Chapter Two #2
Och and shite, she thought, borrowing one of Alexander’s favorite expressions. She most certainly was not over her long-ago crush, she concluded with a flash of irritation at herself that did nothing to steady her pulse.
Lord Hamilton rose from his seat at the high table, his chair scraping against the stone floor.
The sound prompted several nearby men to follow suit.
With his chin tilted just so and shoulders squared beneath his embroidered doublet, he descended from the dais and crossed the hall toward Gabriel, arms outstretched in welcome.
Lady Hamilton followed in his wake, her silk skirts whispering against the bare floors as she made straight for Meggie Jamison who, despite being soaked through from the storm, stood with an effortless elegance that Elena vaguely recalled.
With a discreet gesture, Lady Hamilton summoned a servant and murmured instructions, pointing toward a shadowed corridor.
Moments later, Meggie followed the servant down that passage, leaving dark footprints on the stone.
Below, Liam MacTavish was already on his feet.
Gabriel reached him, and the two men clasped forearms, their greeting filled with joy, unmistakably sincere.
Alexander rose as well, grinning, and Michael leaned forward to catch David by the sleeve in a familiar, brotherly way that made Elena’s chest ache with longing.
The Jamisons were guided toward the table where her family sat, and suddenly the distance Elena had been suffering became even more pronounced, her family gathered close and now joined by the Jamisons.
Thomas leaned slightly toward her.
“They seem glad of one another,” he said, and there was no resentment in it, naught but observation.
“They are,” Elena replied, smiling absently, her gaze fixed on the happy group.
The meal dragged on, requiring conscious effort to be present as Elena forced her mind to remain at the high table while her gaze and mind kept wandering below.
She answered Thomas when spoken to, listened when she could, smiled when the moment demanded it, and all the while her eyes betrayed her.
She looked toward the lower table too often, drawn by the ease of her family, by the warmth of Isabel and Meggie together, the latter since returned to the hall, and by the way Liam and Gabriel spoke as though they were already halfway through a conversation begun years ago.
And more than once, she caught Jacob’s gaze lifting toward her again.
Not a stare—never that. Brief glances, there and gone like raindrops on a window. She found herself shifting in her seat, adjusting her sleeves, smoothing her skirt.
At last, Lord Hamilton pushed away his emptied platter and settled back in his chair with a satisfied air. Elena seized the moment, turning to Thomas.
“If you’ll forgive me,” she said, “I should like to speak with Meggie Jamison before the evening carries her off. She will think me neglectful if I wait until tomorrow.”
Thomas’s smile was agreeable. “Go,” he said. “I’ll not keep you from your own.”
The words, so simply given, made Elena like him more, even as she rose with relief. She offered the appropriate nods, stepped down from the dais, and moved into the body of the hall, where the air felt lighter even as the bodies pressed closer.
At the lower table, her father and Gabriel were so deep in conversation they barely registered her approach at first. Liam’s hand was braced on the board, Gabriel angled toward him, the two of them speaking low and intent.
Alexander listened with half an ear, as though taking notes in his head, while Michael’s attention flicked to Elena.
“I was beginning to ken they’d keep ye perched up there all night. ”
Elena gave an offhanded shrug just as Meggie Jamison turned and realized her presence.
She emitted a pleased sound, rising to meet her.
Isabel rose as well, taking her place at Elena's side.
She stood with the quiet confidence of a mother presenting her most treasured creation to old friends who would appreciate its value.
“There you are,” Meggie said warmly, and her embrace was quick and genuine.
There was nothing formal about it; it was not the measured greeting of noblewomen but the spontaneous, open affection of someone who had known you as a child, who remembered your muddy knees and tangled braids and cared not a whit for your rank.
“Oh, gracious, it’s been far too long,“ Elena exclaimed, pulled close enough to perceive the faint trace of wood smoke and heather that clung to Meggie’s braided hair.
“You’ve grown so tall,” Meggie announced, releasing Elena, though not entirely.
Her hands lingered on Elena’s arms as she inspected her.
Her gaze swept Elena from brow to boots, the shrewd appraisal softened by unmistakable affection.
“Good Lord,” she declared, brushing a strand of Elena’s pitch-black hair between her fingers, “but you’re your father in a kirtle. ”
Laughter rippled through both families. Elena lifted a hand to her mouth, her eyes dancing. It was nothing she hadn’t heard before. With her ebony hair and green eyes, she’d been told all her life how closely she resembled her father.
“I can hear ye, Meggie Jamison,” Liam called, turning toward the women and adopting a tone of mock offense.
“Careful now, Mistress,” Alexander warned, grinning. “Father has nae once ever donned a kirtle.” Then, just as the polite defense settled, he added with relish, “Outside of Wolvesly.”
Liam shook his head and fixed Isabel with a theatrically severe glare. “Why,” he asked, “do we bring him with us?”
Alexander answered for his mother. “Because ye’d miss me were I nae with ye from dawn to dusk—Mam says so often.”
With one last smile for Meggie, Elena finally disengaged and turned to greet David, then Malcolm.
Malcolm—who had most recently fostered at Wolvesly—earned an affectionate hug, familiar and easy.
David she knew only from the occasions when the two families had gathered together, occasions that had grown far too rare in recent years.
And then, finally, she turned to Jacob.
He was already standing when she drew near, hemmed in by the crowded trestle tables, yet he turned fully toward her, making space where there was scarcely any to spare.
For a heartbeat, she was aware of him in a way that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with the fact of him: towering nearly a head above her now, his frame no longer boyish but broad-shouldered and solid beneath rain-darkened wool.
His chestnut hair fell in damp waves to his collar, and when he looked at her, those golden-brown eyes—so like Gabriel's—caught the torchlight.
A thin white scar bisected his left eyebrow, new to her, transforming his expression into something both familiar and foreign.
He offered her a nod, formal and spare, but there was a softness in his gaze that she remembered from before.
Elena's heart stuttered and then resumed its rhythm faster as their eyes locked for a moment longer than civility allowed.
“Good evening, Jacob,” she said, and was absurdly pleased that her voice held steady. Her gaze was drawn to a lock of hair, still wet, drooping over his brow. “It seems ye’d been drowned out on the road.”
His mouth curved, brief but genuine. “Aye, mostly,” he said. “Nae worries.”
Heat flared behind her ribs, swift and unwelcome. Four years, she thought, and still her body reacted before her sense caught up. She forced her expression into something suitably mild, something no one watching could question.
“It’s nice to see ye again.” It was true, and that was the trouble of it.
“Aye, and ye,” he replied. His eyes held hers, steady and searching, long enough that she became keenly aware of the press of bodies around them, the noise of the hall, the impossibility of stepping back without making it noticeable. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said tightly.
The words landed with the weight of something unexpected, unpleasant, forgotten. Elena felt them settle, heavy and irrevocable, like a door closing between them.
“I—” She caught herself, lips pressing together for a beat. “Thank you,” she said instead, the word carefully placed. “You’re very kind.”
A gentle jostle from behind—someone angling past the press of bodies—broke the spell. Elena shifted instinctively, the contact enough to draw her gaze from Jacob at last.
Only then did she realize they had an audience.
Isabel and Meggie stood a little apart from the others, watching with a focus that made Elena acutely aware that they were keenly interested in Jacob and Elena’s interaction. Both women seemed to be holding their breath, as though waiting to see which way the moment would tip.
Their brothers were no less attentive, though their interest took different shapes.
Alexander wore a knowing look, one brow faintly arched, as if he sensed far more than was being said.
David’s attention was lighter, curious rather than concerned, while Michael and Malcolm—both younger, both quieter—watched with a seriousness that suggested they understood this was no ordinary reunion.
Only their fathers appeared untouched by the charged pause.
Liam and Gabriel remained seated at the trestle table, heads bent close in conversation, their low, intent exchange giving no sign they had noticed the sudden hush around their children—or the careful distance Elena now put between herself and Jacob.
“How sweet it is to be reunited,” Isabel said at last, addressing both families and neatly breaking the fragile silence.
Meggie chimed in at once, extending her hand to Elena. “Aye, long overdue. Come, Elena—sit a spell and tell me all.”
Elena joined them at last, easing into the circle where the noise felt right and the laughter did not require care.