For a heartbeat, the chapel was utterly still. Then Halvard leaned down and kissed her—not with hunger, not with fire, but with reverence. As though this, finally, was something sacred.
Elsie felt warmth bloom behind her eyes. Outside, beyond the thick stone walls, the wind eased, and the sea—wild and merciless only hours before—seemed at last to fall quiet.
Elsie let her tears slip free, unashamed. And for the first time since her life had shattered, she knew, with a certainty as deep as the water beyond the shore, that she was exactly where she was meant to be.
Afterwards, it only seemed proper to head to the tavern for the celebration. Though it was far from the grand affair that would have become a laird’s wedding, Elsie wouldn’t have traded it for the world. She only wished her sister could have been there, so she could have partaken in her joy, but she reminded herself Selene would be there with her, in Raasay, soon enough.
The tavern glowed like a hearth against the grey of the afternoon. Inside, the air was thick with warmth and sound—laughter rising in uneven bursts, tankards thudding against scarred wooden tables, a fiddle singing something quick and joyful that made even the oldest villagers tap their feet. Someone had produced bread still warm from the oven, another a wheel of sharp cheese, and the ale flowed as though the storm had never existed at all.
Elsie sat beside Halvard at the long table, her shoulder brushing his arm each time he moved. It felt unreal for her. Only hoursago, she had been clinging to a lie, a wife only in name, without any of the oaths such a position entailed. Now she wore a simple ribbon the innkeeper’s wife had pressed into her hands, tied hastily into her hair, toasting with Sten as he raised his cup.
“Tae the Lady MacLeod,” he said quietly.
The name sent a small, dizzying thrill through her. For the first time, there was nothing false about it.
Halvard lifted his tankard, his eyes warm as they found hers. “Tae me wife.”
The celebration continued among the three of them, but even if everyone else around them didn’t know they had just gotten married, the joy and festive spirit bled into them, until the entire tavern was roaring with laughter and song and lively conversation. At some point, the heat and noise grew too much. She slipped from the bench quietly, mumbling something about needing air.
Outside, the wind had softened to a cool whisper. The sky hung low and pearl-grey, the sea visible between buildings, calmer now but still powerful—endless, patient. Elsie drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with salt and smoke and freedom.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
She turned instinctively, her heart skipping, but it was only a man from the village—middle-aged, weathered, his expression open rather than intrusive.
“Are ye well, lass?” he asked kindly. “Bit o’ a whirlwind day, I’d wager.”
She smiled, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I am, thank you.”
He followed her gaze as she glanced back toward the tavern door.
Halvard stood just inside the threshold, one broad shoulder braced against the frame. He had not followed her out, but he had not let her out of his sight either. His eyes were on her, unwavering, sharp and protective even there. When she met his gaze, she lifted her chin slightly and gave a small nod.
I’m alright.
He nodded back once, just as subtly, but he did not move nor did he look away.
The man beside her noticed and chuckled softly. “Aye,” he said. “That one keeps watch like a wolf.”
It was a habit of Halvard’s. On the one hand, she always felt protected. On the other, she still painted the opinion that beingwatched so closely every single day could very easily become suffocating.
But when the man spoke again, Elsie was glad for Halvard’s presence, even if he was too far from her to hear.
“How is yer sister, Selene?”
For a moment, Elsie did not breathe. The tavern’s warmth vanished as if a door had been flung open to the winter. Sound blurred—fiddle strings warping, laughter stretching thin—while the name echoed inside her skull with cruel clarity. Selene. Her name, spoken carefully, deliberately. But the man didn’t have an English accent; he was a local, and that frightened her even more.
Elsie turned slowly.
The man stood at her shoulder as though he had always been there. He was unremarkable in every deliberate way—average height, plain coat, dark hair cropped short, the sort of face that slid easily from memory. But his eyes were sharp, watchful, and entirely uninvited.
She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I don’t know you,” she said, each word measured.
A faint smile touched his mouth, not warm or kind. “Nay. But I ken ye.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She felt Halvard near her—solid, present—but she did not look at him, not yet. Instinct screamed that this moment belonged to secrecy.
