“And takin’ an English lass without proper negotiations? Harcourt will nae forgive that,” another voice chimed in.
“Harcourt’s forgiveness is nae my concern, nor me priority.” Halvard’s patience thinned.
“It should be,” the first clansmen snapped. “A good laird thinks of his clan afore himself.”
Redfern observed quietly, though his gaze sharpened.
Osric leaned forward. “Are ye sure this wife is nae… a distraction? An attempt tae avoid th’ marriage th’ king set fer ye?”
Halvard ground his teeth. “I dinnae owe Harcourt th’ continuation of me line by marriage tae his daughter, nor dae I owe th’ English king a weddin’.”
“That’s nay what we heard,” muttered Luthias, one of the younger council members. His lip curled. “And forgive me, m’laird, but ye dinnae seem th’ type tae settle wi’ a meek bride, nae after…” he hesitated.
Halvard felt the shift before the name left the man’s mouth.
“Nae after Bonnie,” he finished.
The room froze. Sten and Osric both shot to their feet. “Luthais…” Sten warned.
Halvard raised a hand to slow the moment, before slowly, very slowly, turning his gaze on the man who dared to bring that ghost into the room.
“Choose yer next words wi’ care,” Halvard warned quietly. His voice did not need volume to be heard. Luthais swallowed, color draining from his face. To bring up his brother’s duplicitous wife, the woman who used his own pain against him so callously. It was dangerous ground.
“Me apologies, m’ laird,” Luthais begged. “I only meant that…”
“Enough,” Halvard leaned forward, steel in every syllable. “I am laird of Rasaay. Me decisions are nae up fer debate, like gossip at th’ hearth. Th’ lass is me wife, and that’s th’ end of it.”
Silence fell heavy and absolute in the room. Even Redfern shifted in his seat, studying Halvard with renewed interest.
Osric, after a long moment, nodded. “A laird who daesnae yield is a laird worth followin’. We accept th’ marriage.”
Halvard’s muscles eased a fraction. Sten let out a slow breath. The meeting moved on, crop shortages, travel routes, the first storms already forming to the east and north, but the edge of the room never fully softened. And through it all, Halvard’s thoughts drifted, stubbornly and unhelpfully back to the previous night in the corridor. Elsie was at the forefront of his mind. Her breath. Her nearness. The way she had looked at him and his lips right before…
He shut it down.
There was work that needed doing. A clan to lead, a long, cold winter to prepare for.
And a wife he had no business wanting, yet he could not seem to push away. He finished the meeting only half interested in the musings of his Council before sending them away. Sten and Osric attempted to linger, but Halvard made sure they understood he needed to take some time alone.
As the council chamber emptied at last, tension still clung to Halvard’s shoulders. He pushed through the heavy doors into the great hall, intent on getting a breath of air before the rest of the day tried to drown him in responsibility. But he froze.
Elsie’s laugh drifted across the room. Soft. Bright. Uncontrolled.
It struck the center of his chest.
She stood near the entryway, speaking with a young lad, one of the newest guards on rotation. Halvard could not think of the lad’s name. Was it Ruairidh or Roderick? The lad was animated, hands moving in wide arcs as he recounted something to the lass. Most likely the recent training mishap Sten had informed him of during the council meeting.
However, the mishap itself did not seem as humorous as Elsie found the retelling. The lad’s cheek’s were flushed, starstruck and eager, and he leaned in just a breath too close to Elsie as he continued his tale.
Elsie stepped back, politely smiling as the boy spoke. But Halvard saw red. The laughter freely given to the young guard and yet not to him was enough, but also the way the lad fought far too hard to earn it sat like sour ale in Halvard’s gut.
His jaw tightened.
His fists curled.
Jealousy, unwelcome and sharp, flared beneath his ribs.
The lad looked up, noticing his laird before Elsie.
