Chapter 32
The dawn sky was only a thin streak of blue when Jack opened his eyes. Sleep never held him long, and that day it had teeth.
He sat up quickly and breathed through the knot in his chest. It should have been a day of certainty. Instead, a small itch sat behind his ribs and refused to fade.
He swung his feet onto the floor. Stone met skin, cold and steady. He stood up and crossed to the washbasin, where he splashed water on his face. The shock cleared his head. He gripped the rim until his knuckles paled, then let go and reached for a linen cloth.
“Enough,” he told the empty room.
His voice was even. That helped.
A fist thudded against the door.
“Jack,” Duncan called, too cheerful for dawn. “Rise, Braither. Ye’re getting married again.”
Jack sighed. “Duncan. Get out.”
The knob turned, and Duncan pushed in anyway, grinning like a thief. “Look at ye. Pale as a lad on his first night with a lass.”
Jack lifted a boot and aimed without much heat. “Get. Out.”
Duncan dodged and laughed. “A fierce throw, me Laird. Save it for the feast.”
Jack dropped the boot and rubbed the back of his neck. “Close the door.”
Duncan nudged it shut with his heel and walked further in. “I brought the belt and the pins. Maither says that if ye turn up wrinkled, she will claim the bride for herself.”
“Tell her that she will need to fight Emma for the right,” Jack said.
The answer steadied him more than it should have.
Duncan laid the folded garments on the chair with needless care. “Ye slept?”
“A little.”
“Dreams?”
“Nay.”
“Lies,” Duncan said, but his voice was soft. “I can see very clearly that ye dreamt of her. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”
Jack turned to his brother, his eyes narrowed. “Remind me again, why are ye still in me room?”
“Because I am yer braither? And yer groomsman?”
Jack began to wash again, slower this time. “Any disturbances in the night?”
“None,” Duncan answered. “Unless ye count Jamie tripping over his own feet after too much whiskey.”
“Anyone at the outer gates?”
“Two traders at first light. Barley and lamp oil. They were sent to the stores.”
Jack nodded, relieved, but still uneasy. “Good.”
Duncan lifted the formal coat like a priest lifted his robe. “Hold still, or ye will look as if ye are marching into a funeral.”
Jack took the coat and shrugged into it. “I am excited.”
“Aye,” Duncan drawled. “Ye look it. Like a man going to his own execution.”
“Duncan.”
“Peace,” Duncan said, throwing his hands up. “I ken it. Ye arenae the kind to dance before noon.”
Jack reached for the belt, and Duncan tried to help. He snatched it immediately from his brother and threaded the buckle himself. The leather bit when he pulled too tightly.
“Ye will have a mark at supper,” Duncan cautioned. “The ladies will whisper that ye are starved.”
“Let them,” Jack said. He loosened the belt one notch, then forced his shoulders to drop. “Is the chapel ready?”
“Aye. There are flowers, candles, and a carpet so soft ye could sleep on it.”
“Musicians?”
“Tuning their instruments as we speak. The piper says he will play only two marches, or he will faint.”
“Let him faint,” Jack said, then caught himself. “Nay. Tell him to eat.”
Duncan grinned. “There he is. The caring Laird returns.”
Jack fastened the collar pin. “Emma said aye.”
“She did.” Duncan nodded. “She looked like she meant it.”
“She meant it,” Jack affirmed. He kept his eyes on the pin. “She gave me her trust last night.”
“Then why do ye look like a man who expects the floor to open and swallow him?”
Jack checked the fall of his coat. “Because floors open.”
Duncan studied him. “She ran once.”
“She willnae run today.”
“She might.”
“She willnae.” Jack met Duncan’s gaze. “She promised.”
Duncan nodded and let it go. Then, he lifted the plaid and draped it over Jack’s shoulder. “Turn around.”
Jack did, and Duncan fixed the brooch and stepped back.
“Good. Ye look like a man who can face a clan and nae blink.”
“I could face a clan,” Jack scoffed. “It was one woman who turned me stomach wrong side out.”
Duncan chuckled under his breath. “A fine admission for a wedding morning. I am certain Emma will be thrilled to hear that.”
“Keep it to yerself.”
“Me lips are sealed,” Duncan said, and then ruined it with a grin.
They fell into the last small tasks. Jack tucked a cuff, and Duncan straightened a seam while the light moved up the wall inch by inch.
“Any word from the north road?” Jack asked.
“None.”
“From the Buchanans?”
“Nay riders yet.”
“Good,” Jack said. The word felt thin this time.
Duncan pressed a knife into Jack’s hand. “For the belt.”
Jack sheathed it. “I willnae need it.”
“Ye always say that,” Duncan pointed out. “And ye are always wrong.”
Jack drew a breath and let it out slowly. “If I carry steel to a wedding, folks will talk.”
“Folks talk for far less anyway,” Duncan said. “Wear it.”
Jack nodded eventually and wore it.
He turned to the small mirror. The man in the glass looked ready enough for a wedding. Hopefully, Emma was just as ready.
Duncan watched him in the mirror. “She likes ye best when ye look like yerself.”
“This is meself.”
“Good to ken. Now, let us get this over with. People are waiting for ye at the Great Hall.”
Jack dropped his gaze. “I wish I could silence this feeling.”
“What feeling?”
“I daenae ken,” Jack sighed. “I just daenae ken why I keep feeling like I am betraying Moira.”
Duncan reached for the doorknob. “Moira tried to kill ye, Braither. Trust me when I say that ye cannae have made a much better choice than Emma.”
“Wise counsel,” Jack said. “From a daft braither.”
A smile crossed Duncan’s face as they left the room.
The corridor smelled of fresh roses. A maid with a broom stepped aside and bowed, and two other maids walked past with garlands on their arms. One peeked at Jack, blushed, and nearly dropped the greenery. Duncan caught it and handed it back with a flourish. The girl giggled and fled.
“Terrifying,” Duncan muttered. “That face of yers.”
“Walk,” Jack grunted.
He kept his pace measured and his gaze ahead. They passed the gallery, but he did not look at the portraits. They passed through the nursery door. He paused for a second, heard nothing, and moved on.
The main stairs opened before them, and they descended in step. The noise in the hall drifted to their ears.
At the foot of the stairs, Troy waited with a straight back and a tight mouth. “All set below, me Laird.”
“Good,” Jack said. “Any news?”
“None.”
Jack nodded. “Post a man at the east corridor. Another at the courtyard gates.”
“For a wedding?” Duncan asked.
“We cannae be too careless now, can we?” Jack argued.
Troy bowed and walked away just as fast as he had come, while Jack and Duncan rounded the last corner.
The Great Hall stood open. Flowers hung from the table, and the multitude of dresses contrasted rather sharply with the walls. Somewhere in the crowd, Jack heard a child’s laughter.
He paused and took it in. The hall looked ready. It sounded ready, and the people who stared back at him had nothing but expectant smiles on their faces.
Duncan glanced at him. “Well?”
Jack closed his hand over the belt where it lay flat against his stomach, feeling the leather grow warm under his skin. Then, he nodded his head once, as if to a judge only he could see.
“I am ready.”
Duncan smiled at him, a mix of encouragement and surprise. “I didnae expect anything else.”
Jack walked over to the front of the hall, realizing again for the second time that all the benches were full. Lairds sat near the front, and his cousins crowded close. Villagers stood by the doors, some swaying to the music that played slowly and gently in the background.
Duncan, who slowly fell into step behind him, leaned in. “If she doesnae show up, I’ll say I told—”
Jack turned back, shooting him a cold glare. Duncan shut his mouth and raised his hands placatingly.
For a minute, there was nothing but silence. It was the kind filled with anticipation. The kind you knew could only mean something was wrong.
Emma should have stepped in by now. At the very least, the sound of her footsteps should have been turning heads. Jack exhaled, bringing himself to the brink of exhaustion.
Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.
A commotion sounded at the back, and his eyes snapped up, hoping that was the answer to the question at the back of his mind. He watched as Olivia pushed through the crowd with Ava at her side.
Olivia’s hand shook, and Ava was no better off. When they got to the front and drew close enough to see him, they both stopped, panting like dogs in the wild, stark fear etched into their faces.
That was all he needed. That was all it took for him to know exactly what had happened.
The hall fell silent, and he felt the space where Emma should have been. It sat on his chest like a hard stone.
He kept his voice level. “Where is she?”
Ava tried to answer, but no sound came out.
He moved before anyone could stop him.
He took the stairs two steps at a time before anyone could stop him or try to speak some sense into him. The decorative flowers brushed his sleeve as he moved, but he did not slow down. He turned into Emma’s corridor and went straight to her chamber.
Empty.
The bed was made, but the shawl on the chair was gone. Her boots were gone. The window stood on the latch, and the curtains rose and fell with the gentle breeze.
He crossed the room and looked down at the courtyard, but he only saw people walking with trays and garlands.
No sign of her.
“Emma,” he called once.
The door was opened with a small creak.
He hurried back into the corridor. A maid with candles pressed herself against the wall, but he did not acknowledge her.
He knew which way Emma would go when she needed peace and quiet. Perhaps that was where she went.
He turned toward the nursery. He got to the door soon enough and looked around the room. Also empty.
No cloak. No glove. No ribbon.
No sign of Emma.
He left and checked the side passage, after which he opened the small door to the servants’ stairs. A few guards that Troy must have posted that morning froze when they spotted him. Their faces seemed to scream, Shouldnae he be getting married now?
“Anyone pass?” he asked.
“Nay, me Laird,” the lead guard said.
Jack pressed his palm against the wall and lowered his head.
So it did happen. The one thing he had been intensely terrified of. The one thing he had begged her not to do again.
Exhaling and focusing on the next course of action, he made his way back to the hall, waiting to speak to the crowd that waited there with bated breath.
He walked back to the front, his steps even and his expression neutral. The murmurs died down, and the musicians lowered their instruments.
Jack faced them and exhaled slowly. “I must apologize to every one of ye because the wedding willnae proceed,” he announced, his voice carrying to the doors. “It seems that me bride has run off. Again.”
Someone gasped. A bench creaked. He picked up the bouquet he had intended to give her and let it fall. The petals scattered across the stone floor, and he turned and flattened them with his heel.
On the far side of the hall, Stella began to cry. Catriona rose at once and swayed to soothe her. Jack went to her and held out his arms, and Catriona gave him the child without a word. Stella pressed her face into his coat and hiccupped until her breathing evened out.
Duncan reached him fast. “Jack, saints, are ye nae worried she might be hurt?”
Jack met his eyes, and a sharp smile cut across his mouth. “The simplest answer is the truest. Emma didnae want to marry me, so she ran.”
Duncan caught his sleeve. “What if something happened to her? What if—”
“She ran,” Jack insisted. “Nothing more.”
He looked at a guard. “Clear the hall and feed the guests. Send the villagers home after they have had their fair share of the food, do ye understand me?”
“Aye, me Laird.”
People rose slowly, and a low murmur spread through the hall. It sounded like work beginning after a bell, not like grief, but he did not listen.
He shifted Stella higher and walked out. The study would be as he had left it. He would sit and count every way out he had missed. Perhaps he could even carve out more time to sift through the castle’s records. He would close what could be closed.
Duncan kept pace beside him, his breath the only indication that someone was following him.
“Jack,” he said softly. “Braither.”
Jack did not slow down. Instead, he kept his gaze ahead and his hand steady on the child’s back. He did not look at the flowers on the floor or the garlands that hung on the doors.
She ran. Because that was the goal.
She would always run.
This was how it ended when a man set rules and a woman chose freedom. With her running, and with him walking away as if the ground had not shifted under his feet.
He felt the shift, but he did not show it. He had a child to carry and a castle to run. He would make the walls tighter and try to focus on what lay ahead of him. For now, he would try to keep his mind off his future in the castle.
It was clearer than anything that it no longer involved Emma.