Chapter 11 #2
He grabbed for my arm—and didn’t make it two steps before Dawson was there, appearing from the crowd like a storm breaking. His hand caught Malcolm’s wrist, twisted until Malcolm’s face contorted with pain.
“Careful,” Dawson said, his voice pleasant and cold as winter ice. “The lady has said her piece. I suggest you listen.”
“This isn’t your concern.” Malcolm tried to wrench free. “Release me, or—”
“Or what?” Dawson stepped closer, and something in his expression made Malcolm go pale. “She’s under Bronmuir’s protection. Under mine. If you touch her again—if you speak her name with anything less than respect—I’ll find you. And I promise you won’t enjoy what comes next.”
His voice carried the authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
Not the authority of a Highland laird, but something else—something forged in his future time that I couldn’t imagine.
In that moment, I glimpsed the man he had been in his own time.
The rich and powerful man. The adventurer. The conqueror.
And he was using all of that power to protect me.
Connor appeared at Dawson’s shoulder, a silent warning to the MacKenzie men who had started forward. The market’s fragile peace trembled on a knife’s edge.
Dawson released Malcolm’s wrist. Malcolm stumbled backward, his face twisted with rage.
He swung—a wild punch aimed at Dawson’s head.
Dawson caught his fist, twisted, and dropped him to the frozen ground in a single fluid motion. Malcolm lay gasping in the snow, his fine clothes muddied, his pride in ruins.
“Apologize,” Dawson said quietly.
Malcolm climbed to his feet, his companions supporting him. His eyes found mine, and I saw something there that made my blood run cold—not defeat, but calculation.
“This isn’t over,” he said. “Your odd man can’t protect you forever.”
He turned and limped away, his men falling in around him like a pack of wolves retreating to regroup.
The market slowly returned to life around us. Conversations resumed in cautious murmurs. But I barely heard them.
Dawson turned to me, his expression softening from warrior to something far more vulnerable. “Are you all right?”
I stared at him—this man who had crossed centuries to find me, who had declared his love to my brother and taken a beating for the privilege of courting me, who had just dropped Malcolm MacKenzie in the snow without hesitation.
“Why?” The word came out rough. “Why do you keep doing this?”
“Because you’re worth protecting.” His voice was simple, direct. “Because you shouldn’t have to fight alone.”
“I’ve been fighting alone for years.”
“I know.” He reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and tucked a strand of wind-blown hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my cheek. “But you don’t have to anymore. Not if you don’t want to.”
The tears came before I could stop them—not great wracking sobs, but a slow, silent stream that traced cold paths down my cheeks.
“You said you love me,” I whispered.
“I do.”
“You told Connor. You took a punch to the face.”
“I’d take a hundred more if it meant earning the right to stand beside you.”
“I’m not—” My voice broke. “I’m not ready. To trust. To believe. I want to, but—”
“I know.” He caught my hand in his, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “I’m not asking for your heart, Elspeth. Not yet. I’m just asking for a chance to prove that I’m different. That I’m not going anywhere.”
He means it, something whispered inside me. He actually means it.
And for the first time in years, I let myself wonder if maybe—just maybe—I could believe him.
“One day at a time,” I said finally. “That’s all I can offer.”
His smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. “One day at a time is all I’m asking for.”
He didn’t kiss me. Didn’t push for more than I could give. He simply held my hand as we walked back toward the others, his grip warm and steady, an anchor in the storm.
Kate and Maddie swept me up, both talking at once, their voices bright with pride and relief. But over their shoulders, I caught Dawson’s eye, and something passed between us that I couldn’t name.
Not trust. Not yet.
But the beginning of something. A door cracking open, letting light into rooms that had been dark for years.
That night, I lay in my narrow bed and stared at the ceiling.
The blue ribbon sat on my pillow, soft as a whisper. I picked it up, running the silk through my fingers, remembering the look in Dawson’s eyes when he’d bought it for me.
You deserve beautiful things, Elspeth.
No one had said that to me in years. Not since before Alasdair, before the fall, before I learned to make myself small and useful and invisible.
I had spent four years believing I deserved nothing. That my mistakes had forfeited any right to happiness, to love, to the beautiful things other women took for granted.
Dawson looked at me and saw something different. Someone worthy of protection, of patience, of small gifts given without expectation.
I wasn’t ready to love him back. The walls around my heart were too thick, too scarred, built from years of careful self-preservation. But tonight, for the first time, I could imagine them crumbling.
One day at a time.
One small act of trust at a time.
One ribbon-width at a time.
I pressed the silk to my cheek and closed my eyes, and when I finally slept, I didn’t dream of Alasdair’s betrayal or Malcolm’s cruelty.
I dreamed of green eyes and steady hands and a voice that said I love you like it was the truest thing in the world.