Eventually, a rap sounded on her door, and she forced herself to stand.
Answering the knock with a hitch of anxiousness, Adaira was surprised to see two guards stationed at her threshold. She wasn’t sure if they were there by Torin’s orders, to protect her, or had been appointed to keep an eye on her. To prevent her from leaving.
“A letter has arrived for you,” one of them said, extending the parchment.
Adaira knew it was Innes’s reply. She accepted the letter and shut the door, breaking the seal. The Laird of the West’s response was surprisingly terse:
I agree to your terms, Adaira. I will see you at dawn.
—I.L.B.
Adaira threw the letter into the fire. She watched it turn to ash until her red shawl caught her eye, draped over the back of her reading chair. Lorna had given her this plaid years ago. Her mother had asked Mirin to weave one of her secrets into the pattern.
Adaira was weary of secrets. She was weary of lies. She hated how she had worn one around her shoulders for years.
She gathered her plaid in her hands. It was soft, well worn from years of guarding her against the wind when she roamed the hills. She pulled at it with all the fury and anguish within her. The enchantment was gone, and the plaid tore apart in her hands.
It was late afternoon when auxiliary forces arrived to keep watch over the river in Mirin’s valley. Jack needed to speak with Adaira. He left his mother and Frae under the protection of the East Guard and walked the hills to Sloane, slowly, as his body still felt weak. He had filed down the worn edges of his nails, but there was still a tremor in his hands. He wondered how long it would be before he could play again.
This entire day had been strange, almost dreamlike. As if an entire season had bloomed and died in a matter of hours.
Eventide was on the cusp of surrendering to a dark night and the shadows had grown thick at Jack’s feet by the time he walked into Sloane.
He didn’t know what to expect, but he was surprised by the animosity in the city. He walked through gossip and whispers, and most of it was about Adaira, about who she was and what the clan wanted to do about her. Some thought she had known who she was all along and had willingly fooled them. Some were sympathetic to her plight. Some thought she had been fraternizing with the enemy, beneath the guise of a trade, and should face a trial. Others thought she should abdicate her lairdship by sundown, but not before she ensured the safe return of the three girls.
Disconcerted, Jack went straight to Adaira’s quarters by way of the main corridor, only to discover that guards were stationed there. He didn’t know if they were present to protect her or keep her locked within. So Jack slipped into his chamber and used the secret passage to approach Adaira’s room.
He stood in the cobwebbed shadows, gently knocking on the panel.
“Adaira?”
There was silence. Jack’s hand was seeking the latch in the darkness when he heard the panel pop open. A thread of light spilled over him as Adaira opened the door.
She was wearing nothing more than a thin robe, and her hair was loose and damp, spilling across her shoulders. Jack stiffened; he could smell the fragrance of lavender and honey on her skin, and he glanced beyond her, to where a copper tub sat in the corner of the room.
“Am I interrupting you?” he whispered, lamenting his poor timing.
“I just finished. Come in, Jack.” Adaira shifted, welcoming him inside, and Jack stepped over the threshold.
As a moment of silence passed between them, Jack found himself unable to look away from her. There were many things he wanted to share with her tonight, yet the sight of her so undressed had surprised him. She stole his attention entirely as she walked to the fire. Her feet were bare, her face was flushed, and her wet hair had left diaphanous patches on the front of her robe. Adaira had yet to truly look at him, to speak to him. It was as though she was alone as she reached for the bottle of wine on a hearthside table and poured herself a glass.
She broke the silence before he could. “I suppose you want our handfast revoked. I’ll see to it first thing tomorrow.”
“And why would I want that?” Jack countered.
His sharp tone drew her eyes. She stared at him, at last noticing how nice he looked. He had come to her wearing his best. His wedding raiment. “You didn’t know you were marrying a Breccan,” she drawled.
“No,” he said gently. “I didn’t know.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and drained her wine. “What I know is that the people are talking about me. And it isn’t good talk. You should distance yourself from me immediately, Jack. This cannot end well.”
Jack stepped forward to catch her hand. Her fingers were hot in his, as if she were burning from within. He noticed the signet ring was gone, and he was swarmed with unspeakable sadness, sensing she had willingly removed it. He raised his eyes to meet hers. She was rigid, guarded. As if she was waiting to hear him reject her.
“Let them,” he said. “Let them talk. All that matters in this moment is you and me and what we know is true.”
She was surprised. He watched her remember, the memory flickering across her face. She had once said similar words to him, on the night she had bent a knee and proposed.
“You’re scaring me, Jack.”
“Have I smiled too much then?”
That drew a slight grin from her. But it swiftly faded. “Your reaction to this revelation … you should revile me. You should call me your enemy. You shouldn’t want to hold my hand.”
He only laced his fingers with hers, tugging her closer to him. “Do you think it matters to me where you were born, Adaira?”
“It should.”
“Would it matter to you if I had been born in the west?”
She sighed. “Maybe once, long ago, I would have cared. But I’ve changed in a way I hardly recognize. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Jack traced her cheek, tilting her chin up so she would look at him. “There are pieces missing from Moray Breccan’s story. Vital pieces that I want you to know.”
She was silent, expectant. Waiting for him to speak.
“The Keeper of the Aithwood could have returned you to your blood parents that fateful night,” Jack began. “But to do so would mean he had broken a law, because he was given an order not to bring you back. He feared his life would be forfeit, as would yours.
“He found the river and stepped into it, disoriented from bleeding as he was, with you in his arms. He was going to take you home with him, to think about what he should do. The tree boughs danced above him, and the water guided him downstream, and it would seem all the spirits, even the stars that burned distantly in the sky, were leading him to the east. When he made the crossing, he stood in a valley and looked upward and saw a cottage on a hill, the firelight seeping through the shutters. Little did he know that a weaver lived there alone, young and lonely and married to secrets, and that she often remained awake, deep into the night, weaving at her loom.
“He chose to knock on her door, and she welcomed him inside, despite the fact that he wore a blue plaid at his shoulder and woad tattoos on his skin. She swiftly realized he held a babe, and he asked for the weaver’s help. Mirin assisted him, and she said the moment she cradled you, her heart leapt in joy. She could scarcely understand it, but she said it was like finding a piece of herself that had been missing. And the keeper thought, here is a good woman who will love this lass as her own and give her the tender care she needs to survive. He left you with my mum, and they both swore to hold this secret between them, and he believed he would never cross through the river again.