She knew he knew which name she was referring to but for some reason he wanted to hear her say it. “The Savage,” she whispered.
For a moment, Halvard didn’t answer. The flicker from the fire in the hearth cast shadows across his face. He was unreadable as stone and Elsie worried she had spoken out of turn.
“Because I’ve killed men. I’ve killed men on th’ battlefield and off it.”
Elsie froze. The memory of how he had dispatched her captors was fresh in her mind, though she was not sorry for it. Did he kill for sport or fun? Muirin had indicated he was a hard man, but just. Surely, he was not indiscriminate in his killing.
“All who met an end by me blade were deservin’ of it, lass,” he said, voice low and expression soft. “Ye’ve nay reason tae fear me, I will nae harm ye. I saved ye, remember?”
“I remember,” she said barely above a whisper.
“Good.”
He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “Sleep Lady MacLeod, ye’ll need rest if ye mean tae keep up in this marriage.” He gave her a sly wink.
Elsie climbed into the bed and turned her back to him, her heart thudding heavy in her chest.
But even with her eyes closed, facing away, she could feel him there, solid, quiet and far too near. And though she told herself it was only the warmth of the fire seeping into her bones at last, she didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dawn came creeping through the narrow chamber window like an unwelcome guest. Halvard shifted in his chair, his neck aching from a long night of little sleep. He’d caved on sharing the bed, mostly to spare the Englishwoman her pride, and partly because the thought of lying beside her unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
Now in the pale morning light, Lady Elsie Montgomery––no, Lady Elsie MacLeod––stirred beneath the blanket before stretching languidly. She sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
Halvard’s jaw tightened.
Christ, man, stop starring at the woman like a lovesick bairn.
He turned to look at the gown folded neatly on the chest by the bed. Muirin had been by earlier and promised him that gown would fit the lass better than the one she had been giventhe night before. It was green. A soft moss shade that Halvard thought would catch and highlight the gold in Elsie’s hair.
He looked away again, pretending to busy himself with his boots. When he turned back, she was already up, splashing water from a basin onto her face. Her hair was a riot of loose strands and waves; the pins she used to try and tame the locks had clearly surrendered in the night.
“Ye’re awake then?” he said, his voice still rough with sleep, or lack of sleep as it were.
She glanced over her shoulder. “So are you. How noble, watching a lady sleep from your chair like a sentry.”
He smirked. “I was makin’ sure ye didnae run off. English lasses have a habit of causin’ trouble when left alone.”
She ignored him, lifting a glass of water and sipping with delicate ease.
He studied her, the deliberate grace of her movements, the way she fussed with her hair even though no one was watching.
“Dae ye ever stop tryin’ tae look perfect?” he asked, his tone edged with mockery. “Or is that part of bein’ a proper English lady? Neat curls, polished manners and nay mud on yer skirts?”
Her hand froze midair. Slowly she turned to him, eyes flashing with something that excited him.
“Oh, forgive me,me laird,” she said sweetly. “You prefer your women wild and unwashed, I suppose?”
“Among other things,” he responded before he could stop himself.
The cup flew before he saw it coming. Cold water splashed across his chest and face, soaking his shirt and dripping down his neck.
For a heartbeat, he just stared at her, a smug expression of satisfaction on her face, no hint of apology forthcoming. Then to her visible annoyance he started to laugh, low, rough and genuine.
“God help me,” he muttered, wiping his face with a sleeve. “Ye’ll be th’ death of me, yet.”
He stood and left the room, leaving Elsie fuming and beautiful behind him as he made his way to his study.
