Prologue #2
Elena might have been listening to Jacob as he spoke; Isabel could not be certain.
She nodded up at Jacob as though she understood his point well enough, but her attention had drifted somewhere else entirely.
Her gaze lingered on him with an intensity that had nothing to do with dolls or brothers or advice freely given, her expression softening in a way that made Isabel’s mouth curve upward again.
Elena’s obvious infatuation with the lad was not new.
Isabel had seen it almost from the first day Jacob Jamison came to Wolvesly to foster, at the end of winter—how Elena’s eyes had widened at his polite smile, how she had found reasons to appear wherever he happened to be, trailing after him with a quiet devotion she did not yet know how to disguise.
It had seemed harmless then, even sweet, the sort of affection that bloomed easily in a household where familiarity bred fondness and children grew up together like kin.
Watching her now, Isabel felt a flicker of recognition that reached back across the years.
She remembered standing just so herself once, young and unguarded, caught off balance by a man who seemed larger than life simply because he had stepped forward when she needed him.
As she recalled, the tender regard she’d harbored for Liam as a child had begun by his coming to her rescue.
She had been fourteen when she first came to Wolvesly, young and uncertain, trailing behind her cousin like an afterthought.
She remembered how vast the place had seemed then, how intimidated she’d been, how fierce Liam had appeared from a distance—hard-eyed, commanding, already spoken for by duty and betrothal.
She remembered, too, the heartfelt devotion she’d clung to after he’d gone away.
Smiling again, Isabel picked up the tunic and needle and went to collect her daughter as Jacob made his way back to the training field, knowing that such things as a young heart’s attachment were not so fleeting—or as easily forgotten—as many imagined.
Jacob was a good lad—steady, observant, already carrying himself with a man’s quiet confidence that sat easily on his broadening shoulders.
He crossed the yard toward the troublemakers with an air of patient inevitability, as though he had long since accepted that Alexander and Michael would often require correction.
The Jamisons had been part of their lives for more than a decade now.
Jacob’s father was a steady presence, his mother Meggie warm and sharp-witted, and the easy familiarity of the MacTavishes and Jamisons came from united duty to King Robert, and shared joys and grief.
Jacob had spent plenty of weeks in his youth at Wolvesly with his family, visiting often enough to feel known, and now fostering here to cement bonds that had never truly been in doubt.
He had his father’s quiet strength and his mother’s thoughtfulness, and something else besides—a gravity that drew others to rely on him without asking.
Elena, it seemed, had noticed.
She stood very still now, clutching the doll to her chest, her gaze trained yet on Jacob. Isabel could almost feel the force of her daughter’s attention, the unguarded admiration written plainly across her face.
Isabel shielded her eyes from the sun and glanced down, her gaze landing on her sons as Jacob closed in on them.
Alexander stood at the end of the line of sparring soldiers, idle at the moment, tall for his years and already cut in Liam’s image, from the set of his jaw to the stubborn squint in his eyes.
He wore his mischief like armor, arms crossed, chin lifted in defiance even as he knew himself caught.
Michael, by contrast, hovered half a step behind, slighter and not so quick to grin, his dark eyes and expressive mouth unmistakably Isabel’s own.
Where Michael met reprimand with sullenness, Alexander greeted it with laughter, as though trouble were simply another form of sport.
“Hassle her if ye must,” Jacob allowed, his tone firm but not unkind, “but dinna put her in harm’s way.”
Alexander laughed outright, bright and unrepentant. “?Tis Elena that needs to learn, nae us.”
Michael assured Jacob, “She needs to be made strong, and a fall or two willna hurt in that regard.”
Jacob stared down the younger Michael until Alexander broke the tension by announcing cheerily, “Ye ruin everything, Jamison.”
Jacob directed his response to Alexander. “Choose better mischief.”
Isabel did not intervene. She passed by the open gates with a quiet smile, knowing the exchange for what it was: not a rebuke, but a lesson given gently, one boy to another.
Jacob Jamison had learned early how to stand between recklessness and consequence, and she found herself grateful, once again, that Wolvesly had been entrusted with his shaping.
Isabel reached Elena, smoothing back a loose curl from her daughter’s flushed cheek.
“Jacob’s nae wrong, love,” she said quietly. “Climbing so high is only inviting an accident.”
The brightness of quiet devotion vanished as Elena turned her startling green eyes on her mother. A child this young should not, Isabel thought faintly, possess such a practiced look of defiance.
“Tell that to Alexander,” Elena replied, her chin lifting.
Isabel huffed a breath that might have been laughter. “Come on, then,” she said, taking her daughter’s hand. “Violet will be wanting help with the bread-making.”
She did not bother to caution Elena further about her tender regard for Jacob Jamison.
There would be time enough for lessons later—about hope and hopelessness, about restraint, about the shapes a woman’s life was so often pressed into.
For now, she let her daughter walk beside her, clutching her reclaimed doll and carrying her admiration just as openly.
Wolvesly had taught Isabel many things over the years, not least of which was that not all feelings faded simply because they were inconvenient, or unknown to the admired.
Some only waited for their season.
Late Fall 1322
THE MACTAVISH DEMESNE had not changed, though at least four years had passed since Jacob Jamison had last crossed its threshold.
The sea still hurled itself against the black cliffs below, its endless roar rising like breath drawn through stone.
Wind swept in off the water, carrying brine and kelp—a scent that belonged to this place as surely as Liam MacTavish himself.
Within the hall, nothing seemed altered: the same heavy timbers, the same smoke-darkened beams, the same long tables polished smooth by generations of elbows and spilled ale.
It had been the most recent home Jacob had known, though not truly home—not when his father, mother, and brothers were at Blackwood, and he was not.
Still, his years here had been made comfortable, though not by Liam, who had been entrusted with fostering him, shaping him into a warrior, hardening him into a man.
No, that warmth had come from Liam’s wife, Isabel, and, to a lesser degree, from the people of Wolvesly themselves—friendly folk, all of them.
Isabel, especially, had always drawn him in, made him feel woven into the fabric of the place, not merely tolerated but wanted.
Perhaps the closeness between their families had fostered such generosity of spirit, such genuine warmth; or perhaps it was simply Isabel’s nature—to include, to accept, to embrace without reservation.
They had ridden hard for the better part of a week, driving north from the coast after a grinding campaign that had yielded little glory and less comfort.
For nearly a month they had laid siege to an English-held castle squatting above the marshlands, its walls stubborn, its garrison well-provisioned, the ground beneath it a sucking mire that swallowed boots and wagons alike.
Summer had bled into cold autumn during those weeks—rain without mercy, wind that cut through wool, and nights spent huddled against damp earth.
By day, they’d fought the English, by night they’d struggled against the cold.
When at last the castle had yielded, it was not to sword or flame, but to hunger and exhaustion, and even that victory felt thin, purchased dearly in time and bone-deep weariness.
Cloaks were stiff with salt and sweat, and boots were caked in the black mud of the northern lowlands, and the sour scent of wet wool clung to every man in the hall.
The hearth’s fire struck Jacob first, heat rolling over his face, as welcome as a warm hand laid to chilled skin.
The savory scent of garlic, onions, and roasted venison reached him and his stomach tightened in sharp appreciation; for weeks the MacTavish army had subsisted on hard cheese and bread tough enough to scrape the gums.
Servants offered ale and water and gestured toward the wash basins set near the door, but most of the men—travel-worn and cold to the bone, boots heavy with mud, plaids damp, weapons still belted at their sides—paid them little heed.
Movement had been the only thing keeping the chill at bay, and now that they had stopped, the ache of it settled in deep and slow.
Jacob eased his shoulders and rolled his neck once, feeling the long pull along muscles that had known little rest since they’d turned south.
He was still doing so when Isabel MacTavish entered the hall.