Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Halvard had faced down raiders, storms, opposing clans, and overzealous English aristocracy, but never had he had an opponent dodge a kiss of his in front of half of his men.
Elsie had turned her head so quickly she nearly toppled over, his mouth catching only her cheek.
The startled look in her eyes, and then that wild, furious blush, saints preserve him, had nearly made him bellow with laughter.
Not because he had found the lass’s reaction funny, but because he hadn’t expected to care.
He would have to become accustomed to the fact that his new “bride” was not the type of lass who bent to the will of others. And damn her, if that was not a charming quality.
The heavy doors of Brochel Castle groaned open as they stepped inside.
Halvard took in a deep breath. It was good to finally be home.
The hall held the warm scent of peat smoke.
Firelight crackled and lit the great stone walls, catching the glint of steel as weapons of laird’s past hung in neat rows.
Blades that had served his kin for generations.
Above the long tables of the great hall hung the MacLeod banner, deep reds and golds rippling faintly in the draft.
Home.
He heard the sharp intake of breath beside him and remembered he was not alone.
Elsie took in the cavernous space, the dark beams, the ancientness of it all.
He could see the awe in her bright green eyes.
He could not help but feel slightly protective as she looked so small in the entryway to the great hall, wrapped in his plaid, mud on her skirts, her hair loose and wild, catching the firelight.
“Ye’ll find its nay palace,” he muttered as she stepped forward.
“No,” she replied softly, “but at least it looks honest.”
“Honest?” he repeated. No one had ever described his castle as such.
“It doesn’t pretend to be something it isn’t.” She glanced up at him.
“Ye’ll get used tae it,” he said roughly, to snap himself out of the feeling constricting his chest.
She shot him a look that could have frozen the hearth. “I’ve no intention of staying long enough to get used to anything.”
He bit back a smile. Brave woman. Elsie tossed words at him like pebbles at a bear.
Before he could answer her, a sharp voice cut through the hall.
“Laird MacLeod.”
Halvard froze, he knew the polished, smooth voice before he saw the man.
Standing by the grand hearth were three figures, the king’s envoy.
Thomas Redfern, in a velvet coat, a pale young woman trussed up in English finery, looking uncomfortable, and beside her, the tall, lean, silver-streaked, precise Earl Bowen Harcourt.
Halvard’s stomach turned to stone. Of course, the bastard himself had come.
“Earl Harcourt,” he said flatly. “I thought ye’d send letters rather than drag yourself this far north tae darken me door.”
He looked over at Sten. When he had said the king’s envoy had arrived, he had not mentioned the earl. Sten gave him a look, as if to say he hadn’t been there when he had left.
Bowen smiled, a slow, elegant lifting of the mouth that did not reach his eyes. “I was passing through on royal business and thought to make myself known.”
Passing through?
Hah! Nay one passes through these lands.
Brochel was so high up in the Highlands that, if safe passage through the straights that surrounded them were not needed by the Crown, he doubted anyone would hazard the rough terrain to reach the castle.
Thomas Redfern said nothing at first, he merely studied the scene before him with calm curiosity. He had the kind of stillness that made men uneasy, not because he threatened them, but because he saw them.
“I trust you’ve had a safe journey, my lord,” Redfern said at last, his voice low and smooth.
“Aye, indeed,” Halvard responded.
Harcourt’s gaze slid toward Elsie and Halvard instinctually placed a protective hand on the small of the lass’s back. “I hadn’t realized I would be intruding on a celebration. A wife, I hear?”
“Aye,” he replied. “May I present Lady Elsie MacLeod née Montgomery. She’s in fact me wife.”
Halcourt’s grey eyes sharpened. He inclined his head with courtly precision. “How very… unexpected. England’s loss, I suppose.”
Elsie shifted, her chin lifting slightly, and Halvard caught the faintest tremor of tension in her posture.
“’Tis a pleasure tae meet you,” she curtsied deeply. “Earl Harcourt, Sir, Madame, as my husband just said, I am Elsie MacLeod née Montgomery, daughter of the recently passed Viscount Henry Montgomery.”
The king’s envoy stepped forward, wringing his lace cuffs, and bowed his head at her. “Laird MacLeod, this complicates the king’s arrangements considerably. His Majesty’s intention was that you should wed Lady Margaret Harcourt.”
The young woman in discussion, Margaret, curtsied prettily, keeping her eyes downcast.
Harcourt clasped his hands behind his back, his tone mild, but his eyes simmered with fury. “Tell me, MacLeod, did you forget His Majesty’s decree, or simply decide that royal commands do not apply in the wilds of the Highlands?”
Halvard’s jaw flexed. It would do no one any good for him to run the Earl through in his own great hall. “I dinnae take orders from London,” he bit out. “Or from fathers who have interest in marrying off their daughters.”
A thin smile ghosted over the earl’s lips. “You mistake loyalty for weakness, Laird MacLeod. I assure you, I serve the king’s interests as well as my family’s with equal devotion.”
The air between the men thickened, civility stretched thin as a wire. The Earl’s gaze was calm but cold. Halvard sensed he was a venomous snake, coiled but ready to strike. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword.
Sten stepped forward, his second having a witch’s sense of when the air turned. “Perhaps, me laird, we might take this talk elsewhere. Th’ ladies have both traveled far and could use rest.”
Redfern’s eyes flicked to Sten and then settled on Halvard. “By all means, the council room then?”
Halvard gave a curt nod. “Aye. Muirin,” he called, gesturing to the wide-eyed maid who sat silently at the foot of the main staircase. “Take Lady Elsie tae our chambers.” And then as if remembering he did indeed have guests. “And see Lady Margaret back to her chambers as well.”
“Our?” Elsie began, her cheeks coloring.
Halvard leaned in close enough so that only she could hear him. “Ye’re me wife, remember?”
Her eyes flashed with indignation, but she bit back whatever retort burned her tongue. Turning toward Muirin she said tightly, “Very well. Lead the way.”
As she ascended the staircase, Halvard saw Harcourt’s eyes follow her. Not with lust or desire, but something worse. Calculation.
Bowen Harcourt was measuring him. Testing the walls as it were, looking for cracks.
Halvard straightened to his full height, every muscle in his body taut and ready for battle. “Council room,” he growled, his voice hard as frost. “We’ll speak there.”
Harcourt inclined his head, the picture of the perfect English gentleman, though a ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “After you, MacLeod.”
Halvard turned on his heel, fists clenched at his sides.
He’d met men like Harcourt before, but none so polished.
And if that man was willing to cross a sea expecting to meet him as a meek man willing to bend, he’d soon learn that Highland men didn’t kneel, especially not to a devil dressed in silk.
He led the way into the council chambers.
The oak doors swinging open with a groan, his stride long and sure.
They were in his home, on his land. The fire crackled low in the grate and the room held a light scent of damp stone.
Behind Halvard, boots and fine shoes echoed in an uneven rhythm as Sten and their guests followed into the room.
Halvard reached the long oak table and rested both hands upon it. “Let’s get this done,” he bit out.
Harcourt settled opposite from him, folding his hands with the composure of a man about to dissect something unpleasant but necessary. The envoy took a quieter seat between them, the picture of calm authority, Halvard thought. Sten maintained a position closest to the door as was his habit.
“I’ll speak plainly, MacLeod,” Harcourt stated. “You’ve made a mockery of a royal order and of me. You were promised to my daughter. Sanctioned by the Crown. Instead, you’ve taken another woman, a stranger, no less, and you’re calling it a marriage?”
Halvard’s eyes narrowed, as he clenched his fists. “Aye, I took a bride,” he said. “And I’ll nae let an English decree dictate th’ life o’ a Highland laird. Ye’d be wise tae keep me wife out of this discussion.”
“Defiance, then.” Harcourt’s smile did not reach his eyes. “You admit it.”
Halvard growled. “I’d point out that when I left there wasnae a decree or any order from th’ king. Is nae me fault I was tae be married off when I was already in possession of a wife.”
He set his fists on the table before him. “I admit, however, that I act fer me clan. Nae fer th’ ambition of greedy Englishmen.”
“Greedy?” Harcourt bit out. “You would do well to mind your tongue. My aim is to strengthen your isolated isle.”
Halvard leaned forward. The earl’s composure slipped just enough for Halvard to see he hit a nerve. There was a spark of recognition behind the polished mask.
“Aye?” he said. “And how daes bindin’ me tae yer lass strengthen anything but yer own purse?”
Harcourt’s fingers tightened on the chair’s arm. “Careful, Highlander. Insolence has a cost.”
“So daes insult.”
Before the tension between the two men could break, Redfern’s voice cut through, calm but edged.
“My lords. Please. We are here to seek a resolution for the Crown, not to start another war.” He looked between them.
“The king desires unity. If the marriage was made in ignorance of the decree, that is regrettable, but not irredeemable.”
“To plead ignorance is quite convenient is it not?” Harcourt said. “You truly expect me to believe that he,” the earl shot a finger at Halvard, “did not know the king’s intentions?”
“Believe what ye like, Harcourt.” Halvard straightened.
Harcourt pushed back his chair, rising with deliberate grace and what Halvard thought was forced anger.
“This farce insults the king and my house both. I’ll not stay to listen to more of this barbaric posturing.”
Sten stepped forward, smoothly. “It’s late, m’laird. Best we all get some rest. If ye’ll allow it, perhaps I should show these men tae their chambers?”
He gave his man a curt nod. “Keep men on the doors.”
Harcourt paused, his expression frozen. “Am I to understand we are prisoners here? Perhaps we should take our leave immediately as we are not welcome here.”
Halvard kept his voice low and rough. “Guests,” he said, “if ye act like it. Prisoners if ye dinnae”
Redfern exhaled slowly, breaking the standoff. “My lord,” he addressed Harcourt. “The Laird is merely being cautious and the journey home is not known for its safety. Surely, you would not wish to test it under the cover of night.”
Harcourt regarded the envoy for a long moment before turning his cold eyes back toward Halvard. “You’ll regret this insult. Sooner than you think, Laird.”
Redfern smoothed his immaculate coat before heading toward the door of the council chamber. “I’ll stay near Harcourt,” he said. “It may spare us all from unnecessary… misunderstandings.”
“Ye are more than welcome tae join us in the great hall fer the evening meal, should ye choose. Ye’ll find Brochel Castle treats its guests well,” Halvard said coolly.
As he reached the door Harcourt turned his voice once again smooth and composed. “If you think this ends here, you’ve no idea what men like me can do with insult.”
“And ye’ve nay idea what men like me can dae wi’ a blade,” Halvard shot back, his gaze cold iron.
As the footsteps of his guests faded, Halvard turned toward the door, his boots echoing as he left the chamber. The night air in the corridor felt cleaner, sharper somehow, but it still carried the echo of Harcourt’s threat.
Let him come.
Halvard had faced worse than a pampered English lord, although even he had to admit few had smiled so sweetly as they sharpened their dirks.