When Muirin left, the room felt quiet, and Elsie’s heart felt strangely heavy.
Without the Earl’s calculating stare, Lady Margaret’s desperate sighs, supper in the great hall felt almost intimate.
With Sten choosing to share his table with a group of clansmen, Elsie and Halvard sat alone at the main table, a platter of roast venison steaming between them.
Halvard reached for a piece with his bare hand and Elsie was nearly scandalized as he tore into it with all the subtly of a wild animal. Grease shone on his thumb, and he looked entirely satisfied.
Elsie lifted her fork, careful to ensure her movements were met with pristine elegance. “Do you not own a knife and fork for yourself anywhere in this savage fortress?” she asked.
He looked up. “Dae ye nae own teeth?”
She nearly choked at the retort.
“I happen… urm…” Any clever comeback seemed to fail to reach her lips as she stuttered.
“C’mere.” He tore off a piece of the roast, still steaming, and held it toward her across the table. “Try it proper like.”
Her breath caught. His hand looked far too large and loomed far too close.
“No,” she said primly. “Thank you.” Though she wished she had the abandon to act as he had.
Halvard shrugged, popping the meat into his mouth with a satisfied smirk.
But when he turned to reach for his ale, Elsie seized her chance, ripping a small piece of meat with her bare fingers, wincing at the heat, but shoving it into her mouth quickly.
And heavens above, it was delicious.
Halvard’s eyes narrowed as he turned back. “Not barbaric after all, eh lass?”
Elsie’s cheeks reddened and warmed as she thought Muirin had been right. The laird did truly see everything.
She dabbed her lips with her napkin, hoping to hide some of the guilt she felt.
“It is still barbaric,” she replied, “but tolerable.”
His low laugh rolled across the table, warm as the firelight. Elsie absolutely hated how it caused her stomach to flutter.
CHAPTER TEN
Rumors traveled fast on Raasay. Halvard had already begun to hear the sound before he heard the guard himself. Voices drifting up the corridor toward his study, hurried footsteps, the unmistakable stir of men unsettled. He had been trying to go over ledgers and estate numbers, but thoughts of Elsie kept creeping into his mind.
He had almost convinced himself it was from lack of sleep in that blasted chair each night, but the truth was it was the lass. She was a challenge, and he was not a man to back down from a challenge.
He stepped out of the study before anyone reached the door, cloak already in hand. He met the young guard halfway down the stairs.
“Speak,” Halvard demanded.
The guard, Eoin, stopped short. “Me laird, word from th’ outer posts. Lord Harcourt’s party is lingering near th’ borders, longer than they should.”
Sten came up from behind and crossed him arms. “How long is ‘longer’?”
“Three days,” the lad replied.
Halvard’s jaw tightened. “Any word on his daughter, Lady Margaret?”
“She was seen on a birlinn, alone, days ago, me laird,” Eoin continued. “Nay one’s seen th’ rest leave th’ island.”
A cold unease slid down Halvard’s spine. Bowen Harcourt was many things. Petty, proud, infuriatingly English, but he wasn’t stupid.
