Page 29 of The Emerald Oath

“It should,” he agrees. “But I’m not a better man. In her presence I’m not a Sinclair, or the laird’s son folk nod to without thinkin’. I’m not the well-made man, or the clever one, back from Trinity with stories to tell. None of it mattered to her. She didnae want me for any of it,” he says quietly. “And that’s what’s lodged itself inside me.”

My mouth turns more thoughtful. “She thwarted all that sweet nonsense.”

“She did,” he says, and there’s a strange warmth in it, as though the wound is also the thing he cherishes. “And I saw her—properly. As a woman who kens exactly who she is, and doesnae care whether that unsettles me or not.”

He glances toward the house, where Ellen is somewhere inside, busy and unbending as ever.

“I swear this to the heavens above,” he says quietly, “I’ve never felt so joined to another soul in my life. Not like that. It wasnae only want.” He shakes his head. “It made me want to earn something. Not take it—earn it.” His voice drops further, confession turning almost reluctant. “To have her look at me and choose softness,” he admits, “just once. And only if she wished it.”

I’m quiet for a moment.

“Well,” I say finally, “that’s far worse than simple lust. I know then this isn’t something sense or time will cure.”

He snorts. “Aye. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I clap him on the shoulder. “You’re well and truly fucked, my friend.”

He doesn’t argue.

“Still,” I add, grinning, “if any woman was going to undo the great James Sinclair, it was always going to be one who didn’t care a whit whether she did.”

His face goes unguarded. Then he gives a short, helpless laugh.

“That’s the truth of it,” he admits quietly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ELLEN

By midday, the estate no longer feels like a place meant for work, no matter how many tasks remain undone.

The tasks I’ve chased since dawn still exist, still demand attention, but they no longer grip me in the same way. Doors stand dressed now, properly and proudly, with birch and rowan tied above lintels in careful knots. Fern drips green over the byre doors, and gorse pricks every threshold where Róisín insists it should, sharp and unwelcoming to anything unlucky enough to follow us into the summer half of the year.

Primrose is everywhere.

Soft purple faces peek from garlands and baskets, pinned above doors and tucked into wreaths, stubborn and bright in a way that makes my chest tighten if I look at them too long. I tell myself it’s only because they’re delicate—because they bruise with the slightest touch and never last long once they’re picked.

I push the memory of this morning aside before it can settle.

The house is warm with bodies and movement, but the kitchens have a strange, clean emptiness to them without the familiar pull of flame.

I’m tying off another length of ribbon when a shadow falls across the table, soft and unhurried.

“Ellen,” Maeve says.

Her voice is calm in a way that settles rooms. She stands with a basket on her arm, half-full of greenery, sleeves rolled to the elbow like any other woman working today. And yet she’s impossible to mistake for anyone else.

Maeve is breathtaking.

Time has not taken beauty from her; it has deepened it. Silver threads through her dark hair, caught at the nape in a loose knot. Fine lines fan from her eyes, not from bitterness, but from years of laughter and weather and sun. Her cheekbones are strong and elegant. Her mouth, even at rest, seems made for smiling. There’s something in her face that feels both warm and formidable.

And it strikes me, not for the first time, how clearly James carries her.

The shape of his mouth. The steadiness in his gaze. The way he’s built of strength that doesn’t need to announce itself.

It would be easy to love a woman like Maeve. Just as it would be easy⁠—

No.