Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The pale light of the morning filtered through the narrow windows, a soft, silver veil that quieted the world.
Enya was anchored to the mattress by the heavy, comforting solidness of Harald’s arm.
His heat was a steady, radiating sun against her back, seeping through her clothes until the chill of the room was forgotten.
She felt a strange, liquid warmth in her chest as she listened to the slow, rhythmic thrum of his heart against her shoulder blades.
It felt like hope. And for a woman who had spent years in the cold, the sheer, golden weight of that hope was the most beautiful thing she had ever known.
She felt his breath stir the fine hairs at her nape, a gentle ghost of a touch.
“Ye’re awake,” he rasped.
His voice was a low, honeyed vibration that settled deep into her soul, grounding her. She felt the slight squeeze of his arm, a silent check to see if she was truly there, and for once, Enya didn’t want to run. She wanted to disappear into the shelter of him and stay there forever.
“I dinnae want tae get up,” Enya whispered, her voice soft and thick with sleep.
Instead of pulling away, she shifted, inched backward, and pressed herself even closer into his massive frame.
She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling the scent of him—salt, woodsmoke, and the clean, cold air of the islands.
“Enya,” he rasped, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her spine.
“Just a moment more,” she breathed. She turned slightly in the circle of his arm, tucking her face into the hollow of his neck, seeking the shelter she had only ever found here.
She felt the rough scrape of his jaw against her forehead and sighed, her fingers curling into his forearm to hold him in place.
The rumble of a laugh vibrated against her skin before a single sound escaped his throat. A rough jaw tucked into the mess of her hair and she was hauled flush against the solid planes of his chest, anchored there as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.
He is tae be me husband today. Truly.
The thought didn't bring the old dread; instead, it sent a flutter of something terrifying and beautiful through her chest.
“I have tae go,” he murmured against her skin, though his arm remained locked around her waist.
“Stay,” she whispered, the word escaping before she could catch it. “The king’s men can wait a bit longer.”
Harald shifted, rising over her on one elbow. He looked down at her with an expression so heavy with devotion it felt like a physical weight. Slowly, he leaned in. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of her hair, his eyes closed.
Then, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the center of her forehead. Enya closed her eyes as the warmth of his lips seeped into her skin, anchoring her.
When he finally pulled away, the loss of his heat felt like a sudden, sharp winter. Enya shivered, watching him roll out of bed and dress with effortless grace. He paused at the door, his dark, hawk-like eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs.
“I’ll be at the altar, Enya,” he said. It wasn't a cold command. It was a vow, raw and unbreakable. “And I will nae be moving until ye are standing beside me.”
Enya felt the heat of a blush creep up her neck. “Well,” she managed, her voice regaining its sharp, biting edge to hide the wobble in her heart. “Then I suppose I’d best find a way out o’ these furs. It would be a shame tae keep a man like ye waiting.”
He didn't smile, but his gaze softened for a heartbeat—then, he was gone.
Enya dragged herself out of the bed, her body aching with a bone-deep fatigue that no sleep could wash away.
She made her way to her own chambers and Amelia was already there, hovering by the window.
Her hands were twisting in her apron. As soon as she saw Enya, her face crumpled with a mixture of relief and reverence.
“Me lady,” Amelia breathed, rushing forward. “I’ve the water ready. The dress... oh, the dress is beautiful.”
Enya looked at the gown draped over the chair.
It was a pale, shimmering thing—silk and silver thread that looked like moonlight trapped in fabric.
It looked like a dress for a girl who believed in fairy tales, not for a woman whose own brother had held a knife to her throat just a few hours before.
Bitterness tasted like cold copper in the back of her throat, but she shoved the feeling into the dark and reached for the silk anyway.
“It’s a lot o’ silk, Amelia,” Enya said, her voice steady but her fingers trembling as she reached for the washbasin. She looked at her reflection in the water, seeing the shadows under her eyes. “I dinnae feel as pretty on the inside as this dress is. I feel... frayed.”
Amelia stopped, her eyes wide and earnest. “Dinnae say that, me lady. Ye’re wrong. Ye should feel as pretty as ye truly are, and today, everyone must ken it.”
A small, surprised laugh bubbled up in Enya’s throat—a dry, shaky sound. She looked at the maid and felt a sudden, rare warmth.
“Come then. Help me get ready before the king’s men decide I’ve bolted.”
The door creaked open, admitting Claricia and Ada. They moved with a lethal, fluid grace that made Enya feel suddenly very small and very human. She found herself silenced, her tongue failing her as she watched the sheer, cold elegance of them claim the room.
"Still in yer shift?" Claricia asked, her eyes sweeping over the room with a sharp, practical glint. "We’ve a wedding tae prepare for."
Immediately, Ada pushed in to help Amelia with the laces, her fingers nimble and quick.
Claricia stepped closer, the heavy silver comb glinting like a weapon in her hand. She didn't wait for an invitation; she reached out and gathered a thick, unruly section of Enya’s hair, her mouth curving into a knowing smirk.
"Sit," Claricia commanded, though the mischief in her eyes softened the edge of the word. As she began to weave the first section, she pulled upward with a ruthless, practiced strength. Enya’s head lurched back, her scalp stinging as the silver comb caught on a stubborn knot near her ear.
"Ouch!" Enya hissed, her hand flying up to steady her head as she winced. "Are ye fixin' me hair or preparin' fer war?"
Claricia let out a short, barked laugh but eased the tension by a fraction, her fingers moving with the rhythmic, hypnotic grace of a weaver at a loom. "I'm makin' sure Harald has nowhere tae look but at the woman he's tae marry."
Enya huffed, but the biting remark died in her throat as she felt the cool weight of the silver thread being twisted into the dark locks.
Despite the tugging, there was something grounding about the ritual—the steady pull of a Claricia’s hand, the scent of lavender oil, and the quiet realization that she was being armored for the most beautiful battle of her life.
Enya felt the tension in her neck ease just a fraction under Claricia’s touch. A small, grateful smile tugged at her lips. "Thank ye. Both."
"Nay more talk," Claricia declared, her voice softening as she sensed the shift in Enya's mood.
Together, they moved with a synchronized, rhythmic grace to finish the transformation.
They draped the heavy, silver-threaded over-gown across her shoulders, the fabric falling in shimmering cascades that whispered against the floor stone.
Ada smoothed the silk over her hips while Amelia fastened a row of tiny pearl buttons along her spine with trembling, reverent fingers.
"Ye look like a queen," Amelia whispered when they finished, her voice thick with a sudden, quiet sincerity as she tucked a final, stray lock of hair behind Enya’s ear.
Enya took a deep, shuddering breath, her fingers grazing the cool silver at her brow.
"Fine," Enya said, her voice dropping into a low, stubborn vibration. She met their eyes in the reflection one last time. "Let’s go."
The walk to the chapel was a blur of cold stone. At the arched entrance, the women paused. The air was thick with the weight of the moment, the finality of the journey they had all taken to reach that door.
Claricia stepped forward first. She reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Enya’s ear, her eyes shimmering with pride. "Go tae him, Enya," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Show them all that yer flame can warm a Norseman’s hearth fer a lifetime."
Ada moved next and gave her a hug, before they peeled away, their silhouettes dark and imposing as they moved to stand beside their husbands.
Amelia lingered for one heartbeat longer. She gripped Enya’s hand, her fingers trembling slightly with a sudden, raw heat of affection. "Be happy, me lady," she breathed, her voice a fragile thread of hope. "Ye’ve paid the price fer it ten times over."
She gave Enya’s hand a final, quick squeeze—a small touch that nearly broke the fragile mask of her composure—before she, too, vanished into the shadows of the nave.
Enya stood alone at the threshold, took a breath, the air tasting of iron and salt, and forced her feet to move.
The villagers were packed into the back, a sea of weathered faces and rough wool. There was no cheering. No flower petals littered her path. Instead, they stood with a heavy, watchful restraint, waiting to see if this alliance would be a bridge to peace or merely a swifter road to the grave.
As she passed, she felt their eyes crawling over her, a mixture of pity and awe that made her skin prickle.
Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to turn and run, to find a dark corner where she could be just Enya Cameron again, but she kept her gaze fixed forward, her spine a line of unyielding steel.
Then, her eyes found him.
Harald was standing at the altar and seemed to draw all the light in the room toward him. He looked terrifyingly vast against the flickering candlelight, his shoulders blocking out the pale morning sun that struggled through the high window.
But then he turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers with a raw, savage intensity that scorched the breath right out of her lungs. In that gaze, there were no politics, no king’s decree, and no village scrutiny.
The weight in her chest shifted from fear to a staggering, soul-deep recognition.
Enya felt the strength return to her legs.
She reached the altar, the distance between them closing until she could feel the radiating heat of his body.
Harald stepped forward, his hand reaching out to catch hers before she could even offer it.
His palm was a shock of heat and rough callouses against her skin, his grip so firm it was the only thing keeping her from swaying.
The ceremony began. The priest, a man whose voice sounded like the grinding of sea-stones, stepped into the space between them.
"In the eyes o’ the Heavens and the witness o' this earth," the priest intoned, his hands raised over their joined fingers, "we bind Laird Harald Alvsson tae Lady Enya Cameron. This is a union o' blood and bone…"
The priest looked at Harald, his expression stern yet reverent. "Harald Alvsson, will ye take this woman? Will ye be the shield that blunts the wind, the hearth that holds the fire, and the sword that guards her rest until the sea takes ye back?"
Harald’s voice didn't waver. It was a low, resonant rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very floorboards. "I will. Beyond the end o' days, I will."
The priest turned his heavy gaze to Enya. "Enya Cameron, will ye take this man? Will ye be the light in his darkness, the wisdom in his counsel, and the heart that beats beside his own until the stars fall from the sky?"
Enya felt the sting of tears, her stubborn heart finally, fully cracking open. "I will," she said, her voice gaining strength as she looked into Harald’s amber eyes. "Through storm and sun, I will."
Harald squeezed her hand, his thumb grazing her knuckles in that rhythmic, grounding pressure.
The priest smiled—a rare, fractured thing. "Then what the heavens and earth have joined, let nay man dare tae sever. The kiss," he murmured, the words finally breaking through the fog.
Harald didn’t wait. He moved with sudden grace, his large hands moving up to frame her face. His fingers disappeared into the silk of her hair, his touch both reverent and possessive. He tilted her head back, his dark eyes searching hers for one final, heartbeat-long second—
The world tilted, the horizon vanishing as he claimed her. She felt the searing, damp heat of his lips—firm and demanding—as they molded against her own with a force that stole her breath.
The tension that had pulled them together finally snapped. Enya’s fingers curled into the thick wool of his tunic, her knuckles white as she hauled him closer, her breath hitching in a small, broken moan that was swallowed by the fire in his mouth.
The chapel, the king’s men, the staring villagers—they all vanished. There was only the slide of his lips against hers, the possessive weight of his hands framing her face, and the terrifying, beautiful certainty that she had finally come home.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark with a promise that made her knees buckle. He didn't let go; his thumb traced the line of her bottom lip, his gaze dropping to the reddened, swollen curve of it with a look that was purely predatory.
“Now,” he rasped, the vibration of his voice for her ears alone. “Ye are mine.”