Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The door to the laird’s chamber shut with a firm thunk, the echo bouncing off the stone walls like a single drumbeat before battle.
Elsie turned sharply to face her husband, her skirts still dusty from their ride. “We need to establish some rules,” she announced.
Halvard’s raised one brow, unbothered as she stripped off his riding gloves. “Rules?”
“Yes,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “Boundaries, Expectations. Proper behavior for two people pretending to be married.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Proper behavior? From me?”
“Exactly,” she said, chin high. “You’ll knock before entering this room. You won’t call me wife as though you are daring me to faint. And you’ll…” she hesitated, color creeping up her neck, “stop looking at me like you are right now.”
“And how is that?”
“Like I’m some… some kind of puzzle that you mean to take apart and put back together with your eyes.”
Halvard’s mouth curved into the slow, dangerous smile that made her stomach flip. “A difficult rule, that one.”
Elsie folder her arms, in an attempt to appear exasperated, even though truly her heart began to race. “Then learn discipline, Laird Savage.”
“Careful, mo bhean, Ye’ll make me think ye enjoy our sparrin’.”
“What does that mean, mo bhean? You keep calling me that. It sounds beautiful, but I’m not at all sure what to make of it.”
He chuckled, low in his throat, causing that flipping sensation to reappear in her stomach. But before he could answer her, there was a light knock at the door. Muirin stepped in quietly, carrying a folded parchment and a tray with a steaming mug of something herbal that smelled faintly of mint.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, me lady. Ye asked fer writing parchment, aye?”
Elsie blinked, any irritation she felt at Halvard fading as she took the paper and the tea. “Yes, um, thank you, Muirin.”
The maid smiled, her soft eyes radiating kindness. “I figured ye might want tae send word home, after yer ordeal.”
Elsie’s throat tightened. Muirin and Sten both obviously knew how she came to be at Brochel Castle and what truly happened. Muirin’s kind attention toward her was enough to cause a slight sting in the corner of her eyes.
“I do,” she replied softly. Her argument with Halvard forgotten as she turned to sit at the small writing desk placed under the window.
The waning light of late afternoon coupled with the tallow candle was enough for her to see by, everything around her forgotten as she sat to write a quick missive to her sister.
How sick with worry Selene must be. It had been days since she had last seen her sister. Selene would have had no word, no way to know what had become of her. Her breath started to come in quick bursts. The reality of what had occurred settling like a lead weight upon her chest.
Steady hands came down upon her shoulders.
“All will be well, mo bhean.” Halvard had gently placed his hands on her shoulders and she found the touch a comfort.
“I must write to my sister,” she choked out.
“Aye, that ye should.”
The candlelight flickered over the parchment as she began to write. Her hand still trembled.
When she finished, she let out a small sigh.
She had not given too many details, not wanting to cause anymore worry for Selene.
She folded the letter neatly, sealing it with wax Halvard had brought her while she wrote.
He hadn’t spoken a word the entire time, though she had felt his gaze on her more than once.
She looked up at him, tears still fresh in her eyes. He held out his hand. “I’ll send it with a fast rider,” he said simply.
She blinked. “You’d do that?”
“Aye, ye’ve folk worried fer yer safety. I’ve nay quarrel wi’ that.”
Something in his tone, a tenderness beneath his gruff exterior, unsettled her more than his teasing had. “Thank you,” she said softly.
He stepped back, shrugging as if it were nothing. “Dinnae thank me yet. Th’ messenger’ll have tae cross a sea and two ridges tae get tae yer sister.”
“Is that what I travelled over as well?”
“Aye,” he smiled faintly. “That’s th’ Highlands.”
Elsie turned the quill in her fingers, feeling strangely seen, and suddenly not wanting the attention. “Very well then,” she said primly. “Now about those rules…”
Halvard let out a groan. “Ach, woman, ye and yer rules,” he said. “I swear ye’d try tae teach manners tae a wolf.”
“Someone must,” Elsie replied, happy to have their natural bickering dynamic back. “Otherwise, how will I survive this charade with my dignity intact?”
“Dignity’s overrated,” he muttered, just as a sharp knock interrupted them.
Before Elsie could snap back Halvard opened the heavy wooden door, and a young man stepped inside, broad-shouldered and dust on his boots. He froze mid-step, clearly realizing he had interrupted something.
“Me laird,” he said quickly, dipping his head. “Forgive me fer interruptin’. Word came from th’ stables, one of th’ riders has returned from th’ southern road.”
Halvard nodded, and Elsie paid close attention.
“And?” the laird asked.
“All’s clear. Lord Harcourt an’ his men crossed th’ ridge an’ now ride toward the Lowlands.”
“Good.”
Elsie didn’t quite understand why she felt relief for both herself and Halvard, but she did.
“That is good news the servant brought,” she said sweetly.
The air shifted. She looked up to find Halvard was looking at her as if she had said something blasphemous.
“He is nae a servant, mo bhean,” he said, his voice quiet, but edged. “He’s kin.”
Elsie blinked. “Your…kin?”
“Aye,” he replied
Elsie looked up at Halvard, still confused. “But he called you laird? Doesn’t that mean he answers to you?”
“Aye,” he replied, though Elsie couldn’t read his expression. “But nae like ye think. He’s nay servant, he’s family. Every man and woman in this keep is family.”
That simple statement of explanation lodged somewhere deep in her chest. She was unfamiliar with that idea of communal living and support.
In England, titles and propriety seemed to permeate every aspect of life.
There were so many invisible lines between what was proper and how one person was divided or joined with the next.
Those rules were part of every moment of each day of her life.
Even love was expected to fit within them.
But here, everything was different. Messier, sure, but also rough and––dare she say––more real.
“I see,” she said quietly, her voice smaller. “Where I come from, no one would call this life and these people family. There is a forced order, even within blooded families.”
Halvard studied her for a moment, and she felt the weight of his gaze, as his expression softened. “Order’s a fine thing. But loyalty is worth more.”
Elsie looked back at the fire, her fingers tightening on the edge of her skirt. She did not know why, but his words struck deep within her. It was as if his explanation of his people was like a stone dropped into the still water of her soul, rippling outward.
When she spoke again, her tone was serious. “Maybe that’s something England’s forgotten.”
“Maybe so,” he gave a low grunt, half agreement, and half acknowledgement.
Their eyes met briefly. There was no argument, no mockery, just an unspoken truce between them and their opposite worlds.
Then Halvard broke it with a faint smirk. “Still, I’ll keep tae yer first rule. I’ll knock before walkin’ in on ye.”
Elsie lifted her chin, flashing what she hoped was a brilliant smile. “See? Already improving.”
“Don’t push yer luck, lass,” he chuckled before walking out and leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Elsie had just finished brushing and repinning her hair when a soft knock tapped at the door. She smiled to herself thinking perhaps Halvard had truly taken to heart their discussion, but before she could answer Muirin slipped inside with a tray with a warm cup of tea and a small smile.
“I thought ye might like somethin’ before supper,” she said in that quiet soothing voice.
“Oh, thank you,” Elsie accepted the tray, trying to push down her disappointment. She was truly grateful for Muirin. “You always think of everything.”
Muirin looked momentarily uncomfortable by the compliment and shifted on her feet.
“I was downstairs checkin’ on th’ king’s envoy,” she said at last, “the Englishman, Mr. Redfern. Poor man looks grey as a winter’s mist.”
Elsie blinked. “He’s gotten worse?”
“Aye,” Muirin replied, lowering her voice as though she should not be speaking of such matters. “He’s too proud tae complain, but ye can hear it in his breath. And wi’ the wind turnin’ foul…” she gave a little cluck of her tongue. “Nay chance he’ll be leavin’ in th’ mornin’.”
Concern fluttered through Elsie’s chest. “Is he alone? Has anyone brought him broth?” She knew how quickly illness could take hold and her worry was not only for the envoy, but also for those in the castle.
“Aye, I brought him broth meself,” Muirin assured her, smiling softly.
“He thanked me in that stiff English manner of his. But he shouldnae be ridin’ out in this weather.
If ye ask me, he’s run himself ragged. That makes two of ye.
Och, although ye look a site better than he daes.
Even if th’ laird would have everyone thinkin’ ye’ve been through a war. ”
Elsie flushed at the thought of Halvard speaking about her to any of his kin. “I’m fine, truly. Just tired.”
Muirin hesitated again, then leaned in just a touch. “Between th’ two of us, I dinnae think th’ laird likes th’ envoy bein’ ill.”
“Why?” Elsie asked.
Muirin shrugged, braiding a strand of her own loose hair absently. “Hard tae say. But th’ laird watches folk closer than most realize. And he’s been keepin’ and eye on Mr. Redfern ever since he got back tae th’ castle.”
Elsie wasn’t sure that to do with that knowledge. Halvard watched everything, didn’t he? Especially her.
“Alright,” Muirin added. “I best be gettin’ off. Supper’ll be ready soon and dinnae fash over th’ envoy. I’ll keep watch over him.”
When Muirin left, the room felt quiet, and Elsie’s heart felt strangely heavy.
Without the Earl’s calculating stare, Lady Margaret’s desperate sighs, supper in the great hall felt almost intimate.
With Sten choosing to share his table with a group of clansmen, Elsie and Halvard sat alone at the main table, a platter of roast venison steaming between them.
Halvard reached for a piece with his bare hand and Elsie was nearly scandalized as he tore into it with all the subtly of a wild animal. Grease shone on his thumb, and he looked entirely satisfied.
Elsie lifted her fork, careful to ensure her movements were met with pristine elegance. “Do you not own a knife and fork for yourself anywhere in this savage fortress?” she asked.
He looked up. “Dae ye nae own teeth?”
She nearly choked at the retort.
“I happen… urm…” Any clever comeback seemed to fail to reach her lips as she stuttered.
“C’mere.” He tore off a piece of the roast, still steaming, and held it toward her across the table. “Try it proper like.”
Her breath caught. His hand looked far too large and loomed far too close.
“No,” she said primly. “Thank you.” Though she wished she had the abandon to act as he had.
Halvard shrugged, popping the meat into his mouth with a satisfied smirk.
But when he turned to reach for his ale, Elsie seized her chance, ripping a small piece of meat with her bare fingers, wincing at the heat, but shoving it into her mouth quickly.
And heavens above, it was delicious.
Halvard’s eyes narrowed as he turned back. “Not barbaric after all, eh lass?”
Elsie’s cheeks reddened and warmed as she thought Muirin had been right. The laird did truly see everything.
She dabbed her lips with her napkin, hoping to hide some of the guilt she felt.
“It is still barbaric,” she replied, “but tolerable.”
His low laugh rolled across the table, warm as the firelight. Elsie absolutely hated how it caused her stomach to flutter.