Sten was already waiting, arms folded, the scent of peat smoke clinging to his plaid. He had already been out that morning, Halvard thought, most likely checking in with the men.
“Ye didnae sleep,” Sten observed.
“Nae fer lack of tryin’,” Halvard muttered, dropping into his broad leather chair behind his desk.
Sten grinned. “Th’ English lass keepin’ ye awake then?”
Halvard shot him a look. “Keep yer tongue, Sten. We’ve more pressin’ matters than me wife’s temper.”
“Fakewife,” Sten reminded him, as if it was needed.
Halvard’s expression hardened. “Aye, fake or nae, the story holds, and until Harcourt’s off me land, we keep it that way.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I dinnae trust that man. His eyes never stop weighin’, calculatin’. Like he’s countin’ how tae gut me wi’ words before steel.”
“He’s nae here fer pleasantries, that much’s clear,” Sten nodded grimly. “But Redfern’s a different sort. He watches and listens. Th’ man daesnae speak unless he means what he’s about tae say.”
“Which makes him dangerous,” Halvard muttered. “A man that’s quiet’s thinkin’ of what others may miss.”
The two men talked for a small while longer, clan matters, supplies, the upcoming breaking of the fast, before Halvard finally rose, his foul mood settled deep within his shoulder. “Let us make fer food then.”
The great hall was already busy with kin by the time Halvard and Sten arrived, the scent of bread and meat in the smoke-filled air making his stomach growl in hunger. But it was the sight of Elsie that grabbed his attention before the food.
She was seated near the end of the main table, her back rigid and her green eyes scanning the offered plates of food with a frown.
Even though he knew he shouldn’t be, he was pleased that he had been right about the gown, the mossy color flattering her figure and coloring. The flicker of the fire in the hearth mixing with the morning sunlight caught the golden highlights in her brown hair. Were he a weaker man, he would take her into his arms and prove to the entire room that she was his.
Halvard shook his head to clear the errant thought.
“Something wrong, wife?” he drawled taking the seat beside her.
“I was looking for something sweet,” she said, brows pinching together. “Honeyed bread, perhaps or a custard?”
Halvard snorted. “Ye’ll find nay custard in a Highland keep. We’ve meat, oatcakes and ale, more than enough tae keep a lass alive.”
“Maybe,” she muttered. “But certainly not enough to keep her happy.”
“If a honeyed bread is all it takes tae make ye happy lass,” he kept his voice low, “I’ll be sure tae make th’ kitchen prepare it each day.”
He turned toward his own plate, but not before noticing Redfern had been watching his exchange with Elsie, and were he not mistaken, the king’s envoy seemed to be hiding a light smile behind his cup, amused. However he also noticed a certain pallor in his face that made Halvard question if the man had not taken ill in the night.
Harcourt on the other hand, wasn’t smiling. He sat opposite Redfern, his daughter straight backed and silent next to him. The Earl’s expression polite, but Halvard noted it was cold as ice. Lady Margaret had no softness in her eyes either. It was not hard to tell the lass had inherited her father’s calculating nature. Were it possible, Halvard would ignore them both until their departure.
“A fine morning for a ride, would you not agree, MacLeod?”
Halvard met the man’s gaze head on. “Depends on who’d be ridin’ beside me.”
Elsie looked up from her food, eyes bright. “I think I would enjoy a ride.”
He couldn’t tell if the lass was simply playing her part, or if she truly was eager to get back astride a beast. But with all eyes upon him, he nodded. “Aye, a ride then.”
Harcourt’s lips turned upward but with no kindness. “Splendid, Lady Margaret and I shall join you, along with His Majesty’s envoy,” he nodded toward Redfern. “I imagine you and your bride would like the chance to bid us a proper farewell before we depart.”
A few minutes later they were all outside. The air was sharp and clean, the kind of morning air that filled a man’s chest and reminded him he was alive. It was the kind of day Halvard would spend out of doors exploring as a lad, racing up and down the craggy seacoast and relaxing in the soft green meadows that made up the island.
Horses stamped and snorted in the courtyard as the mist lifted from the cliffs beyond Brochel, curling like smoke above the sea.
Halvard swung easily into his saddle, his plaid shifting against the chill of the breeze. He glanced toward Elsie, who stood glaring at her horse as if it was an enemy she had to conquer.
