Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The darkness was a roar of white noise.
Enya’s lungs felt like they were being squeezed by iron bands, and for a fleeting, silver moment, she considered surrender.
Why struggle? The boy was safe. Harald hated her anyway.
It would be easier for him if the sea simply kept her.
She felt herself beginning to drift, the weight of her sins finally heavier than the water.
Then, a jolt.
A massive, violent force clamped around her waist—something solid, immovable, and searingly warm. She was hauled upward with a brutal, desperate strength that ignored the punishing drag of the sea.
The transition to the screaming air felt like being reborn. The wind slapped her raw skin like shards of ice, but it was the sudden, crushing weight of her own life returning that hurt the most.
Enya collapsed onto the wet shingle, her knees hitting the jagged stones with a dull thud she was too numb to feel.
She was a useless heap of sodden wool and trembling limbs, her chest heaving as she tried to remember how to pull oxygen from the freezing air.
Her fingers clawed at the pebbles, slipping on the slime of the tide, as the sheer, overwhelming reality of being alive began to set in with a violent, racking shudder. She was alive. She was there.
"Enya! Enya!"
The voice was a thunderclap. Large, shaking hands seized her shoulders, and Enya blinked, her vision clearing just enough to see Harald. He looked like a god risen from the sea, his dark hair plastered to a face that was twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated terror.
For a heartbeat, the pride she used as armor disintegrated.
He came fer me.
Relief, sweet and thick as honey, coated her throat. She wanted to reach out, to press her frozen face against his chest and tell him she was sorry.
But then, the terror in his eyes curdled.
The fear transformed into a jagged, lethal fury. What? He gripped her arms so tight she felt the heat of his rage through her numb skin. His fingers dug into her, as if he were trying to shake the life back into her or tear it out of her himself.
"What in the name o’ God were ye thinkin'?" he roared, the sound drowning out the wind. "Are ye completely out o' yer senses? Ye threw yerself intae that current like a stone!"
"The... the boy," she wheezed, her voice a dry, salt-choked rasp. She tried to pull back, her stubborn pride flickering to life even as she shivered. "He was... drownin', Harald. I wasnae––"
"Ye should have called fer help! Ye should have found a guard!" Harald’s face was inches from hers, his jaw set with such violence she heard his teeth grind. He was vibrating with a terrifying energy. "Instead, ye dive in? Dae ye have any idea how close ye came tae never comin' up?"
"There wasnae time!" Enya snapped back, though it came out as a pathetic, watery hiss. She glared at him, her sharp tongue finding its edge despite the cold. "By the time I’d have found a guard... the lad would have been halfway tae the Hebrides.”
Harald didn't answer with words. He let out a guttural, frustrated huff and, without another word, he scooped her up. He did it with a forceful, possessive heave that tucked her head against the hollow of his shoulder.
He began to stride back toward the keep, his boots crunching over the rocks with a murderous rhythm. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving against her.
Enya remained quiet, her body feeling like a block of ice carved in the shape of a woman.
When they reached the gates, the iron portcullis shrieked upward, and the guards scrambled like frightened hares out of the way. Harald marched straight toward the healer’s chamber, his boots leaving a trail of brine and mud across the polished stone of the inner keep.
"Laird Alvsson! What in the—" Eirik, the old healer, came shuffling out from behind a curtain, his spectacles perched precariously on the bridge of his nose.
His eyes widened behind the glass as he took in the sight.
"She jumped in the bay," Harald growled.
“I was tryin’ tae save a boy’s life, I didnae jump. Dinnae make it sound like I went fer a swim, Harald!”
He didn't release his hold on Enya, even as Eirik gestured urgently toward a low cot covered in clean linen. Harald stood there, his knuckles white and bloodless where they gripped the back of Enya’s legs and her shivering waist.
"Check her. Now," Harald barked.
Eirik peered over his spectacles, his weathered face tightening. "Put her down, me jarl. I cannae examine her if ye're crushin' her."
"I’m fine," Enya muttered into the sodden wool of Harald’s tunic.
The salt was still stinging her throat like a thousand needles, making her voice a dry, pathetic rasp, but her stubbornness remained the only thing the water hadn't managed to wash away.
"I’ve just... always preferred me water wi’ a bit o' salt and a dash o' violence," she wheezed, reaching for a joke because the alternative was weeping. "Tell the laird tae stop squeezin' me. I’m nae a prize trout he's just hauled from the loch."
Harald’s grip only tightened but he didn't look at Enya. He kept his burning, bloodshot gaze fixed on the healer, his jaw so tight it looked as though it might crack. But there was a ghost of a smile, Enya was sure.
"She’s white as a ghost and shakin' like a leaf in a gale, Eirik," Harald growled, his voice thick with a raw, jagged edge. "Look at her eyes. Check her."
Eirik sighed, reaching out to press two bony fingers against Enya’s neck. He lingered there, feeling the beat of her pulse.
Enya felt the healer’s touch, but her focus remained on Harald—on the way his chest heaved and the way he refused to meet her eyes. She could feel his terror as if it was her own, and it hurt worse than the cold.
Eirik moved his palm to her forehead, his touch clinical and brief. "She’s cold as the grave, aye, but her heart is as stubborn as yers, me jarl. It’s strong."
He stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron with a slow, deliberate motion. "She needs the heat driven back intae her bones. A hot bath and a bed with enough furs tae suffocate a bear. The rest is just... shock. And perhaps a lesson in maritime safety."
Enya closed her eyes, a single, hot tear escaping and carving a path through the salt-crust on her cheek. She felt like a burden—a lying, drowning weight that he was forced to carry.
"I’m takin' her tae our chambers," Harald announced.
He didn't wait for Eirik to offer a tonic or a blanket. He turned on his heel and carried her back out into the drafty corridor, his pace never faltering as he ascended the winding stone stairs.
He barked orders at a wide-eyed maid who nearly tripped over her own feet to clear a path. "Hot water! Every kettle in the kitchens! Fill the tub in me quarters and bring towels. Move!"
When they reached their chamber, the room felt cavernous and mocking. The fire had burned down to a low, orange glow, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced across the walls.
Harald finally set her down near the hearth, but he didn't let go of her arms. He held her upright with his hands clamped on her shoulders, his gaze scanning her face with a frantic, angry intensity, as if he expected her to vanish the moment he released her.
Enya stood there, her legs feeling like two stalks of sodden straw. She was dripping onto the fine, hand-woven rugs, the seawater pooling around her boots. She felt the weight of her hair—heavy, salt-crusted, and freezing—pulling at her scalp.
“What happened? Why were the bells ringin’?” she mustered.
“A fire in a village. I have sent me men.”
The maid arrived then, scurrying in with buckets of steaming water. The sound of the tub filling was the only noise in the room for several minutes.
When the maid finally scurried out, Harald closed the door and bolted it.
"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to a stool near the tub.