Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
The morning was quiet, as though the storm had exhausted itself in the night.
Elsie woke to a pale, silvery light slipping through the cracks of the shutters and the steady hush of the sea beyond the town.
Not raging now—only breathing. She lay still for a moment, listening, aware of the warmth beside her that she had been clinging to through the long, restless night.
Halvard lay on his back, one arm bent under his head, his chest rising slow and even. In sleep, his sharp edges softened. The laird, the warrior, the man the Highlands called savage—gone. In his place was someone quieter, younger almost.
She turned her gaze away before he could wake and catch her watching.
By the time they stepped outside the inn, the town had shaken off the worst of the storm. The air smelled clean, sharp with salt and wet stone. The sea still rolled dark and restless, but the sky had lifted enough to let a thin wash of blue show through.
They walked without hurry, their boots crunching over damp earth. Sten trailed a respectful distance behind, pretending very badly not to watch them, though Elsie was keenly aware of his gaze on her the entire way.
Elsie drew her cloak tighter and took in the village—the low cottages crouched against the wind, nets drying on wooden frames, smoke curling lazily from chimneys.
There was something achingly honest about the place, something that contrasted so sharply with the estates she was used to visiting back home.
And amongst it all was a chapel, one that stood near the edge of the village, half-hidden by a stand of wind-bent yew trees.
It was small and ancient, its stone walls softened by moss and lichen, the roof sloping low as if bowing to the land itself.
A simple wooden cross stood above the door, weathered silver by time and storms.
“Oh,” she breathed, stopping without realizing it.
Halvard turned. “What is it?”
“That,” she said, pointing. “The chapel. It’s… very beautiful.”
It was not beautiful in the grand English sense. There were no spires, no stained glass, no gilded doors. But it felt real—like something that had endured.
Elsie remembered the way her heart all but stopped when Halvard called her his wife. Every time she received a reminder of their ruse, it broke something open inside her—something tender and aching that would not let her rest.
Now that feeling was back, just as powerful as it had been the previous night.
Halvard followed her gaze and something unreadable crossed his face.
“Will ye marry me?” he asked, the words rushing out of his mouth like a waterfall.
Elsie stared at him, struck speechless for what seemed like eternity.
When she managed to speak, all she said was, “What?”
Halvard did not smile. He did not laugh or retreat behind humor. He only looked at her with that steady, unsettling intensity that always made her feel as though he were seeing too much.
“We already are,” he continued quietly. “In the eyes o’ the king, o’ his men, o’ every lord who’s heard the tale. This—” he gestured vaguely, encompassing the village, the sea, the world that seemed suddenly very small—“is only truth catchin’ up tae the lie.”
Elsie’s heart began to pound, excitement and terror mixing inside her. She wanted nothing more than to be his wife. It was all she had hoped for.
And yet, the possibility of it terrified her as well.
“This is risky,” she said, the words tumbling out too fast. “If the Crown discovers…”
“They already believe us wed,” Halvard said. “Naethin’ changes but the honesty o’ it.”
Elsie searched his face for doubt, for calculation, but she found neither.
“And if you regret it?” she whispered.
Halvard’s gaze softened as he gave her a small smile. “Impossible.”
It should have terrified her. Instead, warmth spread through her chest, slow and undeniable.
“Yes,” she said, before she could think better of it. “Yes, I do.”
Behind them, Sten lingered, walking idly back and forth as he waited for them to finish their conversation. If he had heard any of it, he gave no indication of it.
“I need ye,” Halvard said.
Sten looked between them, taking in their expressions, and slowly grinned. “About damn time.”
The chapel smelled of stone and candlewax. It was empty save for an elderly priest who looked up in surprise as they entered, his lined face breaking into a gentle smile when Halvard spoke to him in low, respectful tones. The man listened, his eyes brightening with something like quiet delight.
Elsie’s hands trembled as she clasped them together. Her heart beat so loudly she was certain they could all hear it.
“Stand ye here,” the priest said, gesturing to the worn flagstones before the altar. “And face one another.”
They stood before the altar—no rail, no ornamentation, only rough-hewn wood polished smooth by generations of prayer. Sunlight slipped through a narrow window, illuminating dust motes that danced like tiny stars.
Sten took his place next to them, solemn now, his expression uncharacteristically tender.
The priest began the ceremony in a hushed, reverent voice. He spoke of the land and the sea, of vows that bound not only two souls but families, futures, and fate itself. His words were slow and deliberate, carrying the weight of centuries.
Halvard turned to her fully then. The light caught in his blond hair, in the faint scar along his cheek. When his eyes met hers, something steadied inside her.
The priest lifted his hands.
“Dearly beloved,” he began, the words warm and measured, shaped by a hundred years of mouths before his own, “we are gathered in the sight o’ Almighty God, an’ afore this company, tae join this man an’ this woman in the holy estate o’ matrimony.
It is an honorable bond, ordained o’ God, signifyin’ the unity that should be betwixt Christ an’ His kirk. ”
His gaze settled on Halvard first.
“Halvard, Laird MacLeod,” he said, “will ye take this woman, Elsie Montgomery, tae be yer wedded wife? Will ye love her, comfort her, honor an’ keep her, in sickness an’ in health, in prosperity an’ adversity, forsakin’ all others, an’ cleave unto her so long as ye both shall live?”
Halvard’s answer came without falter.
“I will,” he said, his voice low and unyielding as the hills of his home.
The priest turned then to Elsie.
“Elsie Montgomery,” he said, “will ye take this man, Halvard MacLeod, tae be yer wedded husband? Will ye obey an’ serve him in love an’ faith, keep him in honor, an’ walk beside him in all the days appointed tae ye, so long as ye both shall live?”
Elsie swallowed in a dry throat, the words ancient and heavy, yet strangely comforting in their certainty.
“I will,” she said, softly but clear.
The priest nodded once.
“Then give me yer hands.”
Halvard reached for her, his hand enclosing hers fully, warm and sure. His fingers bore the marks of battle and labor alike, yet they trembled, just slightly, as he held her.
The priest wrapped his stole loosely around their joined hands.
“What God hath joined this day,” he said, “let nay man put asunder.”
He spoke the blessing then, invoking the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, his voice rising and falling like a tide against the shore. When he finished, he lowered his hands and smiled.
“I pronounce ye man an’ wife,” he said. “In the name o’ God an’ by the laws o’ this realm.”
For a heartbeat, the chapel was utterly still. Then Halvard leaned down and kissed her—not with hunger, not with fire, but with reverence. As though this, finally, was something sacred.
Elsie felt warmth bloom behind her eyes. Outside, beyond the thick stone walls, the wind eased, and the sea—wild and merciless only hours before—seemed at last to fall quiet.
Elsie let her tears slip free, unashamed. And for the first time since her life had shattered, she knew, with a certainty as deep as the water beyond the shore, that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Afterwards, it only seemed proper to head to the tavern for the celebration.
Though it was far from the grand affair that would have become a laird’s wedding, Elsie wouldn’t have traded it for the world.
She only wished her sister could have been there, so she could have partaken in her joy, but she reminded herself Selene would be there with her, in Raasay, soon enough.
The tavern glowed like a hearth against the grey of the afternoon.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and sound—laughter rising in uneven bursts, tankards thudding against scarred wooden tables, a fiddle singing something quick and joyful that made even the oldest villagers tap their feet.
Someone had produced bread still warm from the oven, another a wheel of sharp cheese, and the ale flowed as though the storm had never existed at all.
Elsie sat beside Halvard at the long table, her shoulder brushing his arm each time he moved.
It felt unreal for her. Only hours ago, she had been clinging to a lie, a wife only in name, without any of the oaths such a position entailed.
Now she wore a simple ribbon the innkeeper’s wife had pressed into her hands, tied hastily into her hair, toasting with Sten as he raised his cup.
“Tae the Lady MacLeod,” he said quietly.
The name sent a small, dizzying thrill through her. For the first time, there was nothing false about it.
Halvard lifted his tankard, his eyes warm as they found hers. “Tae me wife.”
The celebration continued among the three of them, but even if everyone else around them didn’t know they had just gotten married, the joy and festive spirit bled into them, until the entire tavern was roaring with laughter and song and lively conversation.
At some point, the heat and noise grew too much.
She slipped from the bench quietly, mumbling something about needing air.
Outside, the wind had softened to a cool whisper. The sky hung low and pearl-grey, the sea visible between buildings, calmer now but still powerful—endless, patient. Elsie drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with salt and smoke and freedom.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
She turned instinctively, her heart skipping, but it was only a man from the village—middle-aged, weathered, his expression open rather than intrusive.
“Are ye well, lass?” he asked kindly. “Bit o’ a whirlwind day, I’d wager.”
She smiled, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I am, thank you.”
He followed her gaze as she glanced back toward the tavern door.
Halvard stood just inside the threshold, one broad shoulder braced against the frame.
He had not followed her out, but he had not let her out of his sight either.
His eyes were on her, unwavering, sharp and protective even there.
When she met his gaze, she lifted her chin slightly and gave a small nod.
I’m alright.
He nodded back once, just as subtly, but he did not move nor did he look away.
The man beside her noticed and chuckled softly. “Aye,” he said. “That one keeps watch like a wolf.”
It was a habit of Halvard’s. On the one hand, she always felt protected. On the other, she still painted the opinion that being watched so closely every single day could very easily become suffocating.
But when the man spoke again, Elsie was glad for Halvard’s presence, even if he was too far from her to hear.
“How is yer sister, Selene?”
For a moment, Elsie did not breathe. The tavern’s warmth vanished as if a door had been flung open to the winter.
Sound blurred—fiddle strings warping, laughter stretching thin—while the name echoed inside her skull with cruel clarity.
Selene. Her name, spoken carefully, deliberately.
But the man didn’t have an English accent; he was a local, and that frightened her even more.
Elsie turned slowly.
The man stood at her shoulder as though he had always been there. He was unremarkable in every deliberate way—average height, plain coat, dark hair cropped short, the sort of face that slid easily from memory. But his eyes were sharp, watchful, and entirely uninvited.
She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I don’t know you,” she said, each word measured.
A faint smile touched his mouth, not warm or kind. “Nay. But I ken ye.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She felt Halvard near her—solid, present—but she did not look at him, not yet. Instinct screamed that this moment belonged to secrecy.
“How is Selene?” the man continued lightly, as though asking after the weather. “Still at the estate, I wonder. Or has she been sent elsewhere, dae ye reckon?”
Elsie’s fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts, her nails biting through linen. She kept her face composed with an effort that left her trembling under the surface.
“You will tell me who you are,” she said, and it was not a question, but rather a demand.
The man tilted his head, considering her. “That isnae important.”
“Why you are doing is,” she replied, her voice sharpening despite her fear.
The man leaned closer, just enough that the firelight failed to reach his eyes. “If ye wish tae keep yer sister safe,” he mumbled, “ye will meet me at midnight, behind the tavern. Alone.”
The word slid into her like a blade; a threat dressed as instruction.
Her breath caught. “And if I do not?”
The man’s smile widened by a fraction. “Then I fear ye may nae like the consequences.”
He straightened before she could speak again, already stepping back into the press of bodies. Within seconds, he was gone, absorbed by music and movement, by the careless joy of people who had no idea what had just been loosed among them.
Elsie stood perfectly still. Her heart raced, her skin prickling with cold despite the fire. Around her, tankards clinked, voices rose, someone laughed loudly at nothing at all. In the distance, Halvard shifted, his gaze pinned on her, his expression pinched as if he could tell something was wrong.
She did not turn to him; not yet. Her gaze drifted instead toward the horizon. The sky had deepened to ink, the wind howling along the street.
Midnight.
The word pulsed in her mind, heavy and inevitable.
Whatever had followed her from England had finally found her; and it knew exactly where to strike.