It wasn’t enough.
What is th’ bastard plannin’?
His mind raced with the rage in Harcourt’s eyes when he had been in the keep and th’ threats the man had promised to follow through on.
He set the sword aside and went at the post with his fists instead. Bare knuckled, each strike heavier than the last. His men, scattered around the yard, stopped their own practice to watch.
No one dared approach. They knew their laird was not in the mood to be messed with. It was best for all to stay clear. Halvard would not be stopped, not until his breath sawed in and out of him, raw. Only then did he lean forward, palms braced on his thighs, sweat dripping down his spine.
A soft gasp cut through the quiet.
Halvard’s head snapped up. Elsie stood beside Muirin at the far edge of the yard. Her green eyes were wide and her cheeks were flushed, hands frozen around the shawl she clutched to her breast.
For a heartbeat she simply stared at him. At his chest. At the sweat. At everything he knew she’d clearly never seen up close on a man before.
Her mouth parted in a scandalized “oh.”
Halvard had taken spear strikes with less impact. His heart pounded in his chest, stomach, ears and everywhere else he could feel in his body. He wondered in what other ways he could scandalize her.
Then the men started noticing her. A few glanced over with open curiosity, some with far too much.
A growl rumbled up from deep in his chest. He straightened to his full height and barked, “Eyes elsewhere!”
The men jerked away like startled crows. Elsie jumped. Halvard did not care. He crossed the yard toward her and Muirin in two long strides.
When he stopped in front of her, she swallowed hard. Her gaze flickering between his face and some very safe spot on the stones near his boots.
“You’re not wearing anything,” she whispered, avoiding his gaze.
He smirked. “Ach, I’ve my plaid on. Should I be wearin’ more?”
Her blushed deepened to something near luminous, and he found he wanted to see how deep the red could go.
“This is entirely improper,” she said.
“Aye,” he drawled, amused despite himself. “That’s th’ main problem wi’ ye English. Everythin’ must be proper or it’s th’ end o’ th’ world.”
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. “It is civilized.”
He leaned slightly closer, enough that he could feel her stiffen. “And yer blushin’ like th’ dawn over Skye.”
“I am NOT!”
“Ye are,” he said. “And I think ye ken it.”
She made a frustrated noise and stepped back, but the men’s lingered stares behind her made Halvard step forward at the same time closing the space between them once again. This time he didn’t move.
She noticed. Her breath hitched. Just slightly.
“Why,” she whispered, “were you growling at them like a wild beast?”
“Because,” he replied taking a finger and twirling a loose lock of her golden-brown hair, “I dinnae like other men lookin’ at ye that way.”
Her eyes widened in confusion, surprise and something else, something he couldn’t name. “We’re not really married,” she reminded him softly. “You don’t have to…”
“Aye,” he cut in, voice rougher than he meant, “but that daesnae meant I’ll stand here an’ look a fool while they think I cannae guard what’s mine.”
Mine,he thought. Why that word when it came to her?
