, small and absent, like her body is answering before her pride can stop it.

She lifts her hand at last, not abrupt, but enough to break the contact without drawing notice to it. The heat of her lingers on my skin like an imprint.

“You regret it?” she asks.

I meet her eyes. “Not in the slightest.”

She studies me a moment longer, then nods once.

“Most men only find their spine once it’s tested,” she says. “Some never do.”

“I’m not most men.”

“No, you’re truly not, James Sinclair.”

It’s the closest thing to approval Ellen has ever offered me, and it lands heavier than praise because it’s earned, and she knows it.

For a moment neither of us moves.

“Finish yer tea,” she says, brisk again, already pulling her composure back into place. “Ye’ll need yer head clear, and ye cannae think with a tired mind.”

She starts for the door, then stops with her hand on the latch.

Without turning, she adds, “And James?”

“Aye?”

“I’m awful glad you didnae keep yer head down.”

There’s a pause, her hand resting on the latch, the words held there as if she’s weighing whether to give me more.

Then, quieter, not reluctant but measured, “Ye’re not the man I took ye for.”

It lands square in my chest. Not heat. Not pride. Something steadier and deeper. My breath goes tight for a moment, as if my body needs time to make room for it.

“I dinnae say this of many men,” she adds, and there’s no apology in it, only care, “but ye’re made of better stuff than most.”