Eventually, Halvard rolled onto his side and gathered her against him, his chest pressed to her back, one arm draped over her stomach protectively.
“Ye’re mine now,” he murmured into her hair—not possessively, but with wonder, with honesty.
Elsie let out a soft laugh. “I was yours before this too, you know.”
“Aye, but now ye’re truly mine,” Halvard insisted, even if to Elsie it didn’t make much sense. “And I’m yers.”
Elsie closed her eyes, smiling softly to herself
“Yes,” she whispered. “Mine.”
He tightened his arm around her, his breath warm on her neck. And as he fell asleep behind her, his breathing soft, slow, Elsie held onto his arm, thinking to herself that even if they didn’t know what the future would hold, all that mattered was for them to be together.
To belong to each other.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The great hall buzzed with voices—deep, rumbling, endlessly circling around clan politics and territorial tensions that made Elsie’s head grow heavy within minutes. Halvard sat at the center of the long oak table, his broad shoulders taut with authority and quiet irritation, Sten at his right, several elders flanking either side.
Elsie tried, truly tried, to follow the discussions. But between border disputes, grazing rights, and the proper movement of fishing boats, her mind drifted like a leaf on the surface of a lake.
Halvard glanced her way once and smirked faintly, clearly seeing the boredom in her eyes.
“Lass,” he murmured low enough so that only she heard, “ye’re dyin’ a slow death.”
“I am not.”
Halvard’s lips twitched. “If ye start sighin’ any louder, the elders will think ye’re tryin’ tae haunt the place.”
Elsie lifted her chin indignantly, but he leaned a little closer, his voice dropping.
“If ye’d rather nae listen tae a dozen old men argue about sheep, the healer could use help in her croft. Might suit ye better.”
Elsie perked up instantly. “Truly?”
“Aye.” He let himself smile, quick and soft, impossibly fond. “Ye’ve a good hand with calm an’ sense. Isla will appreciate the company.”
Warmth curled under her ribs. She touched his arm lightly, grateful, and then stood from her chair, eager to get out of that room and away from all that dreadful talk of everything that could go wrong with the clan.
“Thank you.”
As she hurried from the hall, she swore she felt his gaze trail after her, lingering with a kind of hidden pride. But Elsie chanced only a single glance back to him, reluctant to distract him any further from his meeting. Then, she made her way to the healer’s cottage, through the winding path that crossed the castle grounds.
The croft sat at the far edge of the courtyard, a squat stone building draped in thick vines, herbs hanging from every beam under its eaves. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, heavy with the scent of rosemary, heather, and something pleasantly sharp—juniper, perhaps.
Elsie stepped inside and stopped in wonder. Bundles of dried plants hung from the rafters. Jars lined the shelves, each labeled in Isla’s careful scrawl. Bowls of roots, petals, powders, and salves lined the wooden table like the ingredients of some ancient art.
Isla, Brochel’s healer, turned with a warm, weathered smile. Her gray hair was bound in a plait thick as rope, her eyes lively and sharp.
“Me lady,” Isla said, her eyes narrowing as she took in Elsie by her door, as if she was trying to see if she had any injuries. “What is it ye require?”
“Nothing,” Elsie assured her. “I only came because the laird informed me you might need some help. I’m here to help.”
For a moment, Isla turned to stare at her head-on, giving her the once-over as if she was trying to asses if Elsie was cut out for this kind of work. But Elsie already had some experience with healing from home. Though limited, it was enough to make her work comfortably in the croft with Isla, following her directions.
“So, the laird’s wife wishes tae work among the sick and smelly, daes she?” Isla teased.
Elsie flushed. “I only wish to be useful.”
