Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Rumors traveled fast on Raasay. Halvard had already begun to hear the sound before he heard the guard himself.
Voices drifting up the corridor toward his study, hurried footsteps, the unmistakable stir of men unsettled.
He had been trying to go over ledgers and estate numbers, but thoughts of Elsie kept creeping into his mind.
He had almost convinced himself it was from lack of sleep in that blasted chair each night, but the truth was it was the lass. She was a challenge, and he was not a man to back down from a challenge.
He stepped out of the study before anyone reached the door, cloak already in hand. He met the young guard halfway down the stairs.
“Speak,” Halvard demanded.
The guard, Eoin, stopped short. “Me laird, word from th’ outer posts. Lord Harcourt’s party is lingering near th’ borders, longer than they should.”
Sten came up from behind and crossed him arms. “How long is ‘longer’?”
“Three days,” the lad replied.
Halvard’s jaw tightened. “Any word on his daughter, Lady Margaret?”
“She was seen on a birlinn, alone, days ago, me laird,” Eoin continued. “Nay one’s seen th’ rest leave th’ island.”
A cold unease slid down Halvard’s spine. Bowen Harcourt was many things. Petty, proud, infuriatingly English, but he wasn’t stupid.
“Get th’ horses,” Halvard barked. “Now!”
Eoin bolted. Sten gave Halvard a sidelong look as they strode through the corridor toward the courtyard.
“Ye think Harcourt’s hidin’?” Sten asked.
“I think he’s an arrogant bastard,” Halvard responded, pushing through the outer doors as the sea wind slapped him full in the face. “And arrogance has its own stench. I want tae ken why it’s still hangin’ in me air.”
In minutes they were mounted, hooves echoing off the stone as they thundered out of the keep and into the wild landscape. Winter was fast approaching and the wind cut sharp across the moor, tugging at plaids and biting ears, but Halvard barely felt a thing. He was of a singular focus.
They rode hard, faster than reason advised, as though he could chase the knot in his gut across his island.
When they reached the board ridge, the guard post came into sight. Two men sat by a dying fire, scanning the horizon as if they expected Harcourt and his men to emerge from the mist at any moment.
Halvard did not waste time with pleasantries.
“Where is he?” He asked, knowing he need not bother with specifics, as there was only one man he would be asking after.
The older clansman shook his head, face set in a grim line. “Gone, me laird. If he was ever here, he isnae now. Nae tracks fresh enough tae follow.”
Sten dismounted, crouching to examine the frozen ground. “Wind’s wiped most signs clean away.”
“Aye,” the second guard replied. “Could be they slipped off th’ path. But we didnae find a trace o’ that either.”
Halvard scanned the barren stretch of land, the cliff edges, the rocky outcroppings, the winding path Harcourt should have taken days ago. Empty. All of it empty. Too empty.
Bowen Harcourt was not the sort of man to disappear quietly.
Something wasn’t right.
Halvard exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “Spread word,” he ordered. “Every guard stays sharp. If Harcourt’s still on me land, he will be found.”
Sten rose, brushing dirt from his plaid. “And Lady Elsie?”
Halvard’s grip tightened on the reins. “I’ll nay have her worry until she must.”
Only when he turned his horse to head back to Brochel did Halvard realize how heavy the air felt. It was as if the island itself held its breath. If Harcourt had left Raasay, Halvard could feel it in his bones that the man had not gone far.
The ride back to the castle felt longer than the ride out. Halvard was unsettled, keeping his horse going at a punishing pace, the kind meant to burn frustration out of a man’s blood. It didn’t work.
The wind clawed at him. The saddle thudded beneath him, but the whereabouts and purpose of Bowen Harcourt still lingered in his skull like peat smoke in a closed room.
“Ye’ve that look again,” Sten called over the hoofbeats. “As if yer grindin’ yer teeth.”
Halvard ignored him. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation or the man’s jostling. Especially not about the Englishman who had slithered off his land without leaving a single track.
By the time the castle walls came into view, his temper had hardened into something he could no longer ignore. He dismounted before the horse had come to a full stop, tossing the reins to a stable lad.
“Training grounds?” Sten asked, raising a brow.
Halvard gave him a sour grunt and strode in the direction of the baily.
Steel. Sweat. Silence.
The training yard was an old friend, one who didn’t pose questions and didn’t need answers.
Halvard stripped off his shirt, ignoring the cold air that bit at his skin and seized the nearest practice blade.
Then he began to swing. He continued to swing the blade until his muscles burned with exertion.
The world narrowed until all that remained was the satisfying crack of metal against the wooden target.
There were other men around, as there usually were, but they paid their laird no mind as he swung.
Again and again.
It wasn’t enough.
What is th’ bastard plannin’?
His mind raced with the rage in Harcourt’s eyes when he had been in the keep and th’ threats the man had promised to follow through on.
He set the sword aside and went at the post with his fists instead. Bare knuckled, each strike heavier than the last. His men, scattered around the yard, stopped their own practice to watch.
No one dared approach. They knew their laird was not in the mood to be messed with. It was best for all to stay clear. Halvard would not be stopped, not until his breath sawed in and out of him, raw. Only then did he lean forward, palms braced on his thighs, sweat dripping down his spine.
A soft gasp cut through the quiet.
Halvard’s head snapped up. Elsie stood beside Muirin at the far edge of the yard. Her green eyes were wide and her cheeks were flushed, hands frozen around the shawl she clutched to her breast.
For a heartbeat she simply stared at him. At his chest. At the sweat. At everything he knew she’d clearly never seen up close on a man before.
Her mouth parted in a scandalized “oh.”
Halvard had taken spear strikes with less impact. His heart pounded in his chest, stomach, ears and everywhere else he could feel in his body. He wondered in what other ways he could scandalize her.
Then the men started noticing her. A few glanced over with open curiosity, some with far too much.
A growl rumbled up from deep in his chest. He straightened to his full height and barked, “Eyes elsewhere!”
The men jerked away like startled crows. Elsie jumped. Halvard did not care. He crossed the yard toward her and Muirin in two long strides.
When he stopped in front of her, she swallowed hard. Her gaze flickering between his face and some very safe spot on the stones near his boots.
“You’re not wearing anything,” she whispered, avoiding his gaze.
He smirked. “Ach, I’ve my plaid on. Should I be wearin’ more?”
Her blushed deepened to something near luminous, and he found he wanted to see how deep the red could go.
“This is entirely improper,” she said.
“Aye,” he drawled, amused despite himself. “That’s th’ main problem wi’ ye English. Everythin’ must be proper or it’s th’ end o’ th’ world.”
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “It is civilized.”
He leaned slightly closer, enough that he could feel her stiffen. “And yer blushin’ like th’ dawn over Skye.”
“I am NOT!”
“Ye are,” he said. “And I think ye ken it.”
She made a frustrated noise and stepped back, but the men’s lingered stares behind her made Halvard step forward at the same time closing the space between them once again. This time he didn’t move.
She noticed. Her breath hitched. Just slightly.
“Why,” she whispered, “were you growling at them like a wild beast?”
“Because,” he replied taking a finger and twirling a loose lock of her golden-brown hair, “I dinnae like other men lookin’ at ye that way.”
Her eyes widened in confusion, surprise and something else, something he couldn’t name. “We’re not really married,” she reminded him softly. “You don’t have to…”
“Aye,” he cut in, voice rougher than he meant, “but that daesnae meant I’ll stand here an’ look a fool while they think I cannae guard what’s mine.”
Mine, he thought. Why that word when it came to her?
She froze. “I am not yours.”
“Are ye nae?” he ground out. “Perhaps naye but they dinnae ken that.”
The air between them tightened, sparking with something he dared not name. All Halvard knew is that he didn’t want to step back. He wanted to stay right where he stood breathing her in. Lavender and sweetness.
Then she muttered, “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he shot back, “drive me half-mad.”
They stood there, both unwilling to move until Muirin quietly cleared her throat, soft but firm.
“Me laird,” she said gently. “The lass came tae bring ye word o’ supper soon. That is if th’ two of ye are done… ehm… discussin’ things.”
He didn’t think it was possible, but Elsie flushed a deeper red. He wiped a hand over his face. Perhaps the lass was right and he was half-mad.
Elsie left the training grounds in a flurry of skirts and indignation, Muirin hurrying after her with soft, worried steps.
Halvard watched them from across the courtyard. Elsie’s cheeks were still pink from anger or embarrassment or both. Her back was rigid, her chin held high, and her gait as sharp as a blade. An English blade all polished and precise clashing with the rough stone and wild wind of Raasay.
Muirin spoke quietly at her side, Halvard could tell the maid was trying to soothe the lass, and he was grateful. But Elsie only shook her head before letting out a flurry of frustrated words and looking across the yard in his direction.
Halvard’s chest tightened and he could not help but wonder if that was what guilt felt like.
Before he could follow the lass, Sten appeared beside him like a curse summoned by regret.
“Well,” his second said. “That went poorly.”
“I dinnae need yer commentary,” Halvard growled.
“Aye, ye dae” Sten replied. “Someone has tae tell ye.”
“The lass has been here a handful of days,” Sten continued. “And ye chase her off the training grounds like a damn bear because what? A few of th’ men glanced in her direrction?”
Halvard’s jaw flexed. “They were starin’, and ye ken it.”
“They were lookin’,” Sten corrected. “There’s a difference. And even if there wasnae, she’s nae truly yers.”
Halvard looked away. His friend’s words hitting harder than he liked.
“Aye,” he muttered like a bairn. “I ken it.”
Sten softened a fraction. “Then mayhap dinnae act like she’s yers tae guard.”
But that was the issue, wasn’t it? Every time Elsie walked into a room, head held too high, eyes too bright, mouth too ready with her sharp English retorts, something in him responded like she was his. Even though he knew better.
Especially because he knew better.
Halvard exhaled roughly and sat on the low stone wall at the courtyard’s edge, knuckles stinging from his training. The wind had cooled the sweat on his skin and his irritation had begun to fade into a heavy unwelcome shame.
Sten watched him for a long moment.
“Well?” Halvard snapped. “Say what ye truly want tae say.”
Sten’s mouth twitched. “What I truly want tae say is that ye’re an idiot, but what I’ll say is ye overreacted.”
“I didnae,” Halvard groaned.
“Aye, ye did,” Sten insisted. “Lady Elsie’s already scared half the time, although aye, she hides it well, but Muirin sees it. Ye snappin’ and snarlin’ at her like a beast willnae help.”
Halvard rubbed a hand over his face. “Fine, I overreacted.”
Sten clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good, that’s a start. Ye’ll speak tae th’ lass then?”
“Aye,” Halvard muttered.
Before Sten could press him further, Thomas Redfern approached looking as if he had been chased by death, or even perhaps caught.
The envoy paused before them, posture crisp despite his deathly parlor.
“My laird,” he bowed. “Sten.”
“Envoy,” Halvard replied.
“I’ve come down to inform you both,” Thomas said. “That I shall remain on Raasay until your next clan meeting. My departure must be delayed.”
Halvard frowned. “Because of yer health?”
“Partly,” Thomas’s eyes flicked toward the path Elsie had just taken. “Partly because certain, let’s say, tensions remain unresolved. Harcourt’s movements also trouble me. I’ve heard the men talking.”
“He troubles us all.” Halvard’s brows drew together.
Thomas nodded once. “Then it’s settled. I shall stay.”
“Make sure ye see our healer, ye are nae lookin’ well,” Halvar added.
The envoy nodded, and with a final incline of his head, turned back toward the keep, his precise steps echoing across the courtyard.
When he disappeared inside, Sten let out a slow whistle. “If even th’ envoy thinks ye two need time tae sort yer mess, then God help us.”
Halvard rose abruptly. “I’ll deal wi’ it.”
“Meanin’ ye’ll talk tae th’ lass?”
“Meanin’,” Halvard spat out. “I’ll try nay tae roar at her again.”
Sten snorted. “Progress then.”
Halvard turned back toward the keep. A conversation waited, one he knew was hard but necessary. And he dreaded it almost as much as he dreaded the distance he had forced between them.