Chapter 23 #2
Ada stepped forward next, her expression uncharacteristically gentle. She didn't offer a polite curtsy; she simply reached out and caught Enya’s hand, her fingers grazing Enya’s palm in a quick, warm squeeze that felt like a lifeline.
"Dinnae let the Crown settle too cold on yer heart today, lass," Ada murmured, her gaze piercing. "The rag they took means naething. What ye gave him... that belongs tae nay king."
Enya swallowed hard, her throat tightening until it ached. "Thank ye, Ada. Fer... everything."
Ada smiled, a knowing, motherly look, before turning to Harald. She gave him a curt, respectful nod. "Look after her, Norseman."
Harald actually offered a ghost of a smile, bowing his head. "She's the heart o' this keep, Ada. I'd die before I let her catch a chill."
As the last of the horses disappeared through the iron gates and the heavy thud of the portcullis echoed through the yard, the keep fell into a sudden, ringing silence.
Harald stepped up behind her, his presence a solid, warm shadow. He looked out at the empty courtyard, his jaw still tight with the remnants of the fury he’d held back for her sake.
"They're gone," he said softly, his voice a low vibration that usually calmed her.
"Aye," Enya replied, her gaze fixed on the empty gateway where the dust still settled. "They’re gone. And now we see what’s left."
Harald turned toward her, his dark eyes searching hers, filled with a raw, bleeding apology for the morning’s violation. He reached out and stroked her cheekbone with a tenderness
"I have tae go," he murmured, his tone shifting back to pragmatic grit.
"I must check the perimeter guards and settle the accounts fer the feast. The men need tae see their laird after such an.
.. emotional morning." He paused, his hand hovering near her shoulder as if he wanted to pull her back into the sanctuary of his chest and never let go. "Will ye be alright, Enya?"
Enya lifted her chin, the dry humor returning to her like a dented shield. "I’ve survived me broaiher’s knives and a king’s envoy who smells like a florist’s stand. I can manage a quiet keep wi’out trippin' over me own skirts. Go. Dae yer laird duties and we will see each other later."
He didn't smile, but his gaze softened for a heartbeat. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and strode toward the armory, his heavy boots echoing against the stone like a countdown.
The silence Harald left behind didn't just feel cold; it felt accusatory. Enya stood in the center of the vast, emptying hall, her breath hitching in the sudden, crushing stillness.
The guilt hit her then, a physical blow to the stomach that left her reeling. Her mind became a jagged whirl of the previous night—the way Harald’s hands had trembled with a reverence she didn’t deserve, the way he had looked at her as if she were a holy thing, a light to guide him home.
And all the while, the secret of her original purpose—the maps she’d memorized, the secrets she was meant to steal for Finley—sat like shards of glass in her marrow.
She was a fox that had been welcomed into the den, only to measure the height of the walls for the hounds. Every time his heart had beaten against hers the night before, it had been a reminder of the woman he thought she was, and the traitor she had been sent to be.
The weight of it was suffocating. Every kind word Harald had spoken, every protective glance he had leveled at the envoy to shield her honor, was a debt she had paid in the currency of lies.
She wasn't a cursed bride anymore; she was a thief of a good man's heart, and the cost of the theft was starting to burn her alive.
"Me lady?" Amelia’s voice was soft, breaking through the static of her spiraling thoughts.
Enya turned, her eyes wide and slightly wild, to see Amelia standing by the arched entrance to the kitchens. The girl’s hands were twisted tight in her apron, her face etched with a mixture of worry and that quiet, unbearable reverence.
Enya took a breath, forcing the panic back into the dark. Amelia stepped forward, her gaze searching her mistress’ pale face. "What is going on in yer head, Enya?"
"We need tae talk," Enya whispered. She reached out, her fingers grazing the girl's shoulder in a rare, brief moment of comfort. "Come. I cannae breathe in this hall.”
They retreated to the solar but Enya didn’t sit. She began to pace the length of the rug, her footsteps muffled and restless. Her fingers mindlessly traced the thread of her skirts, catching on the fabric. She felt a raw, burning need to be clean of the filth she had brought into this house.
"The envoy took the sheets, didnae he?" Amelia asked softly, closing the door with a click that sounded like a gavel.
Enya stopped mid-stride, her back to her friend.
She squeezed her eyes shut, seeing the image of Harald's fury and the envoy's cold, clinical hands.
"He took them. And in doin' so, he reminded me that everythin' in this room—the bed, the silk, even the breath in me lungs—belongs tae a world I’ve been betrayin' since the moment I entered. "
She let out a short, jagged laugh that lacked any humor. "And the worst part, Amelia? The absolute worst part is that fer a moment last night, I forgot about me sick braither. I was foolish enough tae think I belonged tae meself. Or tae him."
"Ye dae belong tae him, me lady. The way he looks at ye—"
"He looks at me with a devotion I dinnae deserve," Enya snapped, her voice rising with a sudden, fiery intensity. "He looks at me like I’m his salvation, while I carry me braither’s dagger in me heart. I’m a bad, bad person. I dinnae deserve him.”
She sank into a high-backed chair, her hands trembling. She pressed them against her knees to hide the movement.
"He would hate me," she whispered, the words sounding hollow and jagged in the quiet room. She looked down at her hands. They looked filthy to her. "If he kent what I’d been daein’ here when I first came—the way I watched his guards, the way I spied on him fer Finley—he would hate me. He’d be right tae dae it, too. "
She felt the weight of Harald’s gaze from the night before, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only light in a world of darkness. The memory didn't bring her comfort; it felt like a brand.
"Perhaps ye can tell him the truth," Amelia insisted, her voice unwavering. She squeezed Enya’s hand. "The laird... he isnae like yer braither. He has a heart o' iron, aye, but he’s fallen fer ye. He would understand why ye did what ye had tae.”
Enya let out a jagged, shaky breath, her chin trembling. "He loves a woman who daesnae exist, Amelia. If I tell him, I’m handin' him the axe tae me own neck."
"I dinnae think he'll strike, me lady."
Still, the thought he could was terrifying.
"Safety built on silence will collapse under pressure, ye ken this," Amelia continued, stepping into Enya’s space. "Ye have tae tell him. All o’ it.”
Enya let out a long, shuddering breath. She felt the sensitivity in her chest flare up, a terrifyingly direct sense of morality that had been her only compass in the dark.
She was a Cameron, and despite everything, her honor demanded truth, even if that truth burned everything she loved to the ground.
"He is out there now, guarding his people," Enya whispered, looking toward the door. “Dae ye ken how much it will hurt him tae ken the biggest threat tae his keep was me?"
"He is a mountain o' a man, me lady," Amelia said softly. “Dinnae worry too much about him.”
Enya closed her eyes. She thought of the way Harald’s chest rumbled when he laughed.
She thought of the rough scrape of his jaw against her forehead and the way his thumb had grazed her knuckles during the ceremony.
She realized then that she didn't just want his protection; she wanted his respect.
And she could never have it as long as she was hiding behind a mask.
The decision settled in her gut like a cold stone, but the trembling in her hands began to ease.
"I’ll tell him," Enya said, her voice regaining its stubborn, sharp edge. She straightened her gown, her fingers finding the strength to clasp her brooch. "I’ll tell him taenight.”