Chapter Fifteen
The great hall fell quiet as Liam MacTavish entered it.
He crossed the threshold with Gabriel Jamison at his side and Jacob a pace behind them, the three moving together down the long stretch of flagstone as heads turned and conversations thinned into watchful silence.
Banners lined the wall and lords and lairds shoulder to shoulder in conversation.
The air was thick with expectation, so that it could not be misunderstood that something had already been set in motion.
At the high table, Lord Hamilton awaited their approach, his posture rigid with affront.
Kinnard lingered close at his elbow, positioned tellingly, one hand on the table as he bent low to Lord Hamilton’s ear.
Thomas stood at his father’s side, his expression raw and unsettled, the news fresh, and met Jacob’s gaze squarely.
Jacob did not look away, but then neither did he offer any sign of challenge or submission.
Liam stopped at a respectful distance, and Gabriel and Jacob followed suit. The hall went unnaturally quiet.
“This is a sorry way to honor a betrothal, MacTavish,” Hamilton said, his voice carrying. “To hear of this indiscretion, your daughter discovered in such a position—with another man—and in the light of day.”
A faint stir moved through the benches. Highlanders listened closely when accusations were made against one of their own.
Liam nodded and held Hamilton’s narrow-eyed gaze. He neither bristled nor deflected. “?Twas a kiss,” he said evenly. “And nae more.”
Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “That is not how it was described to me.”
“Then it was described with embellishment,” Liam said without heat, but moved his hard gaze onto Kinnard briefly. “One man glimpsed a private moment and chose to make more of it than it merits.”
Kinnard stiffened slightly at that, though he did not speak.
Gabriel spoke then, measured and calm.
“Nae oath was broken. The MacTavish daughter was nae dishonored. What occurred was ill-judged, aye, and for that my son is prepared to apologize.”
Hamilton’s jaw tightened. “You would have me dismiss this entirely?”
“I would have ye weigh it properly,” Liam said. “And in the open, before men who ken the difference between a lapse in judgment and a stain that cannot be scrubbed away.”
The hall erupted in murmurs. Highland men drew back slightly, arms folded, expressions guarded. Lowlanders were fond of exaggeration. Everyone in the room knew that.
“And the lad?” Hamilton asked at last, his gaze cutting to Jacob.
Liam did not hesitate. “He stands ready to answer for it,” he said. “And he will.”
Jacob remained silent, exactly as ordered, fully aware that Thomas had not removed his gaze from him. Rather than be provoked by it, Jacob chose to ignore it.
He could not, however, ignore it when Thomas stepped forward, red-faced with rage.
“She is promised to me,” he said, striking his fist against his chest as though to stake a claim.
His voice rose, rough and strained, as if tears were imminent—and this drew Jacob’s attention.
“A man does not lay hands on what belongs to me.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, this time uneasy.
Jacob watched Thomas closely now. The tightness in his jaw had deepened, his mouth pulled thin with strain, and his hands curled and uncurled at his sides as though searching for something to grasp—or strike.
It was a look Jacob had seen before in other men, usually just before restraint gave way.
What unsettled him was how ill it suited Thomas, how abruptly it had surfaced in a man who moments earlier had seemed more wounded than dangerous.
Rage sat too close to the surface, raw and poorly mastered. For the first time, Jacob wondered—not whether Elena would be safe with this man, but whether she would be safe from him.
The thought struck hard enough to make him shift, moving half a step forward to speak out. The image of Elena standing before that flushed, shaking fury turned his stomach. He was already weighing his words, readying himself to speak, when a quiet gesture stopped him.
Liam lifted a hand—barely more than a movement of the fingers—but it was enough. Jacob stilled at once, trusting the judgment behind it even as his unease sharpened.
Liam turned his full attention to Thomas then, his expression grave but utterly unprovoked. “And that,” he said evenly, “is precisely why this must be addressed with care.”
Thomas stiffened. Lord Hamilton opened his mouth, but Liam continued without yielding the floor, his voice calm, his authority unmistakable.
“Nae oath was broken,” Liam said again, calmly reinforcing the boundary he had already drawn.
“But I will nae pretend that poor judgment carries nae weight. My daughter’s guid name matters to me.
But I concede this may have crossed the line, past what ye are willing to accept.
” Liam inclined his head slightly toward Lord Hamilton, the gesture respectful, almost conciliatory.
“If ye judge this incident reason enough to reconsider the match, I will nae contest it,” he said.
“Nae man is owed a marriage built on doubt or resentment.”
The words were concession in form only. Jacob recognized it for what it was: Liam MacTavish had seen the same thing he had in Thomas, and he was already clearing a path away from it.
Whatever else Thomas Hamilton was, he was not steady.
And that mattered a hell of a lot more than Jacob’s ill-timed kiss.
Hamilton studied him, clearly taken aback, possibly not by the concession itself, but by the switch from defense to offense. Liam was not retreating but offering an exit that preserved dignity.
For a moment, Lord Hamilton said nothing. His gaze moved—not to Jacob this time, nor even to Liam—but outward, taking in the benches, and the watchful faces of powerful men called to the summit.
“At present,” he said at last, his tone measured and cool, “this matter will go no further.” He straightened slightly, reclaiming the authority of his seat.
“It touches honor on both sides, and I will not have it decided in haste, nor before the business that brought us together beneath this roof. We will speak of it again—privately.”
The pronouncement settled over the hall like a lid set carefully in place, closing off something for a time, to be reopened later.
Liam inclined his head at once. “As ye wish,” he said simply.
GAbrIEL STOOD NEAR the window of the chamber his family had been given at Strathfinnan, one hand braced on the stone sill as though steadying himself while he gathered his thoughts.
Morning light slanted in around him, catching the silver threading through his dark hair, and Jacob recognized at once the familiar crease between his father’s brows—the one that appeared when Gabriel was weighing not only what he meant to say, but what it would cost to say it.
Meggie sat in a carved chair near the hearth, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She watched Jacob with an expression that blended sympathy and quiet reproach, the sort she had worn when he was young and scraped or bloodied or in trouble of his own making—never unkind, but never indulgent either.
Jacob remained standing, though both of them had gestured for him to sit.
Sitting felt too much like surrender. Too much like obedience.
He stayed where he was, boots planted, hands loose at his sides, and was struck by the strange, unsettling awareness that despite the years he had lived away from their roof—despite the battles fought and men who now took his orders—he felt abruptly reduced.
Not in stature, but in spirit. As though he were eleven again, hauled before his parents to account for some reckless misjudgment, waiting for the verdict that would follow.
Gabriel broke the silence first, turning away from the window to face Jacob. “What the hell were ye thinking?”
—Not what Jacob was expecting. It was so blunt, so unadorned, that Jacob barked out a short, incredulous laugh before he could stop himself.
At once, he raised a hand. “Forgive me,” he said quickly, the smile already fading under his father’s look. “I only—” He gestured vaguely toward Gabriel’s face. “Ye had that expression. I thought something... wiser was coming. Some sage bit of wisdom.”
Meggie made a soft noise—something between a sigh and a small, disbelieving laugh.
Gabriel’s brows drew together dramatically. Whatever indulgence might have existed vanished at once.
Jacob’s amusement died on the spot. He straightened, the echo of his laughter still hanging awkwardly in the air, and added more soberly, “I ken ye were meaning to lecture me—since obviously I wasna thinking at the time.”
That earned him no reprieve.
“Ye bluidy kissed Elena—betrothed to the son of the manor—under his bluidy roof!” Gabriel hissed, mindful that the walls had ears.
“Gabriel, please,” she said firmly. “Jacob doesn’t actually need a lecture. He knows well enough how grievous was his error.”
Jacob nodded, though the gesture felt absent.
In truth, half of him was still in the sheltered lee along the wall with Elena.
The kiss itself remained frustratingly unresolved in his mind, a thing he had not yet been allowed to turn over and examine.
He saw it in flashes, the force of her mouth against his, the breath it had stolen from her, his fingers digging into her hips.
It angered him, in a way that he understood was selfish but was at the same time unavoidable, that the world had intervened before he could examine it fully, before he’d even had a chance to revel in it.
“Or, how poor was his timing,” his mother added softly, intended not as a rebuke but as commiseration. “Mayhap several years ago would have avoided all this nonsense.”
Against all expectation, Gabriel’s scowl actually deepened further. “What the bluidy hell does that mean?”