Jack knelt in submission.
The last time he had seen the laird had been the eve of his departure. Alastair had stood beside him on the shore, his hand on Jack’s shoulder as he prepared to board the sailor’s boat to cross over to the mainland. Jack hadn’t wanted to appear afraid in his laird’s presence—Alastair was a great man, in stature and character, imposing even though he was prone to smile and quick to laugh—and so Jack had boarded the sailor’s boat, holding in his tears until the isle had faded, melting into the night sky.
This was not the man who greeted Jack now.
Alastair Tamerlaine was wan and gaunt, his clothes hanging loose from his narrow frame. His hair, once dark as raven feathers, was bedraggled, a dull shade of gray, and his eyes had lost their luster, even as he smiled at Jack. His thunderous voice was hoarse, made from shallow breath. He looked weary, like a man who had been at battle for years without respite.
“My laird,” Jack said in a wavering tone. Was this the purpose of his summoning? Because death stalked the ruler of the east?
Jack waited, bowing his head as Alastair drew close. He felt the laird’s hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his eyes. His shock must have been evident, because Alastair let out a rasp of laughter.
“I know, I am much changed since you last saw me, Jack. Years can do that to a man. Although time on the mainland has been good to you.”
Jack smiled, but it failed to reach his eyes. He felt a flare of anger at Torin, who should have mentioned the laird’s health that morning at breakfast, when Jack had inquired after him.
“I have returned, sir, as you have asked me to. How may I serve you?”
Alastair was quiet. He blinked, a crease of confusion in his brow, and in that swell of silence, Jack was overcome with dread.
“I wasn’t expecting you, Jack. I didn’t ask you to return.”
The harp in Jack’s arms became a millstone. He continued to kneel, gazing blankly up at the laird, his thoughts scattering.
It hadn’t been Alastair, although his signet ring had been used in the letter.
Who summoned me?
As tempted as he was to shout his frustrations into the hall, he remained silent. But a glimmer of movement answered him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw someone emerge onto the dais, as if she had come from the moonlit mountains of the tapestry. Tall and slender, she wore a dress the color of storm clouds, and a red plaid shawl framed her shoulders. Her raiment whispered as she moved, drawing closer to where he knelt.
Jack’s gaze was riveted to her.
Her face, freckled and angular, with high cheeks that carved into a sharp jaw, evoked not beauty but reverence. She was flushed, as though she had been walking among the parapets, challenging the wind. Her hair was the color of the moon, bound in an array of braids that were pinned together as a crown. Tucked within them were small thistle blooms, as if stars had fallen upon her. As if she held no fear of their sting.
He saw a shadow of the girl she had once been. The lass he had chased over the hills one chaotic spring night and challenged for a handful of thistles.
Adaira.
She stared at him, still on his knee, as he stared at her. His shock burned away, replaced by indignation that blazed so fiercely he couldn’t breathe when he thought about what he had surrendered to come home. His title, his reputation, the culmination of years of dedication and hard work. Gone like smoke in the breeze. All this he had given up not for his laird, which he could justify, but for her and her whims.
She sensed it in him—the heart of the wild boy who had chased her, now older and harder. His mounting ire.
Adaira responded with a cold, victorious smile.
CHAPTER 3
Jack Tamerlaine,” Adaira greeted him. Her voice was nothing like he remembered; if he had heard it in the dark, he would have assumed she was a stranger. “What a surprise to see you here.”
Jack said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he refused to break their gaze, as she seemed eager to make him do.
“Ah, I forget the two of you are old friends,” Alastair said, pleased. He held his arm out to his daughter, and she drew even closer, so close that her shadow almost spilled over Jack in his obedient stance.
“Indeed,” said Adaira, breaking her stare with Jack to bestow a softer, genuine smile upon her father. “I should reacquaint him with the isle, since he has been away for so long.”
“I don’t think—” Jack began to protest, defiant, until Alastair looked at him with an arched brow.
“I think that is a wonderful plan,” the laird said. “Unless you oppose it, Jack?”