Chapter Eight
Elena liked to believe herself invisible to the world. Or, she liked to imagine that she was when she was stalking Jacob Jamison.
She pressed herself into the ground at the crest of a knoll just beyond Wolvesly’s training yard, the tall grass prickling her skin and the scent of crushed wild thyme curling in her lungs.
No sooner had her mother announced their chore inventorying the storeroom complete than Elena was flying outside, looking for him.
Below, the lads of the household were arrayed in a loose circle, wooden swords clacking in the air.
Jacob stood among them, on the perimeter, the sun coating his shoulders with molten gold.
From her perch on the knoll, Jacob and the other lads—even her brother—looked like toy soldiers next to the towering figures of her father, Liam MacTavish, grizzled old Dougal, and the other battle-hardened men.
Yet whenever she stood near enough to him, he filled her vision completely, as vast and overwhelming as the mountains themselves.
The sight of him—shirt plastered to his back and clinging to the spread of his shoulders, hair whipped in sharp strands across his brow, brown eyes narrowed with such fierce purpose—sent the same peculiar thrill through her as it always did.
Sometimes, when she closed her eyes at night, she saw him like this: a figure apart from the others, as if he were cast in bolder hues, every breath and gesture magnified.
The other lads might have been sparrows, chittering and hopping and pecking at each other, but Jacob was a hawk, swooping from above, terrifying and graceful all at once.
She watched the way he sparred with his peers, never the largest or the loudest, but always the most relentless.
He ducked a blow from her brother Alexander, twisted low and came up with a perfectly timed jab to Alexander’s ribs.
The two of them grinned—boys being boys, her mother would have said—but then Jacob caught sight of her father observing and instantly straightened, the mask of discipline dropping over his face like a knight donning a helm.
Elena watched intently, making sure her father didn’t scold Jacob or even give him that skinny eye that her brothers sometimes received, his displeasure known.
Jacob hadn’t done anything wrong; Alexander had started it.
She liked this vantage point best of all.
From here she could see everything clearly, even the sweat plastered to Jacob’s temples and a small grass stain on his shoulder.
Of course, she rooted for him, always and only for Jacob, sometimes imagining that her silent will could push him to victory.
Once, when Jacob took a nasty knock to the head and staggered, she nearly stood up from the grass, heart thudding, but he righted himself almost instantly and glared murder at Alexander, who only shrugged and offered a barely apologetic grin.
He was so brave—the bravest and cleverest of the lads. Even her father said so. Elena had overheard her father saying as much to her mother at supper one evening.
Elena propped her chin on her fists, elbows digging into the warm earth, and let herself drift on the pure, wordless pleasure of watching him.
In moments when the training was paused, Jacob often glanced skyward, watching birds and clouds, sending Elena’s attention heavenward to see what held his interest. Once, his gaze lingered on the hills, and Elena imagined he might have sensed her watching.
She quickly ducked her head, cheeks flaring at the idea of being caught.
The practice shifted: wooden swords were abandoned, and the boys hurried to bring out their mounts for the next training, with the quintain. Jacob’s stallion was a rangy, coal-dark beast with a white star on its forehead, the kind of horse even Wolvesly stablemaster handled with caution.
Elena knew the animal well; she’d spent hours sneaking apples to it, soothing its temper with whispered nonsense, wanting to be friends with anyone Jacob adored, and Jacob clearly adored his horse.
She watched as Jacob approached, his gait unhurried, voice low and steady as he stroked the stallion’s neck.
The horse, wild for most, trusted him utterly.
It was the sort of thing that happened in stories her mother invented for her—the stubborn horse tamed by the hero’s gentle hand.
Elena felt her heart thud against her ribs, the heat rising in her chest a mixture of pride and something more urgent, less nameable to a nine-year-old.
One after another, the lads took their turn, the watchers hooting and whistling at every attempt.
The quintain—a wooden post topped with a rotating arm—stood at the far end of the field.
The objective was simple, to ride at it full tilt, strike the target, and avoid being clouted in the head by the sandbag that whipped around in response.
Most of the lads bungled it, either missing the target or getting knocked sideways by the sandbag.
Elena noticed that sometimes the older soldiers, well-versed in warfare, also failed at this endeavor.
When Jacob’s turn came, he crouched low on the horse, his sword angled with precision as he advanced at top speed.
He hit the target dead on. The arm spun, the sandbag arcing through the air, and for a heartbeat it looked as though Jacob had timed it flawlessly.
But then the horse shied at the last moment, a slip in the turf throwing their balance off, and the sandbag caught Jacob square in the back of the head.
Elena gasped as Jacob tumbled from the saddle, landing hard in a tangle of limbs and dirt. Panic surged through her and she scrambled to her feet, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest as she raced down the hill without thought. “Jacob!” she screamed, her voice cracking with fear.
As men and boys began to cluster around the fallen figure, Elena felt a surge of urgency. She fought her way through the throng, pushing past the startled faces that blurred in her vision. All she could think about was reaching him, making sure he was alright.
When she finally reached Jacob, he lay still for a moment, his eyes open but staring blankly at the sky, as if the world had faded away. Her heart plummeted at the sight, a cold dread settling in her stomach. “Jacob!” she cried again, her voice trembling as she knelt beside him.
“Is he alright?” one of the boys asked, concern lacing his tone.
She reached for his arm, clutching the thick wool of his sleeve. Her eyes burned, tears threatening to spill over.
At her touch, Jacob flinched.
He blinked hard and sucked in a breath through his teeth. He pushed her hand from his arm and began to sit up at once, swaying slightly as he did.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, the words clipped.
“Nae so brave now,” someone said.
“He dinna need to be—laird’s lass’ll be brave for him,” another jeered.
A ripple of laughter followed.
Jacob’s jaw tightened. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his head and then over his face, smearing dirt across his cheek. He didn’t look at Elena as he pushed to his feet before anyone could offer a hand, brushing himself off with sharp, irritated movements.
Her father appeared then, striding toward them, Alexander and another lad at his side. “Elena,” Liam said firmly. “Ye ken better than to wander onto the training field.”
“But Jacob—” Her voice breaking, confusion welling as Jacob strode away from her.
Liam followed her gaze and gave a short, assessing look.
“He’s fine,” her father said calmly. “Just had the wind knocked out of him.” Then, more gently, “Come away now.”
Elena allowed herself to be guided away, though she twisted to look over her shoulder. Jacob stood with his back half-turned, rolling one shoulder, testing it.
While her father steered her off the training field, assuring her once more that Jacob was unharmed, she turned one last time to glance at him, and this time he glanced up and caught her eye. And though his jaw remained clenched, he gave her a sparse nod of acknowledgment.
The moment felt like magic to her, simply wonderful.
Elena smiled weakly at him, relief flooding her.
The heat and tension in her chest eased, and suddenly, everything was right in her world again.
THE DAY UNFOLDED MUCH like the one before it, long and wearying, spent in the saddle with every muscle taut from the strain.
Jacob rode with Elena behind him now, her weight steady at his back as they moved through the whispering pines, ever watchful for signs of pursuit.
He had given the matter some thought before setting out that morning.
With her behind him, his hands were free, his balance unencumbered should he need to turn or strike, and they would ride faster as well if it came to that, his horse answering cleanly to his lead.
The forest was thick and tangled here, close-grown enough to shield them from view, and he kept them well within its cover.
As the sun climbed high, Jacob felt the gnawing discomfort of hunger in his belly.
He thought of Elena’s unease when he'd left her alone the previous night.
He knew they couldn't count on having a fire every evening.
He debated whether it was better to hunt now, keeping one eye on their surroundings and one on potential game.
A meal cooked during daylight hours would draw less attention than flames after dark.
While he scanned the underbrush, looking for signs of easy prey, he kept half an eye on the sun. After several miles heading south this morning, with no hint of pursuit, he’d finally turned toward the west, to Elena’s great relief.
“Oh, praise God,” she’d said when she’d noticed the change of direction. “I dinna want to pester ye, but I was wondering when we were going to turn toward Strathfinnan.”