“Nay crossin’ taenight,” Sten said grimly, going to stand beside him.
Halvard did not answer at once. His gaze tracked the horizon, where the sky and sea bled into one another in a furious smear of iron grey. Rain threatened, heavy and low, pressing down on the world until even breathing felt like a labor.
The ship waited in the small harbor below, lashed and groaning against its moorings. Even from that distance, Halvard could hear the creak of timber and the scream of rigging protesting the wind.
He clenched his jaw.
“We’d lose half the men afore we reached open water,” he said finally. “An’ the rest afore dawn.”
Sten nodded. “Aye. The sea’s in nay mood fer mercy.”
Halvard turned then, his eyes drawn unbidden to the small cluster behind them. His men stood ready despite the futility of it, their cloaks soaked, their faces set in stoic patience. And among them, wrapped in a dark riding cloak, stood Elsie.
The wind caught her hair, a few strands escaping the hood to whip across her face. She stood straight, her chin lifted, her eyes fixed not on the sea but on him; watching, waiting.
Guilt twisted sharp and unwelcome in his chest. Halvard strode back toward her, the soles of his boots crunching over stone. She did not speak as he approached, though her hands tightened around the fabric at her throat.
“We’ll have tae wait,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “The sea willnae allow us passage tonight.”
Elsie’s disappointment was immediate—and carefully controlled. She only nodded once.
“How long?” she asked.
Halvard glanced back at the waves. “If the wind turns by the morrow, we’ll go then. If it daesnae…” He exhaled slowly. “We find shelter an’ wait.”
Elsie’s lips pressed together. For a heartbeat, he saw the fear she worked so hard to keep buried—the fear for her sister, alone in England, not knowing whether Elsie lived, not knowing whether she was safe. It stirred something fierce and protective inside him, something he had long since felt for Elsie; something he had long since accepted as a part of him, something as inextricable from him as his own heart.
“There’s an inn in the town,” Sten said. “Sturdy walls. It’ll keep us dry fer the night. Get the men some warm food in them, too.”
“That will dae,” Halvard said.
His men were hardened and loyal, and they would brave the weather if he asked. But a soldier fed and warmed by the fire and whisky was a happy soldier, and Halvard wanted to keep his men happy.
They turned inland, leaving the raging sea behind them, though its voice followed, howling, and relentless, like a warning.
Soon, the inn appeared before them as they trudged through the town’s streets, their boots splashing water over their calves as puddles formed between the cobblestones. The building squatted at the edge of the harbor town like a beast grown old and stubborn. Its stone walls were dark with damp, and the sign creaked overhead, swinging wildly in the wind. Smoke leaked from the chimney, carrying the scent of smoke.
Inside, the air was thick and warm, heavy with bodies and noise. Sailors crowded the tables, their voices raised to outshout the storm, their laughter edged with desperation. The fire roared at the far end of the room, throwing flickering light across rough faces and scarred hands.
Halvard felt eyes turn toward him as he entered.
He was used to it—the way men noticed the breadth of his shoulders, the scars that marked him. But tonight, he felt it more keenly, perhaps because Elsie followed close behind him, her presence a fragile flame in a room full of sparks.
He placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her forward. The contact was instinctive, possessive—if not entirely necessary.
Her breath caught at the touch, just enough for him to feel it.
“We’ll need rooms,” Halvard said to the innkeeper, his voice cutting through the din.
The man eyed them, his gaze flicking between Halvard’s sword, Sten’s blade, and the cluster of armed Highlanders filling his doorway. “Three left,” he said cautiously. “Storm’s brought more in than usual, me laird.”
Halvard nodded. “We’ll take them.”
The innkeeper hesitated, eyes settling on Elsie. “That’ll mean?—”
“She’s me wife,” Halvard said, without pause.
Halvard led his party up the stairs, handing out the keys as he divided his men. Inside, the rooms were small and spare. The one he kept for himself and Elsie held a bed barely big enough for two, a washbasin, a rickety chair by the window, which rattled in its frame with every gust of the wind.
