Chapter 29 #2
Halvard felt the weight of every burden pressing on him—his clan, his land, his people, and now her.
Especially her.
Elsie took a step closer, voice lowering, trembling. “My sister is alone. She must think me dead. She must be frantic.” Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell—she held them with stubborn pride. Halvard exhaled slowly, letting his hand fall to his sword belt. His decision settled like stone.
“Then we ride, but we face great risk,” he said quietly.
Elsie’s lips parted with shock and relief, and for a moment there was only the quiet between them, pulsing with warmth and understanding. But Halvard wasn’t blind. He saw the danger in this choice, the risk; the trap Harcourt might be setting.
He would walk into it anyway.
“We ride at dawn,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ll take a few men, Sten, an’ provisions fer a few weeks. An’ if English steel waits fer us, they’ll regret it.”
Halvard reached for Elsie’s hand again, and this time, she didn’t pull away. She smiled at him, color returning to her cheeks and light to her eyes.
“Truly?” she asked.
“Aye,” said Halvard. “Ye have me word.”
A Highland oath was not a thing to be taken lightly. Now that he had given her this promise, there was no taking it back.
The sea had always answered Halvard. It was as much his blood as the iron that flowed in his veins, as old and ruthless as the Norsemen who had carved their names into those shores centuries before him.
That night, it refused him.
Halvard reined his horse at the edge of the shingle, his boots sinking into wet stones as he dismounted.
The wind tore at his cloak like a living thing, snapping hard enough that the fabric cracked like a whip.
Before him, the sea rose and fell in heaving black swells, white foam exploding against the rocks as though the water itself were at war.
“Nay crossin’ taenight,” Sten said grimly, going to stand beside him.
Halvard did not answer at once. His gaze tracked the horizon, where the sky and sea bled into one another in a furious smear of iron grey. Rain threatened, heavy and low, pressing down on the world until even breathing felt like a labor.
The ship waited in the small harbor below, lashed and groaning against its moorings. Even from that distance, Halvard could hear the creak of timber and the scream of rigging protesting the wind.
He clenched his jaw.
“We’d lose half the men afore we reached open water,” he said finally. “An’ the rest afore dawn.”
Sten nodded. “Aye. The sea’s in nay mood fer mercy.”
Halvard turned then, his eyes drawn unbidden to the small cluster behind them. His men stood ready despite the futility of it, their cloaks soaked, their faces set in stoic patience. And among them, wrapped in a dark riding cloak, stood Elsie.
The wind caught her hair, a few strands escaping the hood to whip across her face. She stood straight, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed not on the sea but on him; watching, waiting.
Guilt twisted sharp and unwelcome in his chest. Halvard strode back toward her, the soles of his boots crunching over stone. She did not speak as he approached, though her hands tightened around the fabric at her throat.
“We’ll have tae wait,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “The sea willnae allow us passage tonight.”
Elsie’s disappointment was immediate—and carefully controlled. She only nodded once.
“How long?” she asked.
Halvard glanced back at the waves. “If the wind turns by the morrow, we’ll go then. If it daesnae…” He exhaled slowly. “We find shelter an’ wait.”
Elsie’s lips pressed together. For a heartbeat, he saw the fear she worked so hard to keep buried—the fear for her sister, alone in England, not knowing whether Elsie lived, not knowing whether she was safe.
It stirred something fierce and protective inside him, something he had long since felt for Elsie; something he had long since accepted as a part of him, something as inextricable from him as his own heart.
“There’s an inn in the town,” Sten said. “Sturdy walls. It’ll keep us dry fer the night. Get the men some warm food in them, too.”
“That will dae,” Halvard said.
His men were hardened and loyal, and they would brave the weather if he asked. But a soldier fed and warmed by the fire and whisky was a happy soldier, and Halvard wanted to keep his men happy.
They turned inland, leaving the raging sea behind them, though its voice followed, howling, and relentless, like a warning.
Soon, the inn appeared before them as they trudged through the town’s streets, their boots splashing water over their calves as puddles formed between the cobblestones.
The building squatted at the edge of the harbor town like a beast grown old and stubborn.
Its stone walls were dark with damp, and the sign creaked overhead, swinging wildly in the wind.
Smoke leaked from the chimney, carrying the scent of smoke.
Inside, the air was thick and warm, heavy with bodies and noise. Sailors crowded the tables, their voices raised to outshout the storm, their laughter edged with desperation. The fire roared at the far end of the room, throwing flickering light across rough faces and scarred hands.
Halvard felt eyes turn toward him as he entered.
He was used to it—the way men noticed the breadth of his shoulders, the scars that marked him. But tonight, he felt it more keenly, perhaps because Elsie followed close behind him, her presence a fragile flame in a room full of sparks.
He placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward. The contact was instinctive, possessive—if not entirely necessary.
Her breath caught at the touch, just enough for him to feel it.
“We’ll need rooms,” Halvard said to the innkeeper, his voice cutting through the din.
The man eyed them, his gaze flicking between Halvard’s sword, Sten’s blade, and the cluster of armed Highlanders filling his doorway. “Three left,” he said cautiously. “Storm’s brought more in than usual, me laird.”
Halvard nodded. “We’ll take them.”
The innkeeper hesitated, eyes settling on Elsie. “That’ll mean—”
“She’s me wife,” Halvard said, without pause.
Halvard led his party up the stairs, handing out the keys as he divided his men. Inside, the rooms were small and spare. The one he kept for himself and Elsie held a bed barely big enough for two, a washbasin, a rickety chair by the window, which rattled in its frame with every gust of the wind.
When the door closed behind them, the noise of the inn dulled, replaced by the whistle of wind and the groan of the building settling against the storm.
Elsie removed her cloak slowly, her fingers stiff with cold. Firelight from the hall slipped through the cracks around the door, painting her in gold and shadow.
“So,” she said quietly. “We wait.”
“Aye.”
Her shoulders rose and fell as she drew a steadying breath. “I don’t like waiting.”
A ghost of a smile touched Halvard’s mouth. “I’ve noticed.”
Outside, the storm raged on, rain finally breaking loose and hammering against the roof. The inn shuddered under it, its beams creaking like bones under strain.
Halvard moved to the window and shoved the shutters closed, latching them firmly. When he turned back, Elsie stood near the bed, uncertainty written in the tight line of her mouth, her gaze distant as if she was trying to peer through the sea, to see all the way to England.
Halvard removed his weapons methodically, setting them within reach—the habit of a warrior who never truly rested. When he finally shrugged out of his cloak and tunic, the chill of the room seemed to deepen.
Elsie undressed down to her shift and lay down on the bed, her back straight, her hands folded over her stomach like a shield. Halvard extinguished the small lamp and lay beside her with a sigh, his mind drifting to England, too—and to the English waiting for them at the borderlands.
The darkness pressed close. Halvard pressed even closer, gathering Elsie in his arms.
She went with ease, relaxing against him with a sigh seeking his lips in the dark.
Halvard kissed her, the act soft and sweet, tender in a way he was only with her, only in the safety of these walls.
He was the laird of a clan—the one they called a savage.
But he gave in to his desire to be tender with her, to his need to be softer around her.
“Halvard,” she mumbled, his name barely more than breath.
He caught her hand gently, threading his fingers through hers. “I’m here.”
Elsie exhaled, the sound trembling, and moved closer, her knee brushing his thigh under the covers. In the dark, she felt smaller somehow—less guarded. He rolled onto his back to give her space, but she followed, resting her head against his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest.
Her lips found his throat first, a hesitant kiss that lingered longer than it meant to.
Halvard’s breath caught, his heartbeat picking up, his pulse thundering in his ears.
Every time she touched him, it was as if he came alive under her hands.
He turned his head toward her, guiding her gently with a hand at her jaw, and their mouths met in another kiss.
It was slow at first, careful and searching, but it deepened naturally, as though the night itself urged them on.
Her lips were warm and sure now, moving against his with quiet intent.
Halvard responded without restraint, one hand sliding into her hair, the other resting at the small of her back, holding her close.
Elsie sighed softly into his mouth, a sound that went straight through him. They broke apart only to breathe, foreheads touching in the dark.
“Halvard, what if… everythin’ goes wrong?”
Her words were weighed down by worry, by fear, and Halvard wished there was something he could say, something he could do to reassure her.
But the truth was that he, too, feared it.
There weren’t many things he feared, but one of them was losing her, and now he was too close to that thought for comfort.
The more he considered their plan, the more he despised it, even if he knew it was the only way for them to move forward.
Elsie would never rest until she knew for certain that her sister was safe, and Halvard could never take that chance away from her—even if it would put them in danger.
Now all he could do was protect her, no matter what it would take. It was his duty, the one thing pushing him forward.
His thumb brushed her cheek, tracing the dampness there. “Naethin’ will happen tae ye. I willnae allow it. Ye will never face anythin’ alone again,” he said firmly. “I swear it.”
For a few moments, Halvard could feel her staring at him in the dark. He could see the glint of her eyes in the embers of the fire, in the scant incandescence they offered.
She kissed him again then, more urgently, her hand fisting in his shirt as if to anchor herself. Halvard rolled onto his side, drawing her with him until she lay half atop him, their bodies fitting together with quiet inevitability.
He kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, each touch deliberate and reverent. She laughed softly under her breath, the sound fragile and full.
“You’re here,” she said, as though reassuring herself. “You’re here, with me.”
“Aye,” he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. “An’ ye’re safe.”
Elsie settled against him fully then, her head under his chin, his arm wrapped securely around her. Her breathing slowed, matching his, and he felt the tension drain from her inch by inch.
In the dark, with the world held at a distance, Halvard held his wife and thought—not for the first time—that tenderness was the bravest thing he had ever learned.
And he would protect it, always.
For a long time, neither of them slept. The storm howled outside, the sea’s fury carried even that far inland. Halvard listened to Elsie’s breathing, shallow at first, then slowly evening out as he held her in his arms, close.
His thoughts churned darker than the water beyond the shore. Halvard stared into the black, jaw clenched, and made a silent vow to a sea that had never denied him before.
It could rage all it wished.
Come morning, he would take Elsie across it and he would bring her sister to Brochel Castle.