Chapter Three “The Stranger on the Highland Road”

The road to Braemar stretched ahead, winding like a ribbon of possibility through hills softened by heather and silver mist. Eleanor's hands trembled, just a little, as she guided Lark along the uneven path. But she kept her chin lifted, steady, even as the wind nipped at her cheeks.One step. Then another. That was all she needed to do.

Her journey had begun without ceremony. No grand farewell or dramatic exit. Just Martha's arms wrapped tight around her in the grey morning light, a tear dampening Eleanor's hair as her maid whispered, "Come back safe, my girl." And then—quiet. Only the soft creak of worn leather saddlebags holding the few things Eleanor dared to take.

Now, with each mile, the space between who she had been and who she might become stretched wider.For the first time in her life, she was untethered.And it was thrilling.And terrifying.

The sky had begun to deepen into indigo by the time she reached a fork in the road. Her body ached from riding, her shoulders sore, and her hands stiff with cold. She hadn't thought this far ahead—not really. She'd planned the leaving so carefully. But the after… that had always felt like someone else's problem. Future Eleanor's burden.Now here she was.Exhausted. Unsure which road to take. And alone.

She sighed, low under her breath, cursing her impulsiveness in a mutter that Lark flicked an ear at as if in agreement.

And then…A sound.Soft but certain.Hooves.

Her heart kicked in her chest. She sat straighter in the saddle, every nerve lit like a candlewick.She should go.Turn around.Disappear.

But something—a flicker of curiosity or perhaps stubbornness—kept her still.

From the northern trail, the rider appeared. His figure emerged slowly through the mist, like he belonged to it. A tall man, wrapped in a deep brown cloak that moved gently with the rhythm of his horse's steps. He was watching her.And yet, there was no threat in his stillness.No menace in the way his hands rested loose on the reins.

He stopped his horse a respectful distance away.His gaze found hers. Steady. Not cold. Not unkind.

"You've lost your way," he said quietly.His voice was a low rumble, as if shaped by the hills themselves, touched with an accent soft and wild at its edges.

Eleanor's fingers clenched tighter around the reins, her knuckles pale. "I've not," she answered, sharper than she meant.But he didn't flinch.

One of his brows lifted—barely—and something like wry amusement flickered across his face."You sit a saddle well," he allowed. "But you've no map, and that coat…"His gaze drifted, taking in the tailored lines of her riding habit."It's fit for tea by a warm hearth, not a Highland wind."

Her chin lifted higher on instinct, but before she could come up with a stinging reply, he swung down from the saddle in one smooth movement.No bravado. No show of strength. Just quiet ease.

He took a few slow steps toward her, boots crunching softly on damp gravel. But he didn't come too close. He stopped, as if drawing an invisible line only she could choose to cross.And then he nodded—not at her—but toward the road behind him.

"Braemar's the other way," he said.

Her stomach fluttered.Her mother's map hadn't lied.But it hadn't told the whole story, either.

Eleanor held his gaze. "And you would know that… how?"

For a moment, there was silence between them, thick with things unsaid.Then he smiled.It was faint. Almost tired. Not mocking. A smile that said he knew what it was to be cautious. To carry weight."Because I live there," he said simply.

He extended a gloved hand. Palm open. Not reaching. Not demanding.An offer.A choice.

"Callum McCrae," he said.

Eleanor hesitated. Everything she'd ever been taught told her to pull away. To distrust. To refuse.But there was something in his eyes.Steady. Calm.The kind of quiet you wanted to sit next to when the world felt too loud.

She reached out slowly and placed her hand in his."Eleanor Whitmore."

Their fingers touched briefly. His hand was warm despite the cold, calloused from work, but gentle in its hold. She was the one to pull away first.And he let her.

"I'll ride with you," Callum said after a pause. "If you've no objection."

Eleanor's pulse thrummed at her throat.She could say no. She should say no.But…She was tired of pretending she didn't want someone at her side—if only for a little while.So she gave a single nod."I'll accept."

They rode in silence at first. Side by side, but not close enough to crowd her. The hush between them wasn't uncomfortable. It gave her space to breathe. To think.

The hills softened as dusk deepened, heather glowing faintly in the fading light. Callum pointed out small things as they went: wildflowers she'd never noticed, tiny white ones tucked into mossy stone, the scent of juniper carried on the wind.His voice was low, unhurried. He spoke like a man who didn't feel the need to fill quiet with noise.

Eleanor found herself listening.And then—without meaning to—she smiled.Just a little.

He caught her glance when she did but said nothing. He only tipped his head as if he understood something she hadn't said out loud.

By the time the first distant lights of Braemar flickered on the horizon, like stars that had fallen to earth, Eleanor's hands no longer trembled on the reins.

They paused beneath an ancient tree whose gnarled branches curved toward the sky like old fingers.Callum dismounted first. He didn't offer to help her down.He waited.

And when she slid down from Lark's back, landing softly, she was grateful for the choice he gave her.For the space.

"Not all cages have walls," he said quietly.His voice held no judgment. No pity.Just truth.

She didn't answer.But when they mounted up again, she rode closer to him than before.And for the first time in her life, she wasn't sure if she wanted to run away.Or stay.