“Reason’s never helped me much here in the Highlands,” he said offering her a hand to climb back up into the saddle. Elsie could only glare. “Unless ye’d rather walk, lass.”
She cursed under her breath. It seemed this day was causing her to behave most unladylike. She wondered for a brief moment what her sister, Selene, would say when she told her of this particular adventure. She took the laird’s hand, her smaller one swallowed completely in his rough grip. He pulled her up onto the horse with ease, settling her in front of himself once again. The contact was immediate, warm and solid, and entirely too close for Elsie’s comfort.
She tried to adjust her body, turning her knees politely to one side, but the horse shifted beneath them, stepping slightly off balance.
“Ye’ll fall off like that, lass,” Halvard cautioned, with a touch of amusement in his voice.
“I most certainly will not.”
“Ye most certainly will,” he leaned down and whispered in her ear. She had never met a man who seemed so entirely pleased with himself while torturing her. “This beastie is nay pony in yer English gardens.”
He gently snapped the reins and the horse surged forward, Elsie let out a very undignified squeak before instinctively grabbing onto Halvard’s arm. He laughed out right this time. His tenor deep and unguarded, which startled her more than the sudden movement of the horse.
“Aye, a fine rider, indeed.”
“Savage,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough that this time she hoped the brute heard her.
They rode in silence for a while, the rhythm of the horses the only sound in the dark. The landscape rolled by, heather and stone and endless grey hills. Elsie’s mind raced. Halvard was helping her, and she him in return, that much she understood. But she could not seem to shake the thought that agreeing with this insane scheme would drag her deeper into danger, more so than she had already been. Pretending to be a laird’s wife, lying to the Crown, surely it was madness.
And still, when she dared a glance at his profile in the dying light, she found him to be hard, certainly, but also noble, and completely sure of himself. She could not deny he inspired a small, treacherous spark of trust within her.
Don’t be daft.Just because he saved you and killed for you, doesn’t meant he has earned your trust.
His man, Sten, caught up to them, a grin stretching across his face ear to ear, as if their arguing had been nothing more than a normal eve’s entertainment. Halvard had been so intent onthe lass, he had nearly forgotten Sten had been with them when he was the one who had sent the man out ahead to check and ensure the road was clear.
“So ye’ve gone and found yerself a wife, eh?” Sten said, laughing. “Certainly better than Bonnie, I gather,” he mumbled.
Elsie turned back to catch Halvard’s eye. “Who is Bonnie?”
Halvard’s eyes shifted, his expression closing up instantly, all mirth and mischief from their earlier exchange, gone. “No one that should concern ye, lass,” he growled.
His mood was sharp enough to cause her to swallow any additional questions she might have had, leaving her exposed as if she had brushed up against something raw and untethered. It seemed her new, soon-to-be husband had his own demons, and she should be content to leave them be.
The wind blew a tad bit colder as they rode on, and Elsie found herself leaning back into Halvard ever so slightly telling herself it was merely for the man’s warmth. Nothing further.
By the time the grey stone towers of what she assumed was the laird’s home rose out of the mist, Elsie found she was half frozen.
“Brochel Castle, lass,” Halvard leaned down and spoke deeply into her ear. “’Tis where I call home, and where I hope ye’ll feel welcome fer as long as ye stay.”
Through the exhaustion of the ride and not fully convinced she wasn’t in a living nightmare, Elsie forced herself to look up at the imposing sight.
The fortress rose like a great brooding beast on the cliff’s edge.
Not unlike its laird.
Its walls were darkened by age and the harsh winds off the sea. The crashing of the waves below echoed faintly through the rock as the castle itself took its very breath from the tide. Jagged hills hemmed it in on the side opposite the sea. A narrow bridge of stone led to the great gates, where iron torches sputtered defiantly in the damp air.
“Of course, your castle would look like something from a ghost story,” she murmured.
Elsie could not help but compare it to the manicured estates she was used to. This was nothing like her old life at all. No flowering hedges, no sunlit gardens, only gulls and puffins crying overhead, their calls mixing with the scents of salt, smoke and peat.
Although, if she were being honest with herself, Elsie saw the rugged beauty beneath the harrowing appearance. There wassomething incredibly brave and strong in the castle standing firm and tall in the face of such a harsh landscape.
She craned her neck to look up at the laird behind her. His gaze was fixed on the great gatehouse ahead of them, the faintest muscle ticking in his jaw. The wind whipping his head back, his plaid snapping in defiance.
Blast him, he looks like the hero in one of Selene’s romantic stories.
It was infuriating.
