Chapter 15 #2
"Harald!" Erik roared. He didn't wait; he closed the distance in three long strides and slammed his hand against Harald’s shoulder, pulling him into a rough, bruising embrace.
"Ye look like hell, Erik," Harald laughed, the sound deep and genuine, a side of him Enya had barely seen.
"And ye look like ye’ve finally stopped brooding," Erik shot back, his eyes flicking to Enya with a sharp, knowing glint.
Before Enya could catch her breath, another man swung down from a bay horse.
He had hazel eyes that danced with a mix of mischief and shadows.
He caught a slender, copper-haired woman by the waist as she dismounted, his touch lingering on her pregnant belly with a fierce, quiet protectiveness that made Enya’s throat ache.
"That’s Magnus," Harald whispered. This time, he didn't just lean in; his lips brushed the shell of her ear, a grazing touch that made her toes curl in her boots. "The Serpent o’ Barra. And his wife, Ada. She’s a healer. Dinnae let his tongue fool ye; he’s the sharpest mind in the Isles."
The heat of him was everywhere—at her back, against her ear, in the heavy scent of him that filled her lungs. She felt trapped in the best and worst way, anchored by a man who seemed to find her even in a crowded yard.
"Did I miss the drinking?" Magnus called out, grinning as he joined the huddle. He gripped Harald’s hand and pulled him into a rough, one-armed hug. "I see ye’ve been busy, Harald. The rumors didnae dae her justice."
The yard felt alive, the air electric with the arrival of the others.
Two more men followed—Ragnar she supposed, a towering, noble figure who moved with a stag’s grace, and Ivar, lean and dark with black eyes that seemed to read the wind.
They didn't approach like allies; they moved toward Harald like brothers, a knot of power and shared history that made the keep feel small.
Enya watched Harald among them. He laughed, a low, rasping sound that vibrated through her where they touched. His two other friends, Ivar and Ragnar, had joined into the merriment as well.
She felt the crushing weight of it. These weren't the monsters her brother had described; they were a pack, bound by a history she couldn't touch. She felt the terrifying pull of wanting to belong to it, but the fear of being cast out was sharper.
Her stomach coiled into a tight, sickening knot as Claricia stepped forward.
Enya’s hands went cold, buried deep in her skirts to hide their trembling. These women—the wives of lairds—were the ones who truly kept the reins of the north. They would see right through her.
They would see the odd girl with the mismatched eyes, the spy with the stolen secrets, the pretender who didn't belong at a hero's side. She braced herself for the squint of judgment, the cold appraisal that had followed her since childhood.
Claricia was carrying a bundle wrapped in thick wool. She looked exhausted, her chestnut hair windswept and tangled, but her smile was like a hearth fire in a storm.
“Laird Alvsson,” Claricia teased, inclining her head toward Harald before turning her gaze fully onto Enya. Her blue-green eyes were bright with a raw, piercing curiosity that made Enya’s breath stall in her lungs. “So, this is the woman who finally caught the Great Hawk o’ Lewis.”
Harald shifted, his hand finding the small of Enya’s back. The heat of his palm burned through her gown, a solid, grounding anchor that refused to let her float away into her own panic.
“This is Enya Cameron,” he said. His voice was thick with a quiet authority that claimed her before the whole yard. “Me betrothed.”
Claricia stepped closer, the smell of woodsmoke and wool clinging to her. She didn't wait for a formal introduction. She just reached out and gripped Enya’s forearm, her skin warm.
"Dinnae let them intimidate ye," Claricia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "They spend all morning growling at each other just so they have an excuse to drink all night. It’s exhausting."
Enya felt the tension in her neck snap. "They dae seem... loud."
"They're children with bigger swords," Ada said, joining them. She moved with the heavy, careful grace of her pregnancy, resting a hand atop her bump. She looked Enya up and down—like a weary soldier recognizing a new recruit. "Magnus spent the whole ride complaining about a draft, but the moment we hit the yard, he’s all stone and iron. It’s a performance, Enya. Every bit o’ it. "
"I have ears, Ada!" Magnus called out without looking back, his arm thrown over Erik’s shoulder.
Ada didn't even blink. "See? Sensitive as a bruised plum."
The easy, biting affection between them was a shock to Enya’s system. She looked at those women—Highlanders who had been traded away just like she was—and they didn't look like victims. They looked like the ones holding the reins.
"Come," Claricia said, shifting the baby as he let out a soft, hungry whimper. "Let's get inside before the wind peels the skin from our faces. I need tae sit down before I drop this little one on his head."
They moved together toward the keep, and Enya went with them without looking back, Amelia trailing a step behind them.
Enya felt lighter with every turn of the stairs, steadied by the quiet certainty that she was not the only woman here who had been traded for peace, and that survival did not have to look like surrender.
In her chamber, the fire had been banked low against the chill, the room warm.
Claricia settled onto the bench by the hearth with a careful sigh, shifting the baby higher against her chest as Ada lowered herself into the chair near the table, exhaling slowly through her nose.
Amelia hovered near the door, already reaching for the jug as if she needed something to occupy her hands.
Claricia looked up, her blue-green eyes softening as she watched Enya hover near the table. "Truly, though," she said, her voice dropping the playful edge, "how have ye been feelin’, Enya? Nae the 'betrothed' answer. The real one."
Enya paused, her fingers ghosting over the rim of a silver cup.
The weight of the last few days—the ledgers, the lies, the way Harald looked at her—pressed against her ribs.
"I... I’m fine, I suppose," she managed, her voice sounding small and uncertain even to her own ears. "It's just a lot tae carry."
Ada let out a soft, knowing hum, leaning her head back against the chair. "It’s always like that in the beginning. Like ye’re walking on thin ice and waiting fer the first crack. Ye feel like a stranger in yer own skin, let alone his house."
"She’s right," Claricia added, rocking her son gently. "These lairds... they have control in their blood. But once they warm up tae?" She smiled, a private, luminous thing. "They’re the most loyal, caring men ye could find. They dinnae just protect ye; they worship the ground ye walk on."
Ada shifted, looking directly at Enya. "And Harald... he’s different even among them.
He wears that scowl like a mask, but everyone in the Isles ken he has a heart o’ gold.
He’s the one they all go tae when things break.
He’s steady, Enya. Ye can let yer guard down a little. He willnae let ye fall."
Enya felt a strange, dizzying warmth spread through her chest. "Oh?" she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
He’s steady.
The words echoed the truth she had seen in his study. Her intuition hadn't been a betrayal of her clan; it had been the truth. He wasn't the monster she was sent to destroy. He was the sanctuary she had been looking for her whole life.
The conversation loosened then, winding through small details: how Claricia’s travel had been with a crying baby and an Erik who glowered at anyone who suggested stopping; how Ada’s pregnancy had made her want to throw half the keep into the sea; how Amelia had been terrified Enya would be eaten alive by Norsemen.
Enya found herself listening more than she spoke, her chest still strangely open, her skin too sensitive to every look, every kindness. She kept waiting for the moment someone remembered her eyes, the old familiar rejection sliding in like a knife.
A knock at the door interrupted them and the four of them stilled.
Amelia’s eyes widened slightly.
“I’ll answer,” Enya said, already moving. She crossed the room and opened it a handspan.
A small boy stood there, no more than ten, cheeks red from the cold, boots too big, hands clutching a folded scrap of parchment like it might bite him.
The boy looked up at Enya with wide, frightened eyes. “Are ye Lady Enya?”
“Aye,” she said, keeping her voice gentle. “What is it, lad?”
The boy swallowed, then held out the note with both hands. “I was told tae give this tae ye. A man in the village. He said it was important.”
Enya’s gaze locked onto the seal before the paper even touched her skin. Finley.
For a heartbeat, a wild, foolish part of her wanted his familiarity. Then, anger surged up so fast it made her vision go bright at the edges.
He involved a child.
She took the note with careful fingers, as though it were filthy. Her smile did not falter. She forced it into place, because Claricia and Ada were watching and the boy was trembling.
“Thank ye,” Enya said softly. “That was very brave. What’s yer name?”
The boy blinked, startled by the question. “Iain,” he whispered.
“Iain.” Enya nodded as though he’d done something noble. “Ye’ve done well. Ye can go back now, aye? There’ll be hot broth in the kitchens if ye ask.”
The boy’s shoulders eased a fraction, relief loosening him.
Behind Enya, Claricia’s voice carried, gentle and curious. “Is it good news?”
Enya turned back into the room with the note in her hand, closing the door behind her. Her face remained composed. She held the paper lightly, as if it were something sweet rather than something that made her want to throw it into the fire with her bare hands.
“It’s from me braither,” she said, forcing softness into her voice. “I miss him dearly.”
Claricia’s expression melted. “That’s sweet.”
Ada nodded, eyes warm. “Family’s a hard tie tae cut.”
Only Amelia did not speak. Her gaze fixed on the seal, wide and alarmed, her mouth parting as if she wanted to warn Enya and could not do it without giving herself away.
Enya’s pulse hammered. She kept her smile in place until it started to ache.
“Aye,” she said, and lifted her shoulders in a small, self-deprecating shrug. “He worries. Always has.”
Claricia rose slowly, careful with the baby, and Ada pushed herself to her feet with a controlled exhale, one hand braced at the chair. Their movements were unhurried, but Enya felt the shift. The visit was ending. The moment of steadiness dissolving back into the reality of what she was.
“We should let ye read it,” Claricia said, warmth still in her tone. “And I should feed him before he decides tae scream the keep down.”
Enya’s throat tightened. She nodded once, because if she tried to speak she might betray herself.
They left in a soft rustle of wool, Amelia lingering just long enough to catch Enya’s arm.
“Enya,” Amelia breathed, eyes bright with fear.
“I ken,” Enya whispered back, and pressed Amelia’s hand once, hard, a silent command to stop.
Silence fell.
Enya stood in the middle of the room with the folded note in her hand, staring at Finley’s mark until her fingers cramped.
She crossed to the hearth, unfolded the message, and read it once.
Meet me in the woods. At midnight.
Enya’s jaw flexed so hard it hurt.
“Ye arrogant—” The words tore out of her in a whisper, thick with fury. She could see the boy’s frightened eyes again. She could see what might have happened if someone stopped the child, if someone read the seal, if someone decided a messenger from the village was suspicious.
Finley had not thought of any of it. Or he had, and he had not cared. The realization settled heavy and sick inside her, because of his recklessness and entitlement.
Enya carried the note to the flame and held it there until the edge caught, curling black. She watched the words disappear, watched her brother’s demand turn to ash. For the first time since she’d arrived, she knew with painful clarity that she did not want to go.