Jack scowled at her. “All right, I did write her the moment her letter arrived. But I waited to send it. Five days, actually.”
They had been five long, terrible days. Jack had his wounds and his pride, and Adaira had made it evident she didn’t need him with her. In the end, he realized what a mistake it had been to wait so long to send his letter. Because then Adaira had let a long stretch of days pass before she responded, as if she sensed the growing chasm between them. But perhaps they were both trying to shield themselves from what was most likely to happen—their handfast being broken after their agreement had lasted the obligatory year and a day—because Jack couldn’t see how either of them could remain wed, living this way.
He laid his hand over his chest, where he could feel his half of the coin, hiding beneath his tunic. He wondered if Adaira still wore hers. The golden coin had been divided between them, and they had each been given a half at their handfasting. It was the symbol of their vows, and Jack had yet to remove it from his neck.
The heifer mooed.
Jack sighed. “I was the last one to write, actually. I wrote her nine days ago. You’ll be shocked to know she has yet to reply.”
The wind gusted.
Jack briefly closed his eyes, but he wondered what would happen if the wind carried those words of his over the clan line, gliding through the shadows of the west to wherever Adaira was. What would she do if she heard his voice on the breeze? Would she write to him, tell him to come to her?
That was what he wanted.
He wanted Adaira to ask him to join her in the west. To invite him to be with her again. Because he could not bear to beg her to take him, and he feared being in a place where he was unwanted. He refused to put himself in such a position, and so he had no choice but to appear utterly resilient as he waited for her to decide what was to become of them.
“It’s not fair, you know,” a voice called, and Jack startled, feeling as if someone had read his mind.
It’s not fair to leave such a weight on her alone, when you know her life has been broken and reshaped into something unfamiliar.
Jack shaded his eyes, swallowing the knot in his throat. He could see Hendry Elliott walking up the grassy hill to meet him, a smile and a trail of dirt on the older man’s face.
“After all my work trying to get the fences up, the cows still find a way to get loose,” Hendry said. “I apologize, once again, if they’ve bothered you or your mum.”
“No apologies needed,” Jack said, at last handing off the troublesome cow. “I hope things are well with you and your own.”
“Well enough, thanks,” Hendry said, studying Jack closer. “How are you holding up, Bard?”
Jack felt his teeth click together. “Never been better.”
The older man only granted him a sad smile, and Jack distracted himself by patting the cow’s flank, as if he had made a new friend.
He bid Hendry and the heifer a cheerful farewell and turned away to begin the long trek back to his mother’s croft. The land must have felt how his feet dragged over the grass and bracken, and the kilometers melted away, the hills folding. Sometimes the spirits of the earth were benevolent, and it became much faster to travel by moor than by road. Other times their mischief bloomed like weeds as they altered the trees, the rocks, the grass, the rise and fall of the landscape. Jack had gotten lost on the isle a few times after the spirits changed the scenery, once recently, and he was thankful when he saw Mirin’s cottage come into view.
Smoke escaped the chimney, smudging the midday sunlight. The cottage was built of stones and had a thatched roof. It sat on a hill that overlooked the winding path of a treacherous river that flowed west to east. A river that had changed everything.
Jack ignored the distant gleam of the rapids, choosing to study the kail yard instead as he approached. His mother and Frae had healed the rows as best as they could, and Jack was thinking about all the things he needed to do—mend the roof before the next rain, help Frae bake another pie for the Brindles, gather more river rocks for slingshot practice—when he stepped inside the cottage.
“Do you have the berries ready for the pie, Frae?” Jack was asking as the interior shadows draped over him. The house was filled with familiar scents—the dust of wool, the gold of freshly baked bannocks, the briny smell of winkle soup. He expected to glance up and find Mirin weaving at her loom and Frae either assisting her or staying busy with her school lessons at the table. The last person he expected to find standing like a rooted tree in his mother’s common room was Torin Tamerlaine.
Jack stopped abruptly, meeting Torin’s gaze. The laird stood by the hearth, where the firelight caught the silver embedded in his leather jerkin, the hilt of his sheathed sword, the gold of his hair, and the gray that shone like frost in his beard, even though he was still a few years shy of thirty. A ruby brooch gleamed at his shoulder, pinning his crimson plaid.
“Laird,” Jack said, his worries multiplying. Torin couldn’t be here for anything good. He had never been one to pay a social call.
“Jack,” Torin returned in a careful voice, and Jack knew in that instant that Torin wanted something of him, something that Jack most likely wouldn’t want to give.
Jack’s gaze flickered to his mother, who was stepping away from her loom. To Frae, who was rolling out pie dough.
“Is everything well?” he asked, his eyes eventually returning to Torin.
“Yes,” Torin replied. “I’d like to have a word with you, Jack.”
“We’ll be just outside in the garden,” Mirin said, reaching for Frae’s hand and guiding her to the back door.
Jack watched as his little sister abandoned the pie dough, granting him a glance of concern. He gave her a smile and a nod, hoping to reassure her, even as he sought to ease his own mind.
All too soon, with the doors and shutters latched against the curiosity of the wind, the cottage fell quiet. Jack raked his hand through his snarled hair; the color of dark bronze in his fingers, it had grown longer these days. The threads of silver shining at his left temple were a reminder that he had faced Bane’s wrath and lived. After coming so close to death, he’d not soon play for the spirits again.
“Can I get you anything to drink, Laird?” he asked.
Torin hadn’t moved from his place by the hearth. But his mouth was pressed into a firm line, and his fingers twitched at his side. “Just Torin. And no. Your mum made me a cup of tea while I waited for you.”
It was strange to think about how much Jack had wanted to be like Torin in every way when he was a lad, because Torin was brave and strong and an esteemed member of the guard. Now he was someone Jack admired—and found stubbornly irritating on occasion—and, most of all, a friend he trusted.
“Why have you come then?” Jack said.