Halvard turned to the messenger waiting near the door. “Write this,” he said. “Bowen Harcourt has violated Highland territory, used mercenaries, an’ attempted abduction o’ a titled Englishwoman under MacLeod protection. Demand immediate investigation.”
The messenger bowed and hurried out, his footsteps echoing in the large room. Halvard inhaled slowly, letting the fury anchor him rather than consume him.
“This ends now,” he said. The room quieted, every warrior alert. “Double the guards. Patrol the borders. Send scouts toward the coast. Harcourt isnae done. He’ll try again.”
Sten nodded. “An’ next time, he’ll find the gates ready.”
The meeting ended with heavy tension and determined faces, but Halvard didn’t feel relief. He couldn’t, not until he saw her again.
He found Elsie waiting in the dim corridor outside the council chamber, her hands clasped in front of her, worry etched into her brow.
“Halvard,” she whispered, stepping toward him, “what will happen now?”
He exhaled slowly. He didn’t touch her, but the urge trembled through him.
“Now,” he said, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest, “I protect ye, better than afore.”
“And Harcourt?” she asked.
“He’s crossed a line he’ll regret.”
His voice was steel, just as hard and sharp. Elsie hesitated, then placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, stepping closer.
“Halvard… will ye be safe?”
His heart clenched. His chest seized, and Halvard felt as though a giant hand was closing around him like a vice.
“Lass,” he said, finally allowing himself to cup her cheek, “as long as ye’re under me roof, I’ll nae be worryin’ fer meself.”
Elsie’s breath caught, hitching in her throat. And for a moment—for a heartbeat of quiet in the storm-torn world—he let himself look at her the way he truly felt.
Then he stepped back before he did something they may both regret.
“Rest, Elsie,” he said softly. “On the morrow, we prepare.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The forest stank of failure.
Bowen Harcourt drew back the hood of his cloak as he stepped off the narrow Highland trail and into the clearing where his men had made camp the night before. Moonlight slid between the heavy branches overhead, illuminating broken earth, trampled underbrush, and bodies.
One fewer than there should have been. One man was neither dead there, along with the others, nor had he returned—which could only mean he was either a deserter or he had been captured.
Knowing his men, the former sounded unlikely—the latter, less so.
Bowen’s lips thinned, his jaw tightening as he crouched beside the nearest corpse. The man’s neck hung at an unnatural angle, his head half-turned, his eyes still wide with terror.
“Savage Highlanders,” Bowen mumbled, running a gloved finger along the man’s throat. “You weren’t supposed to engage them. You were supposed to bring me the girl.”
His voice echoed slightly in the damp silence.
An owl hooted once in the distance. Every muscle in Bowen’s face tightened. He rose slowly, his gaze sweeping the clearing. The men had fought—and lost badly. Despite being armed, outnumbering the girl, and being trained by him, they had been dispatched with brutal precision.
Which meant only one thing.
“Laird MacLeod reached her first,” he said to himself, a poisonous dose of contempt coating each word. “Of course, he did. Heroic brute.”
His fingers curled into fists at his sides. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. A clean acquisition, a swift disappearance—that was what he had commanded. Elsie delivered to a discreet vessel waiting on the western shore and a tearful tale spun for the king’s envoy about Highland treachery and a misplaced bride. His own daughter married to Halvard within the season—whether the Highlander wanted it or not.
