Unless he was weaker than we thought.
Beside him, Elsie rose with him, concern etched in every line of her face. Halvard squeezed her hand, just once, quick but certain, because he needed her calm, her presence, her warmth, and because she was watching him with wide, uncertain eyes.
“I’ll be back,” he assured her.
She nodded, her gaze fierce despite her fear. “Be careful.”
Then Sten was at his side. The guards gathered around them as the elders stood from their seats—and Halvard strode into the night, fury pounding through him like a second heartbeat.
A council meeting needed to be called.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The council meeting dragged deep into the night, long enough for the torches to burn low and the stones underfoot to leech the warmth from Halvard’s bones. They spoke of enemies and saboteurs, of English accents and silenced prisoners, of shadows slipping too close to Brochel’s heart.
Bowen Harcourt’s name had hung unsaid in the air, heavy as a storm cloud. But eventually Sten forced the elders to end the session, promising fresh patrols at dawn.
Now, Halvard climbed the stairs alone. The weight of the night pressed against him—rage at the man who had died before he could speak, frustration at the lack of answers, fear for the woman sleeping in his bed. All of it churned inside him like a sea in winter.
But when he opened the bedchamber door, all that noise quieted. Elsie was curled under the furs, her hair strewn across the pillow in soft waves, her cheek resting on the back of onesmall hand. Moonlight spilled over her face, turning her skin pale silver, making her look ethereal, fragile, achingly lovely.
His heart stuttered. She must have fallen asleep waiting for him.
Halvard closed the door quietly behind him, shrugging off his weapons and his clothes piece by piece—his sword leaning against the wall, his belt placed on the chair, his boots left by the fire. He moved with the stealth of a hunter, though the prey he approached was harmless, peaceful, and utterly unaware of the chaos she caused inside him.
When he slid under the blankets, the mattress dipped gently and Elsie shifted. Not waking, but drifting closer, as if drawn to him by instinct alone. Her hand slid across his chest, her leg tangling with his, her forehead brushing the line of his jaw.
His breath left him in a slow exhale.
“Elsie,” he whispered, barely a sound.
She mumbled something in her sleep, soft and warm, nuzzling closer, as though she belonged there—in his arms, in his life. His arm wrapped around her waist automatically, pulling her in flush against him. Her body fit perfectly against his, small but strong, warm and steady. The scent of her—wildflowers and hearth smoke and something uniquely, unmistakably hers—settled around him like a balm.
For the first time all evening, his muscles loosened.
This is what home feels like.
Not stone walls or power. Not the throne-like chair in the council hall.
Only her.
Halvard rested his forehead against the crown of her head, his eyes closing. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen; he hadn’t meant to care so deeply, to want her with a kind of hunger that scared him, to look at her and forget she was meant to return to England, to a life far from him.
But she had come into his world like a spark in dry thatch, quiet at first, then burning, then completely unstoppable.
Halvard brushed a knuckle down her cheek, his touch gentle as snowfall.
“I’m yers, lass,” he whispered into the darkness, the confession stolen by the quiet. “God help me, I’m all yers.”
Elsie breathed softly, peacefully, unaware of the oath he had just spoken over her sleeping form.
Halvard closed his eyes, tightening his hold around her.
The following day he would tell her everything—every mistake, every shadow of Bonnie that still haunted him. Elsie deserved truth, and he would give it to her.
He would ask her the question that had been building inside him with every glance, every laugh, every kiss.
“Marry me,” he mumbled, imagining saying it aloud to her awake face.
