Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
The corridors of Castle Calibroch thrummed with life as James made his way toward the great hall, the distant sound of music and laughter echoing off the stone walls. Torches burned bright, and servants hurried past with platters of food and casks of ale.
Yet none of it touched him, for his thoughts were far from celebration. He replayed the garden in his mind, Mairead’s raised voice, his own sharp words, the moment Eloise had seen them.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening as regret settled heavy in his chest. He should have spoken to Mairead in private, should have handled it with care, but anger had ruled him instead.
And now Eloise looked at him as though he were something she couldn't trust, and worse still, she had spoken of leaving.
He slowed just outside the great hall doors, drawing in a steadying breath. The thought of her gone struck deeper than he cared to admit, a sharp ache that made him restless.
“It isnae a real engagement," he reminded himself firmly. “It was never meant to be.”
Yet the words rang hollow, for nothing about this had remained simple.
He pushed the doors open at last, and the noise of the hall swelled around him in a wave of warmth and celebration.
Conversations faltered, heads turned, and one by one the clan rose to their feet in respect.
James acknowledged them with a brief nod, his expression composed though his thoughts churned beneath the surface.
His gaze swept the dais and found her at once. Eloise sat at the head table beside Beatrice, her posture poised, her presence commanding in a way that unsettled him.
For a fleeting moment, he simply watched her, struck by how naturally she filled the space beside his seat.
She would make a fine Lady MacAllister.
The thought came unbidden, and he crushed it at once. This was a farce, a necessity, nothing more.
Callum stepped forward, breaking the moment with an easy grin.
“There ye are, me Laird,” he said, clapping a hand against James’s shoulder. “We were beginnin' to think ye had abandoned yer own ceilidh.”
James gave a faint huff of amusement. “Hardly,” he replied.
They took their seats, James settling with Eloise to his left and Callum to his right, the weight of her nearness immediate and distracting.
“Good evenin',” he said quietly to her, his tone softer than he intended.
Eloise didn't look at him, offering only a small nod in return. The coolness of it struck sharper than anger would have, and he clenched his jaw as he turned away.
Callum leaned closer, his voice low enough for only James to hear. “Ye’ve done somethin' to sour her mood,” he murmured.
James shot him a look. “Mind yer own affairs,” he said curtly. Callum only smirked, unfazed.
As the feast began, platters were laid before them, roasted venison glistening with herbs, buttery neeps and tatties, thick slices of oat bread, and steaming bowls of broth rich with barley and root vegetables.
The scent alone was enough to stir appetite, though James found his attention wandering elsewhere.
Each time Eloise shifted, her arm brushed lightly against his, sending an unwelcome awareness through him. He tried to focus on the conversation, on the duties before him, but his senses betrayed him.
“The clans will begin arrivin' within days,” Callum said, tearing a piece of bread. “Word has already spread far and wide.”
James nodded, forcing himself to engage. “And Drummond?” he asked, his tone sharpening.
Callum’s expression sobered slightly. “Nay word of him takin' another bride,” he replied. “He waits.”
The words settled heavily between them, and James felt a flicker of unease.
“Then we proceed as planned,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Beside him, Eloise’s hand tightened slightly around her cup, and he noticed it despite himself.
He reached for his goblet, their fingers brushing briefly in the motion, and the contact sent a jolt through him that he masked with a steady expression.
She pulled her hand away at once, her posture stiffening.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly, though he wasnae certain for what. She didn't answer.
Before the tension could deepen, Mairead’s voice rose above the hall, clear and bright.
“If I may have yer attention,” she called, drawing all eyes toward her.
James’s gaze snapped toward her, unease prickling along his spine.
What is she doing now?
She stood near the center of the hall, her smile radiant, her composure flawless.
“We have a special treat this evenin',” she continued. “Miss Eloise has agreed to grace us with music.”
James stilled, his eyes darting to Eloise as she went rigid beside him. Shock flashed across her face as she looked at him, and for once, he had no answer to give her.
“What is this?” he muttered under his breath, anger stirring.
Servants moved at once, carrying in a harp that caught the light with a familiar gleam.
James’s breath hitched as recognition struck him.
Jenny’s harp.
The memory of his sister rose sharp and vivid, her laughter, her music filling these very halls. His anger flared now. He glanced at Eloise, expecting refusal, protest, but instead she rose. Her smile was careful, composed, though he could see the tension in her shoulders.
“Very well,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the surprise.
The hall fell silent as she stepped forward, her hands settling upon the strings with a grace that drew every eye.
James watched, his anger still burning, but something else stirred beneath it as the first notes filled the air.
The melody was soft, haunting, carrying a quiet strength that held the room captive.
Eloise played with confidence, her expression serene, her presence commanding in a way he hadn't expected. And as he watched her, the memory of Jenny shifted, no longer sharp with grief but softened by something gentler.
This wasn't a theft of memory, it was a continuation, a new life breathed into something once lost.
The anger faded into something far more complicated. The music swelled, rich and full, and he found himself leaning forward slightly, unable to look away.
“God help me,” his heart pounding with something dangerously close to awe.
When the final note lingered and faded, the hall erupted into applause, cheers rising in celebration. James joined them, his hands striking together in firm, steady rhythm.
But even as he clapped, something within him shifted too deeply, too suddenly for him to contain.
Before Eloise could return to her seat, he rose abruptly, the motion drawing a few curious glances.
Without a word, he turned and strode from the hall, the noise fading behind him as he sought the quiet of the corridor.
He didn't stop walking until the doors closed behind him, the echo of the music still lingering in his mind.
Pressing a hand to the wall, he exhaled sharply, his composure cracking beneath the weight of it all.
“Jenny, I wronged ye.”
Eloise hurried through the corridors, the echo of the harp still ringing faintly in her ears as unease pressed against her chest. She had seen the way James left, abrupt, shaken.
When she reached his study, she didn't hesitate, pushing the door open and stepping inside. He stood near the window, his back to her, shoulders rigid as though bracing himself against something unseen.
“Why did ye leave?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence. “Ye are the Laird, people are expectin' ye.”
He didn't turn at once, his hand braced against the stone wall.
“It was the harp,” he said finally, his voice low, roughened by something she had never heard from him before.
Eloise blinked, her confusion deepening as she stepped further into the room.
“The harp?” she repeated. “I daenae ken how it came to be in the great hall. I didnae plan it.”
He turned then, his expression sharp, searching her face as though weighing her truth.
“Then who did?” he demanded.
Eloise hesitated only a moment. “I can only think Mairead,” she said quietly.
He huffed under his breath, frustration flaring. “That lass has been nothin' but trouble,” he muttered, pacing a step before dragging a hand through his hair.
Eloise watched him carefully, sensing that this ran far deeper than a simple annoyance.
“Why is the harp such a problem?” she asked softly.
He stilled at once, the question striking something raw within him. For a moment, he said nothing, and she wondered if he would shut her out again. Then his voice came, quieter now, edged with something fragile.
“It belonged to me sister,” he said. “Jenny.”
Eloise’s breath caught. “I am very sorry,” she said at once, her voice gentler. “I didnae ken that.”
He gave a short nod, though the tension in his jaw remained.
“That isnae all,” he said after a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before returning to her. “There is somethin' I have kept from ye.”
Eloise’s heart jumped as she stepped closer. “What is that?” she asked.
“Jenny was married to Drummond,” he said.
Eloise’s eyes widened in shock, her hand lifting slightly as if to steady herself.
“The council arranged it,” he continued, his voice hardening with old anger. “For alliance, for strength, always for the clan.” His pacing resumed as the memory took hold.
“I didnae want it,” he continued. “I argued against it, fought it even… but she insisted. Said it was her duty, that it would serve us all.” His jaw clenched, his voice tightening. “And I let her.”
Eloise’s heart ached at the quiet devastation in his tone.
“I should have stopped her,” he said, his voice dropping low. “Me word carries weight. I could have ended it with a single command, but I gave in… to pressure, to expectation. I was young then. The new Laird.”
He let out a bitter breath. “And she perished nae long after. Childbirth.” The word lingered like a wound.
Eloise stepped closer without thinking, her earlier hurt dissolving beneath the weight of his confession.
“James…” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet sympathy. “That isnae yer fault.”