Ye will see with yer own eyes that I am safe and well cared for, and I would very much like ye to meet Laird MacAllister. There is much I cannae write plainly, but I trust ye will understand more when ye are here.
Please come soon, cousin, for I miss ye dearly and would have a piece of home beside me again.
Yers always,
Eloise.
She read it once through, then sealed it before doubt could creep in.
“That will do,” she murmured quietly.
She found the castle messenger near the outer courtyard, a young man preparing his satchel for the day’s ride.
“I’ve a letter to be sent to me family at Whitmore house,” she said, holding it out.
He bowed slightly. “Aye, Miss,” he said, taking it with care. “It will be delivered swift as the roads allow.”
Eloise nodded her thanks and watched as he tucked it safely away. As she turned to leave, her thoughts began to churn again, quieter but no less persistent. The betrothal was a transaction, she reminded herself of that firmly.
Protection, strategy, survival.
And yet, no matter how often she repeated it, it did nothing to quiet the memory of James’s touch, the weight of his presence, the way her breath still caught when she thought of his kiss.
“It means nothing,” she said under her breath, though even she did not sound convinced.
She walked the corridors slowly, her fingers trailing along the cool stone as her mind circled the same thoughts. If she allowed herself to believe there was something more, something real, then she risked everything. Not just her safety, but her sense of self. She had seen what came of women who placed their hopesin men who held power over them. She would not become one of them.
“It will end,” she reminded herself quietly. “And I will walk away from it whole.”
Yet the certainty she tried to summon felt thinner than it should have. She made her way to the library. The room was still, lined with shelves of worn leather-bound volumes, the scent of parchment and dust lingering in the air. She had expected solitude, but instead she found a woman already there, standing near one of the windows with a book in hand.
The woman was striking, blonde hair pulled neatly back, blue eyes sharp despite the softness of her features.
She turned as Eloise entered, her expression composed but curious. “Oh, good day,” the woman said, her tone light but measured.
Eloise slowed slightly. “Good day,” she replied.
The woman stepped forward, closing her book.
“Mairead of Clan Cameron,” she said, offering a polite nod.
Eloise froze for half a heartbeat, recognition striking her instantly.
That is the name that had been carried through whispers and glances that first night in the great hall.
She had not known the face that belonged to it until now.
“Eloise Whitmore,” she said, recovering quickly.
Mairead’s smile widened slightly. “Aye,” she said. “Ye are the Laird’s betrothed.”
Eloise held her gaze. “Aye, I am,” she answered.
There was a pause then, one that stretched just a fraction too long. Mairead’s smile remained, but it did not reach her eyes.
“I had wondered when we would meet,” she said lightly.
Eloise tilted her head slightly. “I didnae realize ye were waitin',” she replied.
