Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The gray light of dawn filtered through the narrow, arched windows of the solar. It caught the steam rising from the porridge and the sharp, silver glint of the butter knife.
Harald sat across from Enya, his posture as rigid as the stone walls surrounding them. He watched her over the rim of his cup. Her skin was still pale from the previous night’s ordeal, but her eyes—those mismatched, defiant eyes—held a new, fragile light.
He felt a fierce, almost painful surge of protectiveness. The admission of love he had made in the bath still echoed in the quiet corners of the room. It had been a terrifying surrender of his armor.
The silence was broken by the thud of boots in the corridor. A servant knocked tentatively before leaning in, his face etched with a mixture of confusion and urgency.
"Laird Alvsson... the folk. They’ve gathered in the inner bailey. They’re askin' fer... fer the lady."
Harald’s hand tightened around the handle of his mug. His first instinct, honed by a decade of wary leadership, was suspicion.
They’ve heard the whispers. They’ve come tae demand why a spy sits at me table.
He looked at Enya, seeing the way her hand trembled slightly as she set down her spoon. Her composed mask was in place, but he could see the wariness in the set of her shoulders—the practiced readiness for rejection.
"I’ll go," she said, her voice quiet but steady.
"We’ll go taegether," Harald corrected, standing up.
He reached across the table, his large hand covering hers for a brief, firm second. His touch was meant to be an anchor, but his own heart was hammering against his ribs.
As they stepped out onto the stone steps overlooking the bailey, the cold morning air bit at them. A crowd had gathered—laborers with soot-stained faces, weavers, and the guards who had fought the fire.
Harald felt Enya stiffen beside him. He moved half a step in front of her, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He was ready to command them to disperse, ready to be the tyrant if it meant sparing her another wound to her spirit.
Then, a woman stepped forward.
It was Mairi, the wife of one of his youngest stonemasons. She held the hand of the small boy who looked up at the stairs with wide, silent eyes. Mairi’s face was red-rimmed from crying, but her expression was one of profound, trembling gratitude.
"Me Lady," Mairi’s voice carried through the quiet air.
She reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out a small, roughly carved wooden bird, similar to those the village children played with.
"Me Da made this fer the lad. He wanted ye tae have it. Tae remember... that he breathes because o’ ye. "
The child she saved last night.
Enya gasped, a small, broken sound that tore at Harald’s heart. He watched her grip the stone railing, her knuckles turning white.
Mairi bowed her head, a deep, respectful gesture. "We were wrong, me lady. In a stranger we looked fer danger. But danger daesnae dive intae the deep fer a mason’s son." Then she handed her the bird.
One by one, others followed. An old man stepped forward, his voice gruff. "Forgive us, me lady. The Laird chose ye, and we should have kent his word was enough. Ye’re one o’ us now. Fer as long as the stones stand."
Harald stood motionless, a lump forming in his throat that no amount of stoicism could swallow.
He looked at his people—these hard, stubborn folk who usually only moved when he barked a command.
They weren't acting out of duty today. They were acting out of a shared, quiet sincerity. They had seen Enya’s soul in the water, and they had chosen her, just as he had.
A profound sense of pride swelled within him for the woman beside him. She stood composed, her head held high, though he could see the glint of tears in her eyes.
"Thank ye," Enya whispered, her voice carrying just enough edge to keep it from breaking. "I... I only did what needed daeing."
"That’s what a Norse woman daes," the old man replied, and the crowd began to murmur in agreement before slowly drifting back to their labors.
Harald turned to her as the bailey emptied.
The morning sun finally broke through the clouds, illuminating the copper strands in her hair.
He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock behind her ear.
He felt a terrifying level of love for her—a love that made him feel both invincible and entirely breakable.
"Ye heard them," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to her forehead. "Ye’re one o’ us, Enya. Always."
He wanted to stay there, to pull her into the shadows of the solar and never let her go. But duty was a jealous master.
"I have tae go tae the chamber," he said, his tone shifting back to the measured gravity of the Laird. "The Council is waiting tae speak of the fire."
She nodded quietly. He lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his hand ghosting over her shoulder before descending back into the cold duties of his rank.
With a final, lingering look that promised a return, he turned. By the time he reached the meeting chamber, the tenderness had been filed away behind a wall of iron.
His captains and councilmen stood around the heavy oak table, their faces grim. Harald took his seat at the head, his hands folded before him, the wooden bird Enya had received still heavy in his mind.
"Give me the report," Harald commanded, his voice flat.
Gunner, his most senior guard, stepped forward. He looked exhausted, his leather armor scuffed and mud stained. "We’ve scoured the entire coast, me jarl. We found the remains o’ three camps. Small fires, hidden in the hollows. They’re movin' light."
"And Finley Cameron?" Harald asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Naething, me jarl," Gunner sighed, shaking his head. "It’s like chasing a ghost in the mist. We found tracks leading inland toward the ridges, but they’ve been obscured wi’ pine boughs. They’re disciplined. They dinnae leave a footprint they dinnae want us tae find."
Harald leaned back, his chair creaking. The absence of a trail was a message in itself.
A raiding party would have been loud, messy, and eager for a fight.
But Finley... Finley was a predator. He was patient.
He was waiting for the keep to exhale, waiting for Harald to grow complacent in his newfound happiness.
He felt a cold chill settle in his chest. Before, Finley was a threat to his borders. Now, Finley was a threat to the only thing that made his life worth living.
"He’s circling," Harald said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "He wants us tae think he’s gone so we’ll stop looking."
He looked at his captains. "Double the patrols on the inland ridges. I want a man on every high point from here tae the border. If a crow flies over those hills, I want tae ken its color. Finley thinks he can wait us out."
Harald stood, his shadow stretching long across the maps on the table. "He’s about tae find out that the Hawk daesnae just watch from the heights. He strikes.”
The dismissal was final. His captains nodded in grim silence and filtered out of the room.
The heavy oak door groaned shut, leaving Harald alone with the silence. He remained standing, his knuckles leaning against the table.
He turned to the desk in the corner of the room, sat heavily, and drew a fresh sheet of parchment toward him. His movements were careful, but his chest felt tight. He took up the quill, the scratch of the nib against the surface the only sound in the room.
His Majesty, he began, his hand steady even as his mind raced.
He reported the hostile Highland force, the lack of banners, and the targeting of the village granary. He was formally declaring Finley a rebel—an outlaw of the Crown. By doing so, he was stripping away the protection of clan politics. He was asking for the king's seal to hunt Finley.
But he knew what this meant for Enya. By sending this letter, Harald was drawing a line between her and her brother that could never be uncrossed.
"Tav," he called out, his voice low but carrying.
The door cracked open. "Me laird?"
"Ask the Lady tae join me. And tell the messenger tae ready the swiftest galley in the harbor. He sails fer the king as soon as the tide turns."
A soft footfall announced her arrival a few minutes later.
Enya entered the chamber with her usual quiet poise, though he noticed the way her gaze immediately flickered to the parchment on the desk. She looked composed, her hair tied back in a neat braid, but the sensitivity he had come to recognize in her showed in the slight tension of her jaw.
"Ye asked fer me, Harald?" she said. Her voice was neutral, but her searching eyes were wary.
"I’ve written tae the king," Harald said, rising from his chair. He didn't move toward her yet, giving her the space she needed to process the words. "I am reporting Finley’s actions. Formally. I’m labeling his men as a hostile force operating wi’ nae sanction.
As ye ken, he has been setting fire tae villages and tae our winter supplies. "
Enya went still. He watched the realization dawn on her face, the way her pupils dilated.
"Ye're declaring him a criminal," she whispered.
"If I send it, he will be tried fer treason," Harald said, his voice firm but not unkind. He finally closed the distance between them, stopping just a foot away. He could see the fine tremor in her hands. "If I hide his actions, I cannae keep ye safe here."
Enya looked down at the letter, her expression a mask of pained conflict. He knew she didn't forgive Finley after the way he had used her, but the bond of blood was a stubborn thing. To expose him was to sever her last tie to her past.
"He did this tae himself," she said, her voice shaking with a sudden, fiery conviction that surprised him. She looked up, her eyes bright. "He burned villages. He nearly kidnapped me. He chose this path, Harald. Send it."