Chapter Nine
Well, that was awful.
Humiliating, as well, but that was almost too small a word for it.
What made it worse was the silence. The long, careful quiet that had settled between them afterward, heavy and so obvious.
The place that had been chosen to bed down for the night allowed little space to spare, so that they sat close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, close enough that she was acutely aware of every shift of his weight, every breath he took.
And yet they had not exchanged a single word—as if something so fantastic hadn’t almost happened!
As though she had not felt the world tilt.
She had not imagined it, that much she knew with absolute certainty. Jacob had leaned toward her, had been about to kiss her. The knowledge sat heavy in her chest, sharp and painful.
But he had stopped.
That—not the almost, but the restraint—was possibly what bothered her the most. She would have given a limb, her sanity, twenty years off her life, simply to have his kiss. The deliberate choice—the ability!—to pull back when every part of her had felt him moving forward was what crushed her.
Elena sighed, more miserable now that she’d been during her abduction.
The world had not changed outwardly. The forest still whispered and creaked around them.
The night still pressed close. Jacob still sat beside her, solid and infuriatingly composed.
And yet something fundamental had shifted, though at the moment she was tortured by more questions than answers.
Her thoughts circled, relentless. Had he stopped because he simply did not want to kiss her?
The question took root, deep and unpleasant.
Or had something else intervened—something practical, unavoidable, heavier than want?
Had he thought of her father, of Liam MacTavish and the trust placed in him?
Had duty risen up where desire had no right to stand?
Had the memory of her betrothal asserted itself, a reminder of promises already made and futures already decided?
She hated that all of those explanations made sense, and hated most of all that she could not tell which one hurt the most.
If he had stopped because honor demanded that he should, that was a wound she could at least understand. Painful, yes—but clean.
But if he had decided that he simply didn’t want her... that was far worse, the ugliness of it, if that be the truth.
Elena stared into the darkness ahead, her hands folded tightly in her lap, aware of the absurdity of her own reaction but unable to quell it. She had been stolen, chased, nearly killed—and yet it was this quiet, unfinished moment that undid her most thoroughly.
She found herself thinking back to something she had wondered only yesterday—whether her long, foolish childhood longing might have turned into something else if she had ever dared to act on it.
If, instead of watching him from doorways and courtyards and the edge of the training field, she had once been bold enough to say something, to do something.
She wondered now whether she was bold enough.
And then the doubt crept in, cold and corrosive.
It was too late, too long gone from those early years, and even from his almost kiss. He was probably regretting his fleeting lapse of judgment or control, or whatever that had been.
She’d spent years telling herself she no longer held any affection for Jacob Jamison, had spent the last few months preparing to devote herself to Thomas Hamilton. And now, with nothing more than a breath of nearness and a kiss that never happened, all of that certainty had been stripped away.
Beside her, Jacob shifted slightly.
She did not look at him.
She was not sure she could bear to see his face and find it unchanged, unbothered by what hadn’t happened.
Still, she was concerned for his low fever and the disturbing swelling of his arm. After a moment spent deciding if she wanted to speak—ever again to him—concern edged out her own misery.
“Mayhap...” Her voice sounded thinner than she meant it to.
She cleared her throat and tried again. “Mayhap I should be searching for...something for your fever or your arm.” She gestured vaguely toward the darkness beyond their little cocoon.
“There are plants that might help. Willow bark, perhaps—Mam used to swear by it for heat and pain. Or yarrow, if I can find it. It helps draw out corruption.” She hesitated, biting her lip briefly before adding, “Even dock leaves, crushed. They’re good for swelling. ”
Jacob’s answer came immediately. “Nae.”
The firmness of it startled her.
“I’ll be quick,” she said, too quickly. “And careful. Mayhap I wouldn’t need to go far.”
He shook his head. “I willna have ye wandering the dark for my sake.”
“I can mark a trail to make my way back,” she offered.
“Elena, leave it,” he said curtly. “Neither the fever nor the swelling is so great to have this done right now.”
“Fine,” she said quietly. “But if ye worsen by morn, I dinna want ye blaming me.”
“Ye ken I would nae.”
She did know that. It wasn’t in his nature to blame someone else.
She sighed, the sound small and weary, her emotional exhaustion finally catching up to the physical fatigue she had been holding at bay for hours.
And yet, she could not let the night pass without saying one more thing.
“I was foolishly taken with ye once,” Elena said then, her voice sounding smaller than she’d intended.
She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, heat rising again in her cheeks.
“A child’s absurd fancy, I suppose,” she clarified.
“I was young. Ye were tall and fearless. Everything a girl of eight or nine imagines a hero to be.”
Jacob was quiet for a moment.
“Aye,” he said at last, his voice low. “I might have kent that.”
Her breath caught. “Ye did?”
He inclined his head, just slightly.
Oh.
The understanding settled with a dull, aching certainty.
He had known, and he had done nothing about it.
In truth, she’d known that, had always known that.
As a girl, she had told herself she was merely waiting—for him to catch up to her, to see her differently, to feel what she felt.
She had built the dream carefully, tending it like something fragile, because admitting the truth, that he had never and would never have those same feelings for her, would have meant letting it die.
And at the time, that was something she would not allow to happen.
She nodded once, more to herself than to him, and let the silence settle again between them.
Beyond embarrassed—again—she cleared her throat and said, “Probably a guid thing that I outgrew it.”
“Aye, a guid thing,” was all he said after a long moment.
They settled into silence again, but it was different now, not awkward or tense. Elena felt as if some hollow had been carved in the very center of her, felt devoid of...everything, her life’s dream.
She tried to console herself with the idea that at least it was done now, finally after all these years, that she could move on. But she knew she would need some time to grieve the death of a hope that she had allowed to survive far longer than was sensible.
Drawing Jacob’s plaid around her shoulders, she lowered herself onto her side, pillowing her head on her arm. The tears came quietly then, slipping free without sound, soaking into the wool where they could do no harm.
MORNING CAME QUIETLY, the light pale and thin as it filtered through the boughs overhead.
Jacob woke, feeling heavier than usual. His limbs were stiff, his mouth dry, and when he shifted to sit up, a faint dizziness followed.
He decided almost immediately that his fever wasn’t better—though it wasn’t any worse—but that his arm was in worse shape than yesterday.
He paused, breathing through what ailed him, and glanced toward Elena.
The space beside him was empty.
Jacob surged to his feet, panic striking him fiercely. His gaze swept the ground where Elena had slept, the hollow in the needles still visible, she and his plaid gone. For one breathless instant, his mind leapt to the worst, hands closing around her again, a cry smothered in the dark—
“Elena,” he called softly, turning in every direction, already scanning the tree line.
He forced himself to slow, to think, to look rather than lunge blindly. The ground bore signs enough if one knew how to read them: the scuff of a boot, the faint disturbance of leaves. He saw neither, realizing she had left on her own, had not been taken. This offered only marginal relief.
He circled the camp, tightly at first and then in a wider perimeter. Out of habit, his hand hovered near the hilt of his sword even as he fought the instinct to shout her name. Calling out would draw more than her attention, and he would not trade one danger for another.
“Elena,” he said again, firmer now, pitched low.
There was no response and he kept moving, marking the direction on the trail he finally picked up, headed east—nae even in the bluidy proper direction if she meant to return to Strathfinnan on her own—toward a stand of thinner trees and a low, damp hollow where mist clung stubbornly to the ground.
He found her not five minutes later.
She emerged from between the birches, seemingly without a care in the world, walking with maddening calm, her skirts gathered slightly in one hand.
She still wore his breacan, but it covered only one shoulder and drooped carelessly off the other.
In her other hand she carried a small bundle of green stems and pale flowers.
Relief hit him so hard it left him momentarily unsteady.
Anger followed close behind.
“Elena,” he hissed as she walked toward her without having noticed him yet.
She looked up, startled only for a heartbeat before recognition smoothed her expression. “Oh. Ye’re awake.”
He crossed the distance between them in long, angry strides, stopping himself just short of reaching for her. “Where did ye go?”