Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 58: The Highlands
Glen Loy, Scottish Highlands, July 1742
The Highlands rise before us like a living wall. Elizabeth leans forward in the carriage, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat. The hills are enormous ... green and gold and shadowed, rolling into one another like waves frozen in time. The sky is a hard, bright blue, the air sharp with cold, even in summer. The road narrows, twisting between rocks and heather. The horses slow, snorting clouds of steam.
“This is ... magnificent,” she whispers.
I feel her awe. It pulses through the bracelet like a warm tide.
“It is a land that remembers,” I say. “Every hill, every glen, every stone.”
She smiles faintly. “I feel that.”
The carriage creaks as it climbs a steep rise. Elizabeth grips the seat, bracing herself. She is not used to rough roads. She grew up on smooth English lanes, bordered by gentle hills and manicured gardens. Here, the earth is wild. Untamed. Older than anything she has ever known.
She glances down at me. “Jeannia ... will they truly accept me?”
“Yes,” I say. “But not immediately.”
She swallows. “I thought so.”
The carriage rounds a bend, and the McKean settlement comes into view ... a cluster of stone cottages with smoke rising from peat fires, a longhouse with a timber roof, and beyond it a small fortification perched on a rocky outcrop. People gather as the carriage approaches. Men in tartan. Women with shawls and braids. Children barefoot in the grass.
Elizabeth’s breath quickens.
“They’re all watching,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I say. “You are their clan chief’s bride.”
She straightens her posture, lifting her chin. She is nervous, but she is brave. She steps out of the carriage with careful grace, her gown brushing the dirt road. The clan murmurs, a mixture of curiosity and caution. Elizabeth hears a few whispers in Gaelic.
Hamish steps forward.
He looks different here ... more himself. The Highlands suit him. His posture is straighter and his presence stronger. His dark hair is tied back, his tartan draped over one shoulder. His hazel eyes meet Elizabeth’s with a steady warmth.
“Elizabeth,” he says.
She curtsies. “Hamish.”
Their eyes meet. And I feel the spark between them ... small and tentative, but nonetheless real.
Hamish offers his hand and Elizabeth takes it. The clan watches.
Hamish turns to them. “This is the woman who has consented to be my wife.”
A ripple moves through the crowd ... approval from some, hesitation from others. Elizabeth feels it, and I feel it through her. She is an outsider. English. Foreign. But she is also the chief’s chosen bride, and that carries weight.
Hamish leads her toward the longhouse. The clan follows at a respectful distance. Inside, the air is warm with firelight. The walls are lined with woven tapestries, antlers and other trophies of the hunt. Ornaments of carved wood adorn one section of the wall. Elizabeth looks around, absorbing the rough beauty, the unfamiliar shapes, and the scent of peat and pine.
“It’s lovely,” she says softly.
Hamish smiles. “It is home.”
She nods, though her eyes flicker with uncertainty. He gestures toward a carved wooden chair.
“Sit. Rest. You’ve travelled a long way.”
She sits, smoothing her gown. Hamish pours her a cup of water from a clay jug. She accepts it with a grateful smile.
An older woman enters. She has a stern face, with sharp eyes and a grey streak in her braided hair. She bows her head slightly to Hamish, then turns to Elizabeth.
“Chief’s wife,” she says in heavily accented English. “I am Mairead. I keep the longhouse.”
Elizabeth stands quickly, unsure whether she should curtsy or bow. She settles on a polite nod.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Mairead studies her for a long moment.
“You are welcome here. But you must learn our ways.”
Elizabeth’s cheeks flush. “I will.”
Mairead nods once, approving. “Good.”
She leaves as abruptly as she entered.
Elizabeth exhales. “She’s ... formidable.”
“She is loyal,” I whisper into her mind. “And she will teach you.”
Hamish sits beside her. “Mairead is the heart of the clan. She will help you find your place.”
Elizabeth nods, though her fingers tighten around the cup.
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