Finley didn't even blink. He smoothed the front of his doublet, the gesture so calm and domestic that it made Harald’s skin crawl with a fresh wave of revulsion.
Harald watched him, his mind working with the cold, mechanical precision that had kept him alive through a dozen winters of war. He tuned out the taunts, focusing instead on the logistics of the threat.
Finley was arrogant, but Harald wasn't a fool.
Leo willnae sit idle.
By now, the absence of the laird and lady would be a ringing bell in the keep. Leo was a man of iron and order; he would have already doubled the lookouts and lit the secondary beacons.
Yet, as he looked at Enya, the calculation faltered. His military mind told him the island was safe, but his heart told him she was in mortal peril. She was the leverage. Finley didn't want the land as much as he wanted to break the spirit of the man who held it.
Enya is the bridge.
Finley turned on his heel, his shadow lengthening as he moved toward the heavy doors. "Stay here and rot, the pair o' ye."
He stepped out, and Harald heard him barking orders to the men outside. "Keep two guards at the door. If either of them breathes too loud, silence them. I want them alive fer the morning, but I dinnae care if they’re whole."
Two guards stepped into the gloom, the heavy thud of their boots vibrating through the floorboards and into Harald’s aching bones. They were large, brutal-looking men with faces like hammered lead. They simply stood by the entrance, arms crossed.
The doors slammed shut, and the heavy iron bar dropped with a final, hollowclackthat sounded like a coffin lid.
The silence that followed was thick, pressing into Harald's lungs. The only sound was the jagged, wet hitch of Enya’s breathing. She was shaking so violently that the hay beneath her rustled like dry bones.
"Enya," Harald whispered. "Look at me. Breathe, lass. Just breathe."
"He's going tae kill them, Harald," she sobbed, her voice muffled against his shoulder. "Because o' me. He’s going tae turn yer own people against ye, and I’ll be the reason."
Harald closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Me people ken who I am," he rasped, his voice thick with a fierce, protective conviction. "And they ken who ye are. They saw the way ye looked at the boy. Lies cannae burn away the truth o’ a person’s soul, nay matter how much soot Finley throws at it."
His gaze caught on a flicker of moonlight reflecting off the wall. Near the rotted doorframe, a heavy iron hook—once used for hanging tack or lanterns—peeked out from the timber. It was jagged, rusted, and sat at just the right height.
A sharp glimmer of hope sparked in Harald’s chest.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The darkness of the barracks was suffocating, thick with the smell of stagnant moisture and the bitter, metallic tang of fear.
Enya sat slumped against the rotting timber, her wrists raw and weeping where the hemp had bitten deep during their forced march. Every breath was a struggle against the crushing weight in her chest.
She looked at Harald. Even in the gloom, he looked like a fallen god carved from granite. His head was bowed, his jaw set in a line so hard it looked as if it might snap, his eyes fixed on the wall.
This is me fault,all o’ it.
The burned granary, the impending siege on the keep, and now the Laird of Lewis bound in a shed like a beast for slaughter. Every kindness he had shown her, every moment of surprising tenderness, had been a step toward this ruin.
She opened her mouth, the wordsI’m sorrytrembling on her tongue. “Harald…”
Harald didn't look at her, but he must have felt the shift in her air. He gave a sharp, minute shake of his head. His dark eyes flickered toward the two shadows by the door—the guards—and then back to her. It was a silent command.
Hush. Nae yet.
Enya swallowed the words and watched him instead. He began to move, a rhythmic, microscopic sawing motion. His face was a mask of cold, controlled agony. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, carving a path through the soot on his skin.
"I told ye," one of the guards spat, voice cutting through the silence. "We shouldnae both be in here. It’s a waste o' good air and better ale. I’m goin' tae the cook-fire."
"Ye’re goin' nowhere," the second guard retorted, his voice tight with irritation. "Laird said two. Unless ye’ve grown a second brain, ye’ll remember that."
"Finley’s a fop wi’ a fancy tongue. The Hawk’s tied up like a Sunday roast. He’s nae goin' anywhere."
