Chapter Six #2
Jacob did not speak. He scanned the ground with a level of attention Elena had never fully noticed before, reading the angle of the land, the spacing of the trees, even the way the wind moved the leaves.
She had spent her life outdoors at Wolvesly, but she understood now that she had merely looked, not seen. Jacob absorbed everything.
She couldn’t hold back the words and asked once more, “How soon before we turn west, toward Strathfinnan?”
“It’s the direction they’d expect, Elena,” he answered, with a wee bit less patience than last time. “If they ken we’re heading straight for the keep, they’ll spread men along the route. South gives us space.”
“And then we’ll circle back?”
“Aye. When it’s safe.”
His certainty comforted her, even as the idea of traveling further from Strathfinnan tightened something in her chest.
After another stretch of riding, he guided the mare off the more open forest floor and into a patch of bracken, doubling back along a narrow line between trees.
They pushed through thickets that grew steadily more hostile—blackthorn snagged at their boots and tunics, and the deadfall beneath the mare’s hooves snapped with sharp cracks.
At first Elena thought it clumsy, but then she realized Jacob was deliberately choosing the most difficult terrain, winding back and forth between stands of yew and wind-thrown holly, sometimes even doubling upon their own path.
Jacob said nothing, but every so often he would glance over his shoulder, then slow the mare to a near-crawl, listening; then, just as quickly, urge her forward again at a new angle.
The progress was maddeningly slow considering their intent to escape those who followed.
“What was that about?” she asked when he guided the horse straight forward once again.
“To muddle the trail,” he said. “If they’re tracking us, I dinna want it clean.”
She looked down, seeing nothing, no sign of them, or anyone.
“It buys time,” he added after a moment. “That’s often enough.”
It occurred to her how little she had ever been asked to think this way. “Do you always plan so far ahead?” she asked.
He glanced back once. “Habit.”
In the saddle, with his strong arms bracketing her, Elena realized with surprise that not since the first moment Jacob had pulled her from the hands of her captors had she thought, not even as a fleeting wish, I want my father.
The comfort of his presence, the solid assurance that had shaped her earliest memories, had been replaced with Jacob’s gruff voice and steady hand.
The trust that had always flowed so naturally to her father—his commands, his judgments, the very cadence of his footsteps in the stone corridors—had transferred, without fanfare, to the man at her back.
She trusted Jacob, was mostly without great fear, and didn’t expect to be filled with any shocking disappointment, as she’d been when Thomas had caved to fright, had not lifted a finger to prevent her from being taken by the English raiders.
Another hour slipped by, marked only by the shifting light and the steady labor of the mare beneath them. Elena’s throat had grown dry enough that swallowing was uncomfortable.
“Can we find some water?”
She felt a subtle shift in him at her back, small but discernable, as though he’d nodded.
“Aye. We’re heading that way already. I’m near certain I ken where we are—there should be a wide burn straight ahead.”
He wasn’t wrong, but it was another quarter hour before they found the small river.
He brought the mare down to the water’s edge and dismounted, loosening the reins so she could lower her head and drink.
Wondering if her legs would support her dismount, Elena was grateful when Jacob turned to help her, sliding stiffly from the saddle, her legs slow to remember their purpose, and stood watching as the horse drank deeply, water darkening her muzzle.
Elena knelt beside the horse, cupping the cold water carefully, the relief immediate.
Jacob knelt a few feet away, downstream, scooping water into his hands, and splashing it over his face. He drank as well—long pulls, unhurried—then bent again to rinse his mouth, gargled once, and spat into the current with the unselfconscious ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before.
She and Jacob stood at the same time, and it was then she saw the blood, dark against the wool of his upper arm, but with enough bright red to suggest his wound was still actively bleeding.
“Jacob—your arm.”
He glanced down, as if remembering it only now. “It can wait.”
“That is nae wise,” she said, brow creasing. “It’s still bleeding.” He began to shake his head, but she pressed on, firmer now. “Jacob, that needs to be addressed. I believe we can afford two minutes. That is nae indulgence, but necessity.”
He argued no further. Without ceremony, he pulled his tunic free and lifted it over his head.
Elena saw the wince he did not try to hide.
The cut was not deep, but it was ragged, with bits of wool caught in dried blood. It was messy and looked as if it needed stitching but presently would only be served by being cleaned and wrapped.
But then—quite unexpectedly—Elena’s attention snagged elsewhere.
Jacob stood bare-chested before her, close enough now that she could take in the full measure of him—shoulders broad and square, muscle shaped by labor and war, skin marked by faint, old scars she realized she had been foolish not to expect.
They traced him in quiet lines and pale seams, evidence of a life lived hard and fully, their origins unknown to her but unmistakably earned.
Elena’s breath caught, her heart quickening as her gaze followed the contours of him.
The awareness came without shock or shame.
She did not flinch from the rawness of him, nor feel any urge to look away.
Instead, something warm and steady unfolded within her—an understanding of what it meant to see a man wholly as he was, powerful and unguarded, with nothing softened for her comfort.
The Jacob she had carried from girlhood—the one who had once filled her thoughts and dreams—no longer fit the man before her.
This was someone fully formed, shaped by years she had not witnessed, by choices and violence and survival she could only guess at.
And yet there was a stark, undeniable beauty in him still, sharpened rather than diminished by what he had endured.
Elena felt a flush creep up her cheeks as she acknowledged her reaction, startled by the unfamiliar sensations that bubbled to the surface.
The proximity between them kindled something deep within her, a spark that ignited curiosity and something more.
Jacob had only ever been... Jacob, the boy who’d owned her heart for so many years.
But now, standing before her like this, he was clearly a man, a complex blend of strength and experience that captivated her.
She swallowed hard, trying to regain her composure, and sensed a shift within herself, a burgeoning understanding of what it meant to feel drawn to someone, not just in that childish way that had occupied so many of her years, but to this man whose very presence stirred her in ways she had never imagined.
She dropped her gaze after an embarrassing amount of time, startled by the warmth that rose in her face.
What Jacob saw or imagined in her lengthy perusal would remain unknown.
He turned and approached his saddlebag, and Elena recalled the reason why he’d removed his tunic, and followed him, meaning to be helpful and not simply slack-jawed over the beauty of him.
He pulled out a wad of crumbled linen, which he flapped out, revealing it as imply a long thin strip, not particularly clean.
“Here, let me,” she said, taking the linen from him, having recovered her wits, most of them anyway.
Her fingers brushed his arm as she wrapped the cloth, and she became acutely aware of the warmth of his skin beneath her hands. The muscle there was firm and unyielding, distracting in a way that she was compelled to force herself to concentrate harder on what she was doing.
She kept her attention on the binding, winding the linen carefully, aware of the heat rising in her cheeks and the quickened beat of her pulse.
Elena’s fingers trembled slightly as she finished, knotting two ends before stepping back to survey her work, unsettled less by the contact itself than by how severely it had affected her.
She bit her lip, struggling to compose herself as she fought against the swirling emotions.
Swallowing thickly, her throat dry again, she tugged Jacob's plaid more snugly around her shoulders, as though that might restore her composure by force.
He donned his tunic without a word, without looking at her, for which she was profoundly thankful, and then paused to adjust the saddle.
“We’ll move when ye’re ready.”
She swallowed once more, steadying her breath. “I’m ready,” she replied, her voice small.
He lifted her into the saddle and swung up behind her in one smooth motion.
This time, when she leaned back against him, the contact felt unmistakably different.
She was now more aware of the breadth of his chest, the solid line of his thigh alongside hers, the quiet certainty of his arm as it came around her to gather the reins.
It was the same closeness as before—and yet not the same at all.
The mare stepped forward, easing into motion, and Elena found herself sitting more carefully now, conscious of every point of contact.
She didn’t stiffen, nor did she pull away, but neither could she pretend the nearness meant nothing.
Something had shifted—subtle, undeniable—and she knew she would not be able to set it aside simply by willing it so.
Jacob said nothing, guiding the horse back into the trees, but Elena was unnerved by the silence.
“Why are they still chasing us?” she asked at last, her voice low.