Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The morning air bit sharper than a wolf’s teeth, clean, cold, and bracing.
Exactly what Halvard needed.
He stepped into the training yard with his sword resting across his shoulder, his boots crunching over the frost-kissed dirt. Sten was already waiting at the center of the yard, rolling his shoulders under his tunic, a grin spreading across his face like a man who smelled blood—or mischief.
“About time,” Sten called. “I was beginnin’ tae think ye’d gotten soft. Or worse, distracted.”
Halvard snorted. “I’m never distracted.”
Sten lifted a brow. “Ye’ve spent the last week checkin’ on Elsie every time someone sneezes within three yards o’ her. But aye, nay distraction at all.”
Halvard leveled a flat stare at him, but Sten only laughed harder.
They met in the center of the yard, their swords raised, their boots braced.
The clang of steel cut through the morning quiet as they collided in a heavy clash, both of them skilled and fluid in their movements.
Sten’s blade slid along Halvard’s in a bright arc, sparks spitting as metal kissed metal.
They had done this a thousand times before. They knew each other’s patterns, each other’s techniques like their own, but that didn’t stop them from finding new ways to clash each time.
“Ye’re slow today,” Sten taunted, spinning to strike at Halvard’s right side.
But Halvard blocked easily. “I’m thinkin’.”
“There it is. The most dangerous thing a Highlander can dae.”
Halvard shoved him back with a powerful twist of his wrist, his breath coming out in a huff. “Shut up.”
Sten’s grin widened. Halvard’s reaction only encouraged him, just as Halvard should have expected.
“Is this about a certain English lass who’s been makin’ yer jaw tighten an’ yer brain melt? Because if so—”
Halvard feinted left then swept right, catching Sten off guard. His blade tapped Sten’s ribs, and that, at least, seemed to be enough to force him to stop talking.
Sten stepped back, rubbing the spot. “Aye, I deserve that.”
Halvard didn’t answer. His grip tightened on his sword, his breath coming heavier. And Sten, perceptive as always, sobered.
“Well?” Sten asked quietly. “Ye ready tae admit it?”
Halvard exhaled hard, his frosty breath curling into the air.
“She’s in me thoughts,” he muttered.
“That’s one way tae say ye’re mad fer the lass.”
Halvard ignored him, but Sten was right enough. No matter how much he may try to deny it, no matter what he said to everyone else, the truth was that Elsie had managed to worm her way into his heart and there was no hope of ever getting her out.
He wouldn’t want to do such a thing anyway. Despite the hardships, despite every obstacle that still stood between them, he wanted her. He wanted to be by her side, to spend his days with her, to cherish her like she deserved.
“When she’s hurt, me heart damn near stops. When she smiles…” He dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, annoyed at himself. “I feel like a fool. A laddie. I cannae remember the last time I cared about someone like this.”
Sten lowered his sword and his grin softened into something gentler, more knowing.
“An’ what scares ye more, that ye care… or that she might nae?”
Halvard’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Sten sighed dramatically. “Halvard, ye great stubborn ox, the lass looks at ye like ye hung the stars in the bloody sky.”
Halvard almost stumbled as he tried to attack again, only for Sten to easily parry the blow.
“She daesnae.”
“She daes,” Sten insisted. “Ye dinnae see it because ye’re too busy glarin’ at anyone who looks at her wrong. But Elsie… aye, when ye walk intae a room? She lights up like a hearth fire.”
Halvard swallowed hard. The truth pierced deeper than any blade.
Sten continued, circling him. “She listens when ye speak, leans toward ye without realizin’ it. Ye’re a fool if ye dinnae see it.”
Halvard’s ears heated, a blush creeping over his face at the thought that Sten had noticed. He hoped at least his friend didn’t notice the blush.
“Ye care fer her,” Sten said finally. “More than ye want tae admit. An’ she cares fer ye.”
Halvard lifted his sword again if only to distract himself. “Even if ye’re right, even if she daes feel somethin’…” He hesitated, steel lowering again. “I’ve nay right tae her.”
Sten barked a laugh. “What nonsense is that?”
“She deserves safety,” Halvard said. “Stability. A quiet life. Nae this danger I’m puttin’ her through.”
Sten rolled his eyes so hard Halvard nearly heard it. “An’ yet she’s still here, still wantin’ tae help yer people. Still followin’ ye around like a wee lost lamb who thinks the wolf is handsome.”
Halvard choked on air. “I’m nae handsome.”
Sten pointed his sword at him. “Och, shut up.”
Halvard straightened, trying—and failing—to hide the way embarrassment flickered in his stomach like lightning. “What dae ye want me tae dae, Sten?”
“I want ye tae stop fightin’ what’s already happenin’. Aye, she might leave in the end. Aye, her sister may call her back. But right now? She’s here, an’ she’s fallen fer ye, an’ ye’re actin’ like a man who’d rather wrestle a bear than admit he likes bein’ loved.”
Halvard froze mid-attack, stumbling over his own two feet.
Loved.
That word hit like a hammer to the chest.
Sten smoothed his beard. “So what if the lass breaks yer heart? Better than pretendin’ ye dinnae have one.”
Halvard’s throat tightened. His sword dipped. Frost clung to the edges of the yard, shimmering in the early sun, and for a moment everything felt strangely still.
Then he mumbled, “I hate when ye’re right.”
“Ye should be used tae it by now.”
Halvard swung at him, though half-heartedly. It wasn’t even enough to get near him, a strike as morose as he felt.
Sten yelped, leaping back. “Och! I was talkin’!”
“Too late.”
They clashed again—faster this time, heavier, laughter breaking between blows. Halvard’s mood lifted despite himself. And through every strike, every dodge, every grunt of effort, one truth thrummed steady in the back of his mind.
Elsie cared for him, maybe more than he had dared hope.
And he, God help him, he was falling for her like a man running toward the edge of a cliff, knowing the drop would come—and running anyway.
The evening feast was smaller than usual, half the men still patrolling the borders, but warm all the same. The hall glowed gold under the torchlight, the scent of roasted lamb thick in the air, voices rising and falling in a pleasant, rhythmic noise.
Halvard sat at the high table beside Elsie, and for the first time in weeks, something like ease settled over him.
She held a fork in her right hand and a chunk of bread in her left, eating with a delicate combination of Highland practicality and English grace.
And Halvard couldn’t help but smirk. “Ye’re usin’ both now.”
Elsie blinked, following his gaze to her hands. Her cheeks colored lightly, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks as if she was embarrassed to be caught losing her perfect manners—manners she already knew were irrelevant to Halvard and more than useless at his table.
“I suppose I am.”
“Aye. A proper Highland lass.” He nudged her shoulder playfully, but Elsie shot him a glare for his efforts.
Still, Halvard could have sworn she was biting back a smile.
“And you, Halvard MacLeod, are using a fork properly tonight. Almost like an English gentleman.”
Halvard made a face, glaring at the fork in his hand as if it had personally offended him. Then, he promptly dropped it on the table, where it landed with a clatter.
“Watch yer tongue, woman.”
It was then Elsie truly laughed, bright, soft, bubbling, and something warm expanded over his ribs.
They found a rhythm as the meal went on. She spoon-fed herself stew with her utensil but still tore the meat with her fingers. He ate with his hands but also used the fork because, as she had put it earlier, “Your dignity should survive dinner, at least.”
Now she leaned closer, whispering, “Is it wrong that I find it endearing?”
“What? That I’m learnin’ proper manners, or that ye’re pickin’ up the bad ones?”
“Both,” she said with a mischievous tilt of her lips.
He almost kissed her then and there—damn the hall, damn the people—but instead he cleared his throat and said gruffly, “Eat.”
Elsie tried to hide her smile behind her cup of mead.
“So pleased tae see the laird lookin’ brighter,” Elsie then heard a young maid nearby whispering to another warmly. “He hasnae been this at ease since afore Lady Bonnie—”
Elsie froze. Halvard felt it, much like the draft coming in through an open window, chilling him to the bone, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight. His shoulders locked instantly, tension snapping through him like a bowstring pulled too tight.
The hall seemed to dim around him, the voices suddenly muffled. Elsie didn’t look at him directly, but he saw her spine straighten, saw the faint, involuntary tightening around her mouth.
She tried to hide it, but her features, usually soft, delicate, twisted into a grimace.
The servant girl stopped mid-sentence, glancing at Elsie and Halvard from the corner of her eye. Color rose to her cheeks, painting her face red with embarrassment, and after that, she kept her lips tightly pursed, as if afraid what else might come through them.
Halvard exhaled slowly, dismissed her with a sharp nod. The maid, realizing her mistake, scurried off in panic. Beside him, Elsie pretended to focus on her plate, pushing a bit of lamb around with her fork. She didn’t ask, didn’t dig, didn’t press for gossip or demand answers.
He didn’t know if he preferred this over her asking. He didn’t know if he wanted her to be curious or if he preferred the silence, not having to talk about Bonnie.
But he should. He should tell Elsie about her if he was going to give in to his desires, as Sten had told him he should.
He leaned closer, his voice low. “Elsie—”
Elsie looked up at him, her brows gently raised, and Halvard swallowed in a dry throat. Words gathered on his tongue—heavy, overdue, tangled with shame and things he had never said aloud.
“I should tell ye… what happened. With Bonnie. Ye deserve—”
But just then, a shout tore through the hall.
“Me laird! Me laird!”
A soldier burst through the doors, breathless, pale, his eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost.
Halvard stood instantly, his chair scraping back. “What is it?”
“It’s… the prisoner, me laird. The one from the attack, he—” The man swallowed. “He’s dead.”
The hall went utterly silent around Halvard. Every pair of eyes turned to the solider who had delivered the message, who was standing still, heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
Next to him, Elsie’s face paled.
“How?” Halvard snapped.
“We… we dinnae ken. He was alive nae an hour ago. Now he’s gone.” The soldier’s voice shook. “There’s… somethin’ ye need tae see.”
Halvard’s jaw clenched. Rage, cold, sharp, and lethal, burned in his gut.
Has someone silenced him?
Halvard knew damn well who wanted the man dead before he could speak. But how could Harcourt or one of his people have infiltrated the castle? Halvard had made sure to tighten the security around the walls, and he was certain no one could have slipped past his defenses.
Could it be they had been too harsh on the man? Could it be that he had simply succumbed to his injuries?
That, too, seemed unlikely. They were always careful to push, but not enough to kill. They needed any information the man could give. They wouldn’t have risked him.
Unless he was weaker than we thought.
Beside him, Elsie rose with him, concern etched in every line of her face. Halvard squeezed her hand, just once, quick but certain, because he needed her calm, her presence, her warmth, and because she was watching him with wide, uncertain eyes.
“I’ll be back,” he assured her.
She nodded, her gaze fierce despite her fear. “Be careful.”
Then Sten was at his side. The guards gathered around them as the elders stood from their seats—and Halvard strode into the night, fury pounding through him like a second heartbeat.
A council meeting needed to be called.