Sleep refused to come. Elsie had turned her pillow twice, shifted positions a dozen times and still her mind was restless, tugging her back again and again to Halvard. The way he had stepped away from her earlier was haunting her, it was as if standing too close to her was dangerous.
Dangerous for whom, she wasn’t sure she knew.
But the absence of him in the chamber only made her restlessness worse. The room felt too large without him filling the space, the fire too quiet.
Unbelievable, you barely know the brute. What is happening?
At last, she gave up. Perhaps some warmed milk, or a walk might tire her and ease her mind.
Slipping from beneath the blankets, she pulled on a shawl over her nightdress and stepped into the corridor. The castle felt different at night, softer. The stone walls warmed by torchlight, the silence humming with a watchful stillness. It was so very different here than what she was used to back home, but not unpleasant.
She wandered without aim, trying to calm her thoughts. Brochel’s corridors were still quite unfamiliar to her, and after some time and several turns she was fairly sure she was nowhere near the kitchens or the great hall.
She was deciding whether to turn back when voices drifted from a partially open doorway leading into another corridor.
Halvard’s voice along with another man, a clansman, speaking low and troubled.
“…she worries too much, m’laird. She worries fer keepin’ th’ bairn quiet, about bein’ proper, about all th’ ways she may offend.”
Halvard let out a quiet snort. “A woman who fears nay one is worth ten who kneel.”
His tone was rough, but not unkind. “Tell yer wife she’s enough as she is. And tell her if anyone in this clan makes her feel otherwise, I’ll take care of it.”
Elsie felt his words hit her like a blow to the ribs.
A woman who fears no one…
Elsie had spent her entire life being told the opposite. She had been told to mind her tongue, be gentle, obliging, agreeable. A true English rose. She had been taught her fierceness was a flaw, that her adventurous spirit would make her undesirable. She would never find a suitable match.
Yet, Halvard spoke of fearless women with admiration.
Her breath caught.
The clansman murmured his thanks to the laird and they parted ways. The man passed her in the shadows without noticing her at all. As he disappeared from view, she slowly stepped out. Still attempting to process her emotions.
She looked up to find Halvard standing in the doorway, broad shoulders framed by the warm light behind him. It was clear he had noticed her at once, brow furrowing.
“Elsie?” He stepped toward her. “I thought ye’d be asleep, lass.”
“I couldn’t.” Her voice was softer than she intended. “I was walking the halls, and then I heard you speaking with your man.”
His expression shifted into something thoughtful. “Ah.”
She swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat, as she twisted her hands together. “What you said… about a woman who fears no one.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Women aren’t supposed to be like that. Not where I’m from.”
“Aye,” he said low. “England’s fond of its rules.”
“I’ve always been too bold,” she whispered, the tightness in her chest loosening as she spoke. “I’ve always been too outspoken. Men didn’t like it, didn’t like me. I was always told to be softer, quieter.” She hesitated. “It’s never been considered a virtue.”
“Then those who told ye that were fools,” he said simply.
He moved closer, so close that when he lifted a hand and hovered it just shy of her cheek, she could feel the heat coming off him. Her heart jumped.
“My favorite thing about ye, lass, is that ye are nae meek,” he said. “Yer nae afraid tae question. Ye fight back. Ye blaze.” His voice was low and rough. “I admire ye fer it. Especially because ye’re English.”
A shaky laugh escaped her. “That sounds suspiciously like an insult.”
He huffed a soft laugh in return. “Perhaps. But I mean it. Ye were born in th’ wrong damn country.”
