Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She left before he could find the words to ruin her any further. The heavy iron-banded door closed behind her with a muted, final thud, and Enya kept walking, her pace steady even as everything inside her threatened to splinter like dry wood.
Her steps rang too loud in the narrow stone passage—sharp, rhythmic, grounding—though the sound did nothing to quiet the echo of his jagged voice or that abrupt, violent withdrawal.
She focused on the steady rise and fall of her breath, counting the inhales until the corridor widened and the air shifted—cooler, less suffocating, no longer carrying the scent of his skin or the heat of his presence.
Only then did she slow, her shoulders tightening as the distance between them settled in her chest, heavy and unresolved.
That’s enough fer today.
The words replayed with cruel clarity. The rejection felt like a physical blow to her stomach.
She told herself not to think of his hands—large, scarred, and surprisingly gentle as he’d engulfed her own.
She told herself to forget how his voice had dropped to that low growl, or how the air had turned to liquid fire when she’d rotated and found him so close she could see the flecks in his eyes.
She told herself not to think of the way he had stepped back like he’d been burned by her touch. Like she was a contagion he’d suddenly remembered to fear.
Ye misread his closeness. Again.
She had learned long before not to trust heat, nor the brief moments when men forgot themselves and looked at her as though she were something worth wanting—before remembering her eyes made her undesirable.
By the time she reached the great hall, the ache in her chest had settled into something dull and manageable.
The hall was alive with motion when she stepped inside. Benches dragged across the floor. Tables laid end to end. Women moved in lines, arms full of linens and greenery. The scent of pine and beeswax hung in the air, sharp and clean.
Focus on the work.
A few people greeted her, but even more heads turned, eyes lingering just long enough to register her presence before slipping away again, cautious in their avoidance. She felt the attention settle all the same, quiet and appraising. It was exactly what she had expected.
Dinnae look up, dinnae give them the satisfaction o’ seeing ye flinch.
Enya moved toward a stack of folded linens that sat half-unraveled on a side table, the pile collapsing into messy disorder.
She set to work. Her hands moved with clinical precision—smoothing, aligning, refolding.
The rhythm was a lifeline, something to hold onto while the hollow ache beneath her ribs throbbed in time with Harald’s rejection.
The women nearby kept their voices low, but the hall carried their whispers like smoke.
She folded a cloth once, then again, her knuckles white.
I am more than a curiosity.
Across the room, a heavy banner had slipped, its corner sagging like a broken wing.
Two women passed it, glancing up with irritation but never stopping to fix it.
Enya set her linens down and crossed the hall.
She reached up, her fingers finding the loosened cord.
She tightened the knot with a sharp, decisive pull, anchoring the fabric until it hung straight and proud against the stone.
When she stepped back, the banner held. No one thanked her. No one even looked her way. The quiet settled around her again, isolating and familiar.
Near the long tables, a young kitchen girl fumbled with a tray of cups. One slipped. Then another. The tray tilted dangerously, panic flashing across the girl’s face as porcelain shattered against the floor.
“I—I’m sorry—” The girl’s voice broke, her eyes wide with terror as the older women turned, expressions sharpening into scolding.
“It’s all right,” Enya said quietly, crouching to gather the shards before anyone could step on them. “Nay one’s hurt.”
She guided the girl’s hands away from the sharpest pieces, her movements efficient, sure. When the tray was cleared and the broken cups gathered, Enya rose and handed the girl a cloth.
“Breathe,” she added softly. “Then go fetch replacements. I’ll explain if anyone asks.”
The girl stared at her, wide-eyed, then nodded and fled toward the kitchens.
A few of the women watched her more openly now. Their expressions were no longer dismissive. Curious, perhaps.
Enya stepped back again, invisible as she had been moments before. It was as she returned toward the center of the hall that the brush came—an older woman passing too close, shoulder knocking into her arm with unnecessary force.
“Watch yerself,” the woman muttered, sharp enough to cut. “This is work fer folk who ken the place.”
Enya stilled, straightened slowly and turned. The woman had already taken two steps away.
Enya spoke evenly, each word placed with care. “I’ll help where I’m needed.”
The woman stopped.
Enya met her gaze fully now, chin lifted, eyes steady, her tone calm. “But I willnae be spoken tae like that by people who are meant tae be me people.”
A pause followed.
The older woman looked at Enya again. Her mouth tightened, then relaxed, something reconsidered behind her eyes.
“Fair…” she muttered and turned back to her task.
The air loosened. A woman near the hearth glanced at Enya, then motioned with her head toward a stack of candles. “If ye’ve a moment, those need sorting.”
Enya inclined her head once and moved to where she was needed. No one tracked her with their eyes anymore. Hands passed her things without hesitation. The work folded around her, and she slipped into its rhythm as though she had never been an outsider to it.
Boots crossed the threshold and a hush settled fully.
Enya didn’t need to turn. The awareness came with a violent, unerring certainty—a magnetic pull in her marrow that she had learned to recognize even when she wished she could rip it out.
Her body knew before her mind caught up.
The air in the hall suddenly felt charged, thick with the scent of pine and the looming shadow of him.
She straightened slowly, her heart hammer-tapping against her ribs, and faced the doorway.
Harald stood there. His broad shoulders seemed to swallow the light, his presence commanding the room without a single word. His gaze swept the hall, taking in the frantic wedding preparations, the greenery, the women.
Then it found her. Something in Enya’s chest tightened until it hurt.
Why is he here?
The rejection in the training room was still a raw, stinging welt on her pride. He had stepped back from her like she was a flame that might consume him, yet now, he was looking at her with an intensity that made her knees feel like water.
She waited for him to dismiss her with a cold, polite nod and leave. Instead, he stepped inside.
He crossed the hall with unhurried strides, eyes locking into hers. Enya stayed where she was, her fingers frozen around a bundle of candles. Her pulse was a thundering riot. She was certain the whole room could see her trembling.
The space between them closed with terrifying speed. He stopped so close she could feel the heat of his body through her skirts.
“There,” he said. His voice was a low growl that vibrated in her own chest. He tipped his chin past her shoulder toward the wall. “That needs fixing.”
The sound of him so near, so intimate after his earlier coldness, sent a swarm of butterflies erupting in her stomach—a treacherous, beautiful fluttering she hated herself for feeling.
She turned, desperate for a safe place to land her eyes.
Above the doorway, the greenery had sagged, shedding needles onto the stone.
“I can—” she began, her voice faltering as she realized how close he had moved.
He was directly at her back. She could feel the solid breadth of him, the sheer mass of the man pinning her against the task. Before she could protest or scramble for her lost composure, his hands settled firmly at her waist.
He lifted her.
It was a smooth, powerful motion that made her feel weightless. Her body fitted his palms by some cruel instinct of nature. Her feet left the ground, and a sharp, unguarded sound slipped from her throat—half-gasp, half-sob of surprise.
His grip tightened instantly, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, anchoring her against him.
“Easy,” he murmured. The word was a velvet caress against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and damp against her skin. “I’ve got ye.”
Her pulse skidded and crashed.
She was suspended against him. She could feel every muscle in his arms, the raw strength he was using to hold her aloft as if she weighed nothing at all. It was overwhelming—to be rejected by him only hours ago and now to be held with such fierce, possessive care.
She forced her shaking hands upward, fumbling with the greenery.
She was hyper-aware of him beneath her. She felt the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, and the way his hold adjusted minutely when she shifted, keeping her perfectly centered.
“Almost,” she managed. Her voice was a broken whisper, her breath shallow and betraying her.
“Aye,” he replied, his voice just as quiet, just as wrecked.
Behind them, a maid inhaled sharply. Skirts rustled in alarm. “Me laird, I can fetch a ladder—”
“It’s fine.” Harald’s answer was immediate, a growl of command that didn't leave room for argument. He didn't look away from Enya. “Almost done.”
She finished the knot with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else and let her hands drop. Suddenly, the reality of the room rushed back—the eyes watching them, the impropriety of it, the fact that he was holding her like she belonged to him.
“There,” she breathed.