Iona’s stomach clenched, a hollow ache forming beneath her ribs as though she had swallowed something too heavy to bear.
Erin’s hand found hers then, firm and grounding, the pressure of it a silent acknowledgment that she had seen it too.
The moment passed as quickly as it had come.
Jamie blinked, the uncertainty folding in on itself as the carriage door was opened and movement resumed around them. The child stepped back, already shifting toward something easier, something lighter.
Ariella embraced Caitlin first, then turned to Iona.
“I wish ye well, Iona. It was a pleasure to get to know ye. Thank ye for yer hospitality,” she said softly.
Iona nodded. “Aye, it was me pleasure.”
There was more that could have been said, but the words did not come.
Maxwell inclined his head to Frederick, then to the others, before assisting Ariella into the carriage with careful attention.
The door closed.
The horses shifted.
And then they were gone.
The courtyard seemed larger in their absence.
Iona remained where she stood, her gaze fixed on the space where the carriage had been, though she no longer saw it.
“I will take the bairn to the yard,” Erin said gently beside her.
Iona nodded without turning. “Aye.”
Jamie did not wait for further instruction. “I want to race,” the child declared, already moving toward the open space beyond the courtyard.
Erin followed, her presence steady as ever.
Iona remained in the silence for a moment, and then the stillness broke.
The ache in her chest did not lessen. It sharpened instead, shaping itself into something far more dangerous than fear.
Determination.
She had delayed long enough and had allowed too many things to remain unspoken. And now, the cost of that silence had made itself known.
Iona turned without hesitation and moved toward the keep, her steps quickening as she crossed the threshold and made for the stairs that would lead her to Frederick’s study.
She did not pause to reconsider.
By the time she reached the corridor, her pulse had steadied into something resolute.
This willnae wait any longer.
16
The study had begun to smell of damp wool, sealing wax, and stale frustration.
Frederick stood at the edge of his desk with one hand braced against its scarred surface, listening as the guard before him finished his report. Lennox had taken up position near the hearth, though he had not relaxed into it. He never did when the matter at hand involved uncertainty, borders, or women vanishing from Highland roads.
The guard was young enough to still carry some stiffness in the shoulders when reporting to his laird, but old enough to have learned the value of precision. Mud marked the hem of his cloak and dried in a pale streak along one boot. He had come in hard from the north and had not paused long enough even to fully warm himself.