Chapter 17
Iona had not meant to wake as early as she did, yet once her eyes had opened, there had been no returning to sleep.
The memory of the night before lingered in a way that made stillness impossible.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it again.
The heat of his hands, the weight of his mouth on hers, the way he had watched her as though nothing else in the room had mattered.
It made her chest tighten in a way she did not yet know how to manage.
She had risen before the rest of the keep had fully stirred, dressing with more care than she would have admitted to anyone. Even as she tied her laces, she had paused, fingers stilled at her bodice, wondering why it mattered. None of it should have, and yet it did.
By the time she entered the dining hall, the morning light had already begun to stretch across the long tables, catching in the worn grain of the wood and warming the stone walls.
A few early risers murmured quietly amongst themselves, but her attention did not linger on them. It found him immediately.
Frederick sat near the head of the table, speaking with one of the guards, his posture relaxed. There was no visible tension in his shoulders, no tightness to his jaw. He looked… at ease.
Sure enough, his gaze lifted, settling on her with a familiarity that made her stomach tighten.
“Ye are up early,” he said.
His voice carried easily across the small distance between them, low and unhurried, as though there was no one else present to overhear.
He did not look away or pretend not to notice. He simply watched her. Iona felt the warmth rise to her cheeks before she could stop it. She lowered her gaze, pretending to adjust the sleeve of her dress as she crossed the room, though she could feel his attention follow her every step.
This is ridiculous.
The thought came sharp and immediate, though it did little to steady her. They had shared far more than a glance. Far more than a quiet moment in a crowded room. And yet this felt… worse. Somehow worse.
Because now it was not hidden.
Now it was in the open, beneath the light of morning, with others nearby who might notice.
She reached the table and seated herself before answering, “I might say the same of ye.”
“Aye,” he replied. “But I was here first.”
She glanced up then, unable to help herself, and immediately wished she had not.
“I didnae realize this was a competition,” she said, reaching for a cup though she had not yet decided if she wanted anything to drink.
“It isnae,” he returned easily. “Though I would have thought ye would prefer to linger abed this mornin’.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
“I had nay reason to,” she said, perhaps a touch too quickly.
“Aye?” His brow lifted just slightly. “None at all?”
Iona shot him a look then, sharp and immediate, though it only seemed to deepen whatever quiet amusement he held.
“Ye are insufferable,” she muttered.
“And I shall nae forget it so long as ye keep remindin’ me.”
She turned her attention firmly to the table, though she could feel the heat in her face deepen. This was worse than the night before. Infinitely worse.
At least then there had been shadows. At least then she had not been forced to sit across from him and pretend that nothing had changed.
“I daenae ken why ye are smilin’ like that,” she said under her breath.
“I am nae smilin’,” he replied.
She glanced up again because she knew he was absolutely smiling. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough.
“Liar.”
“A bold accusation,” he said, reaching for his own cup. “Particularly so early in the day.”
Iona huffed softly, though the sound lacked any real irritation. It was difficult to hold onto it when he spoke to her like this. When there was a looseness to him that had not been there before.
It made her altogether uneasy and terribly unable to resist him. She shifted slightly in her seat, trying to settle the restless energy that had taken hold of her since the moment she had seen him.
She should say something else. Change the subject. Return things to something resembling normal. Instead, she found herself saying, “Ye seem in a fine mood.”
He considered that for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. “Do I?”
“Aye,” she said. “It is quite noticeable.”
“And does me mood trouble ye?”
Iona hesitated, caught between answers she did not wish to give. “It shouldnae,” she said at last.
“But it does?” he quickly countered.
She reached for a piece of bread, though she had no real appetite, refusing to warrant that with a response. Her thoughts felt scattered, pulled in too many directions at once.
Why am I like this?
She had faced far worse than a man looking at her across a table. She had endured uncertainty, fear, and the constant weight of not knowing what would come next. And yet this had her unsettled in a way she simply did not wish to examine too closely.
Frederick said nothing for a time, though she could feel his attention still fixed on her.
Waiting.
For what, though, she did not know.
She dared another glance, intending to catch him looking away this time.
He was not.
Their eyes met, and something in her chest shifted again, sharper now, more immediate.
He did not look amused anymore.
But Iona looked away first.
“Ye are starin’,” she said, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“Aye,” he replied.
She frowned slightly. “Ye might try to be less obvious about it.”
“I might,” he agreed. “But I see no reason to.”
“That is hardly fair.”
“When has anything between us been fair?”
She opened her mouth to respond, then stopped.
Because he was right.
That, more than anything, made it difficult to argue.
Before she could gather her thoughts, a small voice carried across the room.
“Am I late?”
Iona turned quickly, relief washing over her quickly.
Jamie stood near the doorway, hair slightly mussed from sleep, eyes still heavy though already alert enough to take in the room.
“Nay,” Iona said, her voice softening at once. “Come here, lass.”
Jamie hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room, though there was a carefulness to her steps now that Iona had begun to recognize.
It tugged at something in her chest.
Frederick shifted slightly in his seat as Jamie approached, his attention moving from Iona to the child deliberately. “Good mornin’,” he said.
Jamie glanced between them for a moment before she returned the greeting.
They began to eat, conversation moving in a loose and easy rhythm, though Iona found it difficult to follow.
Her attention moved between the two of them, between what had been said and what had not.
Frederick spoke as he always did, calm and certain, yet there was a difference in how he addressed Jamie now.
He was choosing his words more carefully, and Jamie seemed to notice it as well.
At first, the child spoke little, answering only when addressed, fingers tracing idle patterns along the edge of the table as though distracted by some thought that had not yet been given shape.
Then, without warning, Jamie sat a little straighter and reached up to tug lightly at a strand of hair that had fallen forward.
“It is time,” Jamie said, almost to herself, before glancing between the two of them. “For me hair to be cut again.”
Iona’s gaze moved to her daughter’s hair, really seeing it now in the morning light. It had grown longer than she had allowed in some time, the ends softer, less blunt than they had been before.
Suddenly, a tightness formed low in her chest with a sharp, unwelcome realization that she had not told Jamie that Frederick knew. That there was no longer a need for careful disguises or quiet adjustments. That the rules they had lived by for so long had shifted overnight.
Frederick had gone still, his attention fixed on Jamie with a steadiness that gave nothing away at first glance. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, considering.
“Do ye wish it cut, Jamie?” he asked.
The question was simple. Direct. Unburdened by the weight Iona felt pressing in around it.
Jamie's fingers stilled against the table, shoulders tightening just slightly as their eyes shifted to her.
Her daughter’s silence made Iona’s heart break in a way that surprised her.
For so long, she had believed that she was protecting Jamie. Perhaps she had been. Perhaps she still was. But in that moment, all she saw was a child waiting to be told what they must do to remain safe.
She met Jamie’s gaze fully this time, holding it steady even as something uncertain twisted in her chest. “Aye,” she said quietly, though her voice carried more assurance than she felt. “Ye may choose.”
Jamie blinked, “Choose?” the child echoed.
“Aye,” Iona said again, gentler now. “It is yers to decide.”
Jamie hesitated, their eyes moving briefly to Frederick and then back to her, as if searching for contradiction. Finding none, they drew in a small breath.
“I… I daenae wish it cut,” Jamie said.
The words came slowly, as though testing their own truth.
Iona felt something shift within her, something both heavy and light at once.
“Then it shallnae be,” Frederick said.
His tone was steady, leaving no room for argument or reconsideration. There was no hesitation in it, no sense that he was offering permission that might be withdrawn. It was simply a statement of fact.
Jamie looked at him then, properly this time. There was uncertainty still, but something else had crept in alongside it. Something cautious, but hopeful.
Iona watched with bated breath.
“There is nae reason to hide any longer, lass,” Frederick added, his gaze softening just slightly.
The words settled over the table in a way that felt both relieving and overwhelming.
Iona exhaled slowly.
But before anything more could be said, the sound of boots against stone approached. Lennox appeared at the edge of the hall, his presence enough to draw Frederick’s attention away.
“Me laird,” Lennox said, dipping his head slightly. “There is word from the north.”
Frederick’s expression shifted at once, the ease of moments before settling into something more focused.
“I will come,” he replied.
He rose, his chair scraping softly against the floor, and for a brief moment his gaze returned to Jamie, then to Iona. There was something unspoken there, something that might have been reassurance or promise, though it passed too quickly to be named.
Then he turned and followed Lennox from the hall, and the space he left behind felt larger than it should have.
Jamie remained still for a moment after he had gone, then slowly turned toward Iona. “Does he ken?” the child asked. The question was quiet, but it carried weight.
Iona did not pretend to misunderstand. “Aye,” she said.
Jamie’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table. “And he doesnae mind?”
There it was. The fear that ripped Iona’s heart in two. She leaned closer, her voice softening. “He doesnae mind,” she said. “Nae in the way we feared.”
Jamie studied her face as though searching for any sign of falsehood. Iona held steady, willing the truth of it to be enough. After a moment, the tension in Jamie’s shoulders eased, if only slightly. “Truly?” the child asked.
“Truly,” Iona answered.
Jamie nodded, though the movement was small, as if the certainty had not yet fully taken root.
Iona reached for her hand again, this time more deliberately, her thumb brushing lightly over Jamie’s knuckles in a quiet, grounding motion.
The morning light continued to stretch across the table, warming the space between them, and for the first time since the question had been asked, Iona allowed herself to believe that perhaps things had truly changed.