He looked larger in daylight. Broader. Harder. The faint white streak in his black hair more pronounced. Authority rested on him like a second skin. The men in the village had stepped aside when he passed, but she had never seen him in the village before this moment. Not once.
Her stomach twisted.
The man beside him broke the silence first. “Are ye the healer?” he asked, eyes flicking over her with open curiosity.
Iona forced her voice steady. “Nay.”
She did not look at Frederick as she stepped forward and took Jamie firmly by the shoulder. “What did I tell ye about wandering?” she hissed under her breath. “We are going home. Now.”
Jamie leaned forward as if to argue.
“Now,” she repeated sharply.
The man beside Frederick lifted a hand. “We only wished to ask –”
“That willnae be necessary,” Frederick cut in calmly.
His voice had changed since the tavern. It carried command now. Weight. The easy authority of a man accustomed to obedience.
The other man glanced at him, surprised, but fell silent.
Frederick’s gaze remained fixed on Iona. “We will escort ye home.”
“We daenae require an escort,” she replied quickly.
“A lass in this village is missing,” he said evenly. “Until we ken more, I willnae have anyone walking alone.”
It was phrased as concern for the village.
It sounded like an order.
“I am nae alone,” she insisted, pulling Jamie closer to her. “Together, we are quite capable.”
His brow lifted slightly. “That wasnae a request.”
Heat flared beneath her skin. She wanted to refuse him, but Jamie’s small hand tightened in her skirts.
She swallowed the protest. “Very well,” she said stiffly.
They walked.
The path back to the cottage felt longer than it ever had. Iona kept Jamie close at her side, aware of Frederick’s presence just behind them.
She felt his gaze brush over Jamie more than once.
Her heart pounded each time.
Does he see it? Does he ken?
She had imagined this meeting a thousand ways in the dark. None of them had included him standing mere steps away, examining the child who carried his mark in hair and eyes.
Will he be angry?She wondered.Will he demand answers? Will he claim what he thinks is his?
The thought made bile rise in her throat.
Jamie was hers.
Seven years of scraped knees and whispered stories. Of hunger endured and nights without sleep. Of running when footsteps sounded too close. Of laughter in borrowed cottages and small hands clutching hers in storms.