Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Harald stood in the shallows, his chest heaving as the silence of the cove rushed back in to fill the space where her breathing had been.
“Enya.”
Her name left his mouth like a jagged prayer, rougher and more desperate than he had intended. It carried across the dark water and was swallowed by the ancient trees, leaving him with nothing but the echo of her retreating footsteps.
He waded to the bank a heartbeat later, water streaming from his thighs as feet sank into the damp earth. Through the trees he caught one last glimpse of her retreating figure, skirts hitched in her hands, dark hair flashing once in the light before she vanished into the green.
He did not call again.
His throat was too tight, his pulse a thundering riot in his ears that made the very air feel pressurized.
He turned sharply for the rock where his clothes lay.
His fingers were less steady than they should have been; they fumbled against the linen, his skin still humming with a fierce, electric awareness.
He didn't dry himself. He didn't care about the chill.
He dragged his shirt over his head, the damp fabric clinging to his shoulders, mirroring the way he wanted to cling to her.
He fastened his trousers with a tug so forceful a button nearly gave way, his jaw clamped shut so hard it ached. He was pulsing—a deep, rhythmic throb in his blood that the icy lake had failed to kill. If anything, the shock of her eyes on him had set his nerves on fire.
She was looking. She didn't just stumble upon me. She watched.
A savage, primal heat bloomed in his gut.
He raked a hand through his dripping hair, forcing a breath into his lungs, but it came out as a ragged growl. His pulse refused to fall in line. It was a traitor, beating for a woman who was supposed to be nothing more than a strategic piece on his board.
He buckled his belt, his shoulders settling back into the rigid line of a laird, but the armor felt hollow now. Something beneath the bone and muscle had shifted, unsettled in a way the cold water couldn't reach.
He could still see the way she had looked—the fracturing of her porcelain composure, the way her eyes had darkened with a hunger that matched his own.
It was haunting, lodged beneath his ribs, visceral and sharp.
He could still see the flush on her neck, imagining how it would feel to press his mouth to that heat.
A smile tugged at his mouth—tight, unsettled, and dangerously warm. He wiped it away with the heel of his hand, cursing himself, the lake, and the sheer, maddening timing of it all.
“Bold lass,” he muttered, the words leaving him low and unguarded.
For the first time since he had taken his father's seat, Harald Alvsson felt the ground beneath him begin to tilt. He wasn't the one in control of the hunt anymore. He was the one being tracked, and God help him, he didn't want to run.
He took the path at a measured pace, forcing his legs to maintain a steady rhythm even as his blood hammered a different, more frantic tempo.
He wasn't a boy half-mad with want, and he wouldn't chase her like one—no matter how much his body protested the restraint, the heavy, pulsing ache in his groin a constant reminder of what he’d just seen.
He could picture her perfectly: the panicked hitch of her breath, the flush on her cheeks, and that sharp, devious mind of hers already scrambling to stitch her composure back together.
She would be furious with herself for staying. For looking. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through him, a dark, possessive pleasure.
The pursuit lit something reckless in his gut. It narrowed his world to the distance between them and the absolute certainty that he would have her. He felt buoyant, keyed high on the adrenaline and the lingering scent of water and sun-warmed skin.
He reached the outer yard just as she crossed it.
She had slowed, posture already smoothed back into its familiar control, as though the chase had never happened at all.
She turned at the sound of his boots, and for a split second, her mask slipped—raw surprise flashing in her eyes before she slammed the shutters closed.
For a heartbeat, the yard vanished. There was only the sound of their breathing and the heavy, electric charge of the lake still clinging to them both.
Her color had not faded; she looked branded by the sight of him. The memory of her hidden among the leaves, her gaze devouring him, pressed against his mind with animal force. He stepped into her space, invading it until he could feel her heat.
“Running from me now?” The words left him low and sharp, irritation threading through the lingering heat. “Is that how ye plan tae—”
She drew breath to snap back, her eyes sparking.
“Me laird.”
The interruption struck like a collision.
Harald spun around, the unfinished sentence snapping off in his throat.
A guard was hurrying toward them, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Harald stared at him, a white-hot flare of irritation rising in his chest. He didn't want the world back yet. He wanted her. He wanted to finish the argument he’d started at the water’s edge.
“What is it?” he demanded.
The guard dipped his head quickly. “Scouts from the western watch. They’ve spotted movement along the coast.”
The words landed like ice water.
Everything inside Harald shifted. The heavy, throbbing heat in his blood didn't just fade; it died, replaced instantly by the cold, metallic taste of duty. The man who had been dreaming of the press of a woman’s skin vanished, and the Laird of Lewis took his place.
“Movement,” he repeated, slower now.
“Aye, sir.”
He went perfectly still, his features setting into a mask of grim, practiced inevitability. The lake, the wager, the look in Enya's eyes—it all retreated into the distance, relegated to a luxury he could no longer afford. The weight of his position settled onto his shoulders, heavy and suffocating.
He didn't look back at her. He couldn't.
“Dae we ken how many?” Harald’s voice was like grinding stone, stripped of warmth
“Hard tae say, me jarl. Enough tae be cautious.”
Beside him, Enya stiffened.
It was subtle, the kind of thing most would have missed, but he caught it at once, the brief hitch in her step, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts. He turned his head slightly, studying her profile from the corner of his eye.
Fear, he thought. It was a cold, jagged thought. It made sense; she was a stranger there, and the sea was a fickle, murderous neighbor. He felt a savage, irrational urge to reach out and pull her against his side—to anchor her with a touch he had no right to give and no time to indulge.
Lewis did not wait for his personal inclinations.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
The memory of her behind the leaves—the heat, the hunger—flared in his mind, and it felt like a betrayal of the men now watching the horizon. He shoved the image into a dark corner of his mind and stepped toward her, his voice shifting into the flat, clinical tone of command.
“Send word tae the Council, lad,” he turned to the guard, already adjusting his course toward the hall. “I want them gathered wi’in the hour.”
The scout nodded and turned to run.
Enya found her voice as they crossed into the stone corridor beyond. “What sort o’ movement?”
“Men I suppose,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “They must be too close tae be coincidence.”
Her breath hitched—quick, shallow, panicked—before she fought to master it. Something icy and suspicious slid into place beneath his ribs. He stopped walking and turned fully toward her, his presence looming and heavy. “Enya.”
She met his gaze at once, her composure snapping into place like armor. “I’m fine.”
“I didnae ask,” he said quietly.
Her mouth thinned into a hard line, defiance sparking in her eyes, but then her gaze flicked past him toward the unseen coast. A look crossed her face that made his blood run cold.
It wasn't just concern. It was… anticipation.
The irritation in his chest flared into a hot, prickling anger.
Nothing made sense. The woman at the lake was gone, replaced by this riddle of a girl who looked like she was waiting for the world to burn.
“We’ll speak later,” he decided, more to himself than to her. “Fer now, ye’ll stay close tae the keep. Understood?”
Her chin lifted. “I am nae a child tae be tucked away, Harald.”
“Aye,” he agreed, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed her. “And that’s precisely why I’m asking ye tae listen.”
Their gazes held for a beat longer than necessary, something stretching between them.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor and broke the moment.
Henry.
The man approached with measured steps, his expression already arranged into something attentive and faintly disapproving. His eyes darted between Harald’s damp hair and Enya’s flushed face with a needle-sharp calculation that made Harald’s shoulders square instinctively.
“Me laird,” Henry said, his voice oily with false concern. “There are whispers o’ trouble.”
“So, I hear,” Harald replied, his tone clipped.
Henry’s gaze paused on Enya, lingering a breath too long. Harald felt his teeth grind. When Henry’s eyes slid back to him, they were flat. “Should she be here fer this, me laird? It’s hardly the place fer a bride.”
Harald loathed the question. He loathed the implication that Enya was an accessory to be moved when the real men started talking.
Enya stiffened, her body vibrating with an offense so clean and sharp it was almost a physical heat.
“She’ll be dismissed when I decide it’s time,” Harald replied evenly, not turning his head.
Henry’s mouth thinned. “O’ course.”
A sharp, ugly silence followed. Harald braced for Enya to strike back, to defend her pride with the fire he’d seen at the lake. Instead, she retreated.
“If there’s business tae be discussed,” she said, voice cool and steady, “I can leave.”