Prologue #3
She did not pause to take in the men or the fire or the bustle of their return.
Her gaze went straight to her husband, and she crossed the floor with long, purposeful strides, skirts gathered in one hand, her face alight with a relief she did not bother to mask.
Liam had barely turned before she was upon him, her hands finding his shoulders, her brow pressing briefly to his chest as if to reassure herself that he was truly there.
He bent to her without hesitation, one arm coming around her, the other still half-occupied with sword and belt, and for a moment the noise of the hall seemed to soften around them.
Jacob watched, still and curious, as he always was in moments like these, aware of the quiet certainty between them—the ease of long affection, the kind that did not require words or display.
He had seen it before, and often over the years, in the reunions of his own parents after campaign seasons had ended, his mother’s hands finding his father without hesitation, the brief, private way Meggie Jamison would inspect Gabriel to assure herself of his well-being before either of them spoke.
Jacob had been young then, too young to ride with his father, but the memory of those returns remained with him still, neither vivid nor sentimental, simply known.
Isabel released her husband at last, though one hand lingered at his arm as if unwilling to let go entirely, and turned at once toward her son.
Alexander had barely straightened before she reached him, her hands already at his shoulders, then his arms—brisk, searching—as if months of waiting had sharpened her need to see for herself that he stood whole before her.
She drew him into a tight embrace, murmuring her joy against his shoulder, and when she finally pulled back, she looked him over with the same intent scrutiny.
“Turn,” she said.
Alexander obeyed with a half-smile, indulging her, and she gave a short nod of satisfaction, fingers pressing briefly at his ribs.
“Ye look thinner,” she added, frowning.
“Talk to Da about that,” Alexander replied lightly. “Stingy, is he nae, with the rations.”
The corner of her mouth twitched before her gaze moved, sweeping the hall as if counting heads, and found Jacob where he stood a little apart, near the edge of the firelight.
The change in her expression was subtle but unmistakable; she crossed to him without hesitation and embraced him as warmly as she had her own son.
“And ye,” she said, lifting her eyes to his face, assessing him with the same careful attention she had given Liam and Alexander. “Returned safely, Jacob—praise God.”
A sharp sound—half laugh, half shriek—turned Jacob’s head, and more than a few others besides.
Elena MacTavish came tearing into the hall, reins on her pace pulled too late to be of any real use.
She slowed abruptly at the threshold, drew herself upright, and made a visible effort to walk the remainder of the way, chin lifted, steps measured. She managed three.
Then she abandoned all pretense and crossed the floor at speed, skirts swaying as she flung her arms around her father’s middle.
“Da!”
Liam caught her without difficulty, though the force of her impact sent him back a half step before his arms came around her. The hard lines of his face softened at once into a smile Jacob had seen only rarely, and never without cause—one reserved for his wife and his daughter alone.
“Easy, lass,” Liam said, though there was no rebuke in it. “Jesu, but ye’re a foot taller.”
Elena drew back just enough to look up at him, her hands still twisted in his sleeves. “Ye took long enough,” she said, breathless and grinning. “I was beginning to ken ye’d forgotten the road home.”
“Never that,” he replied, brushing a hand over her hair with an ease that would have startled any man who knew him only as laird and commander.
Jacob watched in brief confusion, not recognizing her at first—only the energy of her, the unmistakable life of her.
It had been years since he had last seen Elena, four at least, before he had returned to Blackwood and then ridden out again with the MacTavish host the previous winter.
She was no longer the sharp-eyed child he remembered, forever climbing and daring correction.
She had grown into her height, into herself, though that spark remained, barely contained beneath the effort at composure she had already cast aside.
He stood quietly at the edge of the firelight, aware of the odd dislocation of it—the way time passed whether one marked it or not—watching a daughter greet her father as if no months of absence had intervened at all.
Elena released her father at last and turned, catching sight of her brother near the hearth.
“Alexander,” she said, and whatever restraint she had attempted earlier vanished entirely.
He barely had time to open his arms before she collided with him, laughing as he steadied them both.
“Careful,” he said, though he grinned all the same. “I’ve only just survived the campaign.”
“That’s nae what ye said in your last letter,” she replied. “According to ye, Da fed ye naught but crusts and regret.”
Alexander shot their mother a look over Elena’s shoulder, eyes alight with mischief. “Well, when ye’ve spent weeks ankle-deep in black mire, crossing burns that could’ve swallowed horse and rider whole—”
“Alexander,” Isabel said sharply, though there was already a note of long-suffering familiarity in it.
“—with arrows flying and nae shelter but damp wool,” he continued blithely, “a man earns the right to complain.”
Michael, standing just beyond them, gave a soft snort and shook his head. “He leaves out the parts where he was warm, fed, and loudly certain he’d live.”
“Details,” Alexander said, unapologetic.
Isabel made a sound that might have been a reprimand or a prayer, and turned back toward the hearth, though Jacob noted the way her gaze flicked once more to her sons, counting them still.
It was then that Elena looked past them and saw Jacob.
She stopped short, surprise registering openly on her face, and for a moment he thought she might pass him by entirely. Then she smiled—not the unguarded, teasing grin of the girl he remembered, but something quieter, more composed—and crossed to him without haste.
“Jacob,” she said. “Ye’re home. Or, here.”
“Aye,” he managed, aware of a sudden and unfamiliar self-consciousness.
He had not realized until that moment how much she had changed—how the angles of her face had softened, how her height matched his eye now rather than his shoulder, how the bright, heedless girl had settled into a woman he scarcely recognized.
She stepped closer instead of stopping where she was, hesitation flickering only briefly before she leaned in and embraced him. It was an easy thing, familiar and unselfconscious, her arms light around his shoulders.
Jacob went still for the space of a breath.
She smelled of clean wool and woodsmoke, with lavender teasing as well, and the warmth of her caught him unawares.
He became suddenly, absurdly aware of the way she fit against him now—not the coltish child he remembered, all sharp angles and restless motion, but a young woman grown fully into herself.
“Wolvesly’s been poorer without ye,” she said quietly, near his ear.
“And I for want of it,” he replied, the words coming a moment later than he meant them to, though he did mean them.
She drew back slowly, smiling still, turning toward her family, and the spell of it broke as quickly as it had come.
Alexander was talking again, in fine form.
Dougal, one of Liam’s oldest lieutenants, liked to say, “Take an axe to any of Alexander’s tales and split it clean in two. Ye might at last arrive at something resembling the truth.”
“—and I told Da, if he means to march us through another stretch of bog come spring,” Alexander was saying gravely, “he’d best be ready to carry us all himself. The ground was alive, Mam. Actively hostile.”
“It was wet,” Liam acknowledged dryly. “We dinna see an Englishman for six weeks—nae another soul in all that time.”
“Wet enough to swallow a man to the thigh,” Alexander went on, warming to his game to annoy his father and concern his mother.
“Sucked up the soles of our boots,” Liam corrected mildly.
“And that was before the arrows rained down from the cliff,” Alexander recounted.
“There were two arrows, and we happened upon them on the ground at the bottom of a beinn,” Liam said blandly. “Could’ve been there for days, weeks mayhap.”
Ignoring him, still intending to have his fun with his mother, Alexander continued, “Och, and the rain, Mam. Driven sideways at times by the wind. I couldnae see the enemy in front of me.”
“It rained one afternoon during the siege,” Liam corrected, “And nae again until this past week, as we marched home.”
Alexander wasn’t done yet, but shook his head as if contemplating tragic memories. “Argh, and the misery, Mam, men weeping quietly into their cloaks. Praying for dawn, for peace, to be spared.”
Liam cleared his throat, a rare grin teasing. “That was ye, son, the one weeping.”
“I was leading by example,” Alexander said cheekily, giving in to his own grin. “And let us nae forget the march itself—days without proper food, surviving on crusts and sorry regret—as stated in my missives.”
“Ye ate my rations,” Liam stated.
Alexander spread his hands innocently. “A man who sleeps on his supper shouldna be surprised when it walks away.”
Jacob caught the conversation only in fragments, his attention seized instead by Elena.
It struck him all at once how completely she had changed in the years since he had last seen her.
The awkward, half-grown girl he remembered—too quick in her limbs, too sharp in her angles—was gone.
In her place stood a young woman of her mother’s slight build, compact and neatly made, yet unmistakably her father’s daughter all the same.
Her hair, black as Liam’s, fell thick and dark against her shoulders, and when she turned, laughing at something Alexander said, Jacob caught the flash of her eyes—clear green, striking, and far more self-possessed than he recalled.
He found himself staring, unsettled less by her beauty than by the realization that he had missed the change entirely. Time had moved on without consulting him, and Elena had moved with it.
She no longer hovered at the edges of her family as she once had, nor tucked herself behind her mother’s skirts, as she had in those years when being the youngest in a household of strong, sharp males had encouraged a certain watchfulness.
Once, she had looked at Jacob without reserve, openly and often, trailing after him wherever he went.
Now her attention rested on her father and brothers—and it was Jacob who found himself watching her, struck silent by the change.
He had been well aware of her regard back then; it had been difficult to miss, given how openly she had followed him and sought his attention.
He had been aware, too, of how merciless her brothers were in return, forever needling her for it, He’d always been faintly amazed that she had endured the teasing simply to remain near him.
Jacob had never encouraged her interest, nor had he given it much thought at all, except when Alexander and Michael were on a tear, making sport of her.
Now, as he watched her covertly, this composed, self-possessed Elena, he decided that whatever had once lingered between them was quieter, more contained: something acknowledged and then set aside, belonging to the past and the girl she had outgrown rather than the young woman she had become.
Or... perhaps not entirely.
As if aware of his present regard, she glanced his way then and caught him outright.
Color rose swiftly in her cheeks, a brief, unmistakable warmth she did not quite manage to conceal before turning back to her family.
Her smile returned a moment later, carefully placed, a shade more deliberate than before as she listened to Alexander continue his antics.
Jacob looked away a moment later, aware of a faint, unexpected warmth that had nothing to do with the fire or this homecoming. He told himself it was simply the surprise of it—of seeing her now, fully grown, self-possessed, and far more striking than the bold girl he remembered.
His gaze moved on, settling briefly on Liam and then Isabel, noting a touch of grey at Liam’s temples and lines at the corners of Isabel’s eyes that spoke less of age than of years lived fully.
Even Alexander and Michael bore the marks of it now—Alexander broader, more assured, Michael steadier, less boy than he had been when Jacob arrived to foster with the MacTavish chief.
Voices inside Wolvesly’s hall rose and fell, as familiar and steady as if he were actually home at Blackwood Keep. Jacob remained on the periphery of the MacTavishes, taking it in, contemplating the idea that time had not stood still for any of them.