Halvard choked on air. “I’m nae handsome.”
Sten pointed his sword at him. “Och, shut up.”
Halvard straightened, trying—and failing—to hide the way embarrassment flickered in his stomach like lightning. “What dae ye want me tae dae, Sten?”
“I want ye tae stop fightin’ what’s already happenin’. Aye, she might leave in the end. Aye, her sister may call her back. But right now? She’s here, an’ she’s fallen fer ye, an’ ye’re actin’ like a man who’d rather wrestle a bear than admit he likes bein’ loved.”
Halvard froze mid-attack, stumbling over his own two feet.
Loved.
That word hit like a hammer to the chest.
Sten smoothed his beard. “So what if the lass breaks yer heart? Better than pretendin’ ye dinnae have one.”
Halvard’s throat tightened. His sword dipped. Frost clung to the edges of the yard, shimmering in the early sun, and for a moment everything felt strangely still.
Then he mumbled, “I hate when ye’re right.”
“Ye should be used tae it by now.”
Halvard swung at him, though half-heartedly. It wasn’t even enough to get near him, a strike as morose as he felt.
Sten yelped, leaping back. “Och! I was talkin’!”
“Too late.”
They clashed again—faster this time, heavier, laughter breaking between blows. Halvard’s mood lifted despite himself. And through every strike, every dodge, every grunt of effort, one truth thrummed steady in the back of his mind.
Elsie cared for him, maybe more than he had dared hope.
And he, God help him, he was falling for her like a man running toward the edge of a cliff, knowing the drop would come—and running anyway.
The evening feast was smaller than usual, half the men still patrolling the borders, but warm all the same. The hall glowed gold under the torchlight, the scent of roasted lamb thick in the air, voices rising and falling in a pleasant, rhythmic noise.
Halvard sat at the high table beside Elsie, and for the first time in weeks, something like ease settled over him.
She held a fork in her right hand and a chunk of bread in her left, eating with a delicate combination of Highland practicality and English grace.
And Halvard couldn’t help but smirk. “Ye’re usin’ both now.”
Elsie blinked, following his gaze to her hands. Her cheeks colored lightly, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks as if she was embarrassed to be caught losing her perfect manners—manners she already knew were irrelevant to Halvard and more than useless at his table.
“I suppose I am.”
“Aye. A proper Highland lass.” He nudged her shoulder playfully, but Elsie shot him a glare for his efforts.
Still, Halvard could have sworn she was biting back a smile.
“And you, Halvard MacLeod, are using a fork properly tonight. Almost like an English gentleman.”
Halvard made a face, glaring at the fork in his hand as if it had personally offended him. Then, he promptly dropped it on the table, where it landed with a clatter.
“Watch yer tongue, woman.”
It was then Elsie truly laughed, bright, soft, bubbling, and something warm expanded over his ribs.
They found a rhythm as the meal went on. She spoon-fed herself stew with her utensil but still tore the meat with her fingers. He ate with his hands but also used the fork because, as she had put it earlier, “Your dignity should survive dinner, at least.”
