Chapter Fourteen
Elena woke with a sense of purpose that surprised her.
Not resolve, precisely—nothing so dramatic—but a quiet insistence that she could no longer delay what needed doing.
Too much had been left to assumption, to habit, to the expectations of others.
If she were to bind her life to Thomas Hamilton’s, she owed it to herself to know the man she would wake beside for all her days.
Her father had said the choice was hers, and she believed him.
He would not force her hand, nor bind her to a marriage that she did not want.
Yet she was not so na?ve as to pretend the decision carried no weight.
While the alliance with Hamilton was not crucial, it was important all the same, woven into goodwill and stability, and into the careful tending of relationships that kept peace.
If she chose Thomas, she needed to know that she could live with that choice. And if she did not, she would need to know—truly know—that she was turning away from something she could not make work.
She dressed carefully, choosing a gown suited for walking rather than display, her hair braided simply and pinned back from her face. When she sent a maid to inquire whether Thomas might care to join her for a turn about the bailey, she felt no flutter of nerves, only a sober readiness.
He arrived promptly, which did not surprise her.
“Elena,” he said with an eager smile, offering his arm. “I was glad of the invitation.”
Elena smiled and took his arm, noting the absence of any flutter in her chest. Together, they left her chamber, wooden floorboards creaking beneath them as they descended the narrow staircase.
Crisp morning air greeted them as they stepped outside.
The bailey hummed with life, men striding between buildings, horses stamping, and the smithy pounding rhythmically at a piece of metal.
A pair of servants crossed the yard, their arms laden with buckets and there was a clatter of hooves as a groom led a horse toward the outer gate.
Thomas guided them along the inner curve of the yard, and for a time they spoke of easy things.
Thomas spoke readily of his time at university, of lectures attended, of men he had known there, of the pleasure he’d taken in books and debate.
He had traveled as well, he told her, to Perth and Stirling, once as far south as York.
He spoke of the comfort of inns, the variety of food, the novelty of hearing so many accents gathered in one place.
“And what did ye enjoy most?” Elena asked, genuinely curious.
He considered. “The order of it,” he said at last. “The predictability. Knowing what to expect.”
She nodded, encouraging him to go on.
He did—of the differences between households, of which regions kept better roads, of how much more pleasant it was to travel with sufficient coin.
He did not ask where she had been, or what she might have seen beyond Wolvesly and Strathfinnan.
And yet, Thomas’s attention did not wander far.
It returned to her face again and again, lingering sometimes enough to provoke discomfort in Elena.
“You look especially well today,” he said at one point, smiling. “The light suits you.”
She thanked him, and they continued on. He did not ask whether she was enjoying the walk, or whether the morning had eased her spirits.
He was pleasant and attentive, careful not to offend, and made more than one remark about being pleased with her appearance.
And yet, he never asked about her thoughts or feelings, leaving Elena to wonder if his interest extended beyond the superficial—if he saw her as anything more than a pretty ornament to display at his side.
“We’ve nae spoken often of what is expected, of our marriage,” she said. “Where would we spend our time? What are yer hopes for our union? What sort of days do ye imagine us sharing?”
Thomas showed a thoughtful frown. “Aye. Those things matter. I suppose they will sort themselves.”
“How?” she prompted gently.
“With comfort,” he said. “Routine. A settled life.”
She nodded and pressed no further, even as his response answered nothing. And as they turned back toward the keep, she realized that comfort, offered so earnestly, felt strangely narrow. A life arranged rather than lived, with less intention than simply imagining that things would fall into place.
When they parted at last, Thomas bowed and kissed her hand, his manner polished, his regard sincere.
She thanked him and watched him go, returning inside the keep.
Nothing was wrong. Nothing had gone amiss.
And yet, she knew more now than she had that morning. Not enough to condemn him, but then just enough to understand what would be missing. While it left her with a hollow feeling in her chest, it wasn't enough to turn her away from him entirely.
Sorry that she’d not learned enough to help her make a decision, Elena glanced at the door of the keep but opted instead to take some time for herself before she sought out her mother and their plans for the day.
The morning sun lay low over the hills, spilling soft gold across the frost-silvered grass. The air held a cool bite that hinted at warmer days to come, crisp enough to wake her senses but not enough to raise gooseflesh.
She followed the curve of the keep’s western wall, where the stone still held the night’s chill and the air lay quieter, folded away from the bustle of the bailey.
The postern gate stood ahead, closed, and Elena chewed her lip, knowing a moment’s hesitation, afraid to step outside, where bad things had happened.
At that moment, the latch was lifted and the gate pushed inward, and she stifled a small snicker at her own fear, assuming this was her sign to go, to not be afraid.
But then a figure filled the open space of the doorway and Elena didn’t move.
Jacob stepped through the narrow passage, tugging a glove free as he walked.
He halted as soon as he saw her, startled to stillness.
“Elena.”
“Jacob.”
Neither of them smiled.
His brain raced ahead of his surprise. “Where are ye going?” he asked. “Nae outside the gate.”
“I was only meaning to get a bit of air,” she replied. “I had nae intention of straying too far from the wall.”
“I would advise against it,” he said, already tugging the second glove free and gathering both in one hand.
She hesitated, studying him more closely now. There was a faint scrape along his temple she had not seen before, a thin line half-hidden in the shadow of his hair.
“Ye were out all yesterday,” she said quietly. “My father said only that it was done.” Her eyes lifted to his. “What happened?”
His mouth set, the way it did when he chose his words carefully. “What needed doing,” he said. “They willna trouble anyone again.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all ye need to ken.”
She nodded, accepting what she thought a pointless boundary, but her gaze went back to the thin mark near his brow. “Ye’re hurt.”
He held her gaze. “A scratch,” he said dismissively. “Barely worthy of discussion.”
Still, neither of them had moved. Elena realized that she had just spent the last thirty minutes walking and talking with Thomas, trying to imagine a life built on little more than his agreeable manners and the fact that he obviously thought her bonny.
She’d made an honest attempt to do that, to discover whether she could marry him and live content with it, but what she really wanted to know was whether there was anything here, with Jacob, anything worthy of investigation, or if she had only built up that feeling out of fear and gratitude and closeness in those three days.
She wanted—needed—to know whether anything real lived between them, or if it was only in her heart, but not his.
That knowledge would cost her something.
She understood that clearly. It might end the possibility forever, and prove that what she carried was hers alone.
He might refuse her, dismiss the idea entirely, say he harbored neither affection nor hope, and it would be finished. It could finally be laid to rest.
She moved toward him without hesitation, not rushing but also not faltering. Each step was deliberate, as though she had already crossed the line in her mind and her body was simply catching up. She didn’t blink but held his gaze intentionally.
Jacob’s shoulders went rigid beneath his tunic.
His eyes darkened, pupils widening slightly against the brown.
The muscle in his jaw twitched once, then locked.
He stood unnaturally still, like a man balancing at the edge of a precipice, aware that even the slightest movement—a single exhale, the flex of a finger—might send everything tumbling into the abyss below.
“Elena,” he warned.
She gave him a fleeting, apologetic glance that belonged to a girl who knew she was about to set something irrevocable in motion, but did not stop until the hem of her skirts touched the tip of his boots.
She held his gaze, refusing to flinch or look away, as if daring him to contradict the truth she now wore openly on her face.
Slowly, she reached up—her hand trembling with neither cold nor hesitation—and pressed her palm, fingers splayed, flat to the center of his chest. The heat of him shocked her, pulsing through layers of wool and linen, and she felt his heartbeat hammer itself against her hand.
His breath caught. The muscle along his jaw flexed, then slackened.
Something raw surfaced in his eyes—fear, longing, hunger, she could not tell, but it was not indifference.
Every inch of him vibrated with the effort it took not to move, not to sweep her up and devour her.
He looked down at her hand, then at her face.