AT ALL COSTS

 

The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara: 1810

Keiss, Scotland

 

Ellen Sinclair was a woman of indomitable resolve, her unyielding nature a testament to her strength. Yet her youngest daughter, only six years old, seemed determined to match and surpass her tenacity. Triona’s boundless energy and relentless stubbornness tested Ellen’s patience like nothing else.

Her voice rang out, sharp with exasperation, from the doorway of her daughter’s chamber. “Caitríona Sinclair, it’s high time the stars bore witness to yer slumber!” Exhaustion weighed heavily on Ellen, her efforts to coax Triona to bed feeling as futile as waiting for the grass to grow.

The use of her full name, a tried-and-true tactic, finally did the trick. Triona froze mid-stride, her wide eyes snapping to her mother’s piercing gaze. She stood motionless in the centre of the room; the whirlwind of her energy suddenly stilled by Ellen’s commanding tone.

With a cautious gait, she approached the bed and carefully climbed on top. “Am I in trouble, Ma?” The crafty sparkle in her gaze was unmistakable; the art of persuasion was second nature to her, with her radiant green eyes and dainty nose. Hell come to any man that might consider giving his heart to her one day. She will surely have him bending to her every will.

Ellen, try as she might, bore no grudge against such gambits. She knew well the subtle power of a fluttered lash, of a gaze held just a moment too long—the silent wiles she had once wielded with effortless grace. In her tempestuous youth, those very charms had brought the mighty James Sinclair to his knees. He had fallen hard, utterly captivated from the moment their eyes first met, as if fate itself had conspired in her favour.

The mere thought of how deeply and completely he loved her, of the unwavering devotion woven into his every word and action, sent warmth rushing to her cheeks. He had made her feel like a queen then, cherished and adored beyond measure. And somehow, even after all these years, he still did.

Ellen lingered almost a moment too long, watching with a particular maternal fondness at the playful defiance Triona displayed.

Moments like these reminded her of how fleeting time was. Even at six, Triona’s fierce spirit and vivid imagination left Ellen marvelling at her potential.

 A tempest brewed beneath Triona’s fiery spirit, one destined to shake the foundations of the world. Ellen had seen it in the way Triona fearlessly challenged her brothers, her sharp tongue unyielding even when outmatched. She had a gift for rallying those around her. This raw, untamed force could one day command the reverence due to a queen.

Ellen’s demeanour lightened, and she playfully sighed as she walked up to the edge of her daughter’s bed. “My little butterfly”, Ellen spoke with playful exaggeration as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “Ye’re not in trouble, but it is time for the house to settle, lest we wake yer brothers. Those trows would groan for hours should their rest be disturbed.” Ellen smiled at her youngest, as a giggle escaped between Triona’s lips.

She sat next to Triona to wrap her in a hug. Her little head smelled like her favourite flower: Scottish Primrose. “Ah, someone found their way into my scents again.” A muffled laugh would be the only answer she would receive. Ellen did not mind. The scent brought nothing but fond memories, and a sense of calm filled the room.

As Ellen began to rise, a small hand tugged at her dress. “Ma, tell me that story. The one about goddesses.” Triona said, her toothless lisp adding an endearing charm to her words. Her shimmering green doe eyes could sway even the most stoic of hearts. Mixed with her blossoming smile, Ellen’s resolve melted in an instant.

“Yes, Ma,” a mockingly high-pitched voice came from the doorway, “give my bonnie lass a goodnight tale.”

Ellen turned her head to look at the tall man leaning against the doorframe. James Sinclair was indeed a welcome sight. After over ten years of marriage, he could still kindle an ember within her.

Ellen rolled her eyes playfully as she spoke. “Oh? If ye’re so eager to please, why don’t you try yer hand at storytellin’, mo chridhe.”

Laughing, he said, “Only you tell the story with such justice. My poor grammar isnae match for such a fabulist like you, dear.”

Ellen threw her hands up. “What am I to do with ye?” The statement had his lip curling up into an all-familiar smile.

She appeared amused at first, but James noticed the faint shadow behind her smile—a sadness she tried to mask from the world, though never from him. The memories tied to the tale lingered, heavy and unspoken, brushing against her resolve.

Noticing the faint yet subtle change, James gave Ellen a nod of encouragement. Only James understood how difficult it was for Ellen to feel as if she were losing time with Triona, and the reminder sat laced within the lines of the story. Sharing brought Triona joy, and that was ultimately what mattered most to Ellen, so she was determined to push through, her feelings be damned.

“Ye spoil her, James,” she said in jest as she forced every fatalistic thought away.

His gaze became wolfish, and she could not resist beaming a smile his way. James had a way of smiling that was equal parts loving and playful. His smile was one that would make others join in gleefully.

“I wonder,” he mused, his eyes locked on hers, “where I might have first learned to be so dotin’, not to mince yer words.”

He was right, of course. Finding such an attentive man was rare. James had always been ever present in his ladies’ lives, his playful involvement at bedtime a prime example. There was not a single thing he would not do for Ellen or Triona, equating them to a mighty queen and princess.

Triona gently tugged on Ellen’s dress again, drawing her attention away from James. Looking down with a laugh, Ellen said, “Yes, keep yer heid, little butterfly.” 

She scooped Triona into her arms, the girl’s laughter bubbling up as she squirmed playfully. Crossing the room, Ellen settled gracefully by the window, holding Triona close.

As she gazed out into the dark night, with Triona comfortably snuggled in her arms, Ellen felt the warmth of James’ presence behind her. The gentle weight of his hand upon her shoulder urged her gaze toward him; his hazel eyes, reflecting starlight, conveyed silent promises as he softly said, “Ye are truly a wonder, Lady Sinclair.” His words warmed her skin, but his gaze left her breathless, her mind yearning to move story time along—to feel his hands tracing her, igniting every inch of her.

In a whisper of a moment, James’ lips brushed against hers, igniting a silent cascade of understanding. He whispered into her ear, “at all costs.” That tender, unspoken phrase had evolved into an oath more poignant than a thousand declarations of love. Together, they had an unwavering bond of devotion, steadfast in their resolve to protect their families, prepared to make even the most profound sacrifices should the occasion arise. They had built a beautiful life together, and they would valiantly defend the bonds of this family to their last breath.

In the hush of twilight, Ellen began...