“Bold lass,” he muttered, the words leaving him low and unguarded.
For the first time since he had taken his father's seat, Harald Alvsson felt the ground beneath him begin to tilt. He wasn't the one in control of the hunt anymore. He was the one being tracked, and God help him, he didn't want to run.
He took the path at a measured pace, forcing his legs to maintain a steady rhythm even as his blood hammered a different, more frantic tempo. He wasn't a boy half-mad with want, and he wouldn't chase her like one—no matter how much his body protested the restraint, the heavy, pulsing ache in his groin a constant reminder of what he’d just seen.
He could picture her perfectly: the panicked hitch of her breath, the flush on her cheeks, and that sharp, devious mind of hers already scrambling to stitch her composure back together.
She would be furious with herself for staying. For looking. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat through him, a dark, possessive pleasure.
The pursuit lit something reckless in his gut. It narrowed his world to the distance between them and the absolute certainty that he would have her. He felt buoyant, keyed high on the adrenaline and the lingering scent of water and sun-warmed skin.
He reached the outer yard just as she crossed it. She had slowed, posture already smoothed back into its familiar control, as though the chase had never happened at all. She turned at thesound of his boots, and for a split second, her mask slipped—raw surprise flashing in her eyes before she slammed the shutters closed.
For a heartbeat, the yard vanished. There was only the sound of their breathing and the heavy, electric charge of the lake still clinging to them both.
Her color had not faded; she looked branded by the sight of him. The memory of her hidden among the leaves, her gaze devouring him, pressed against his mind with animal force. He stepped into her space, invading it until he could feel her heat.
“Running from me now?” The words left him low and sharp, irritation threading through the lingering heat. “Is that how ye plan tae?—”
She drew breath to snap back, her eyes sparking.
“Me laird.”
The interruption struck like a collision.
Harald spun around, the unfinished sentence snapping off in his throat. A guard was hurrying toward them, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Harald stared at him, a white-hot flare of irritation rising in his chest. He didn't want the world back yet. He wanted her. He wanted to finish the argument he’d started at the water’s edge.
“What is it?” he demanded.
The guard dipped his head quickly. “Scouts from the western watch. They’ve spotted movement along the coast.”
The words landed like ice water.
Everything inside Harald shifted. The heavy, throbbing heat in his blood didn't just fade; it died, replaced instantly by the cold, metallic taste of duty. The man who had been dreaming of the press of a woman’s skin vanished, and the Laird of Lewis took his place.
“Movement,” he repeated, slower now.
“Aye, sir.”
He went perfectly still, his features setting into a mask of grim, practiced inevitability. The lake, the wager, the look in Enya's eyes—it all retreated into the distance, relegated to a luxury he could no longer afford. The weight of his position settled onto his shoulders, heavy and suffocating.
He didn't look back at her. He couldn't.
“Dae we ken how many?” Harald’s voice was like grinding stone, stripped of warmth
“Hard tae say, me jarl. Enough tae be cautious.”
Beside him, Enya stiffened.
It was subtle, the kind of thing most would have missed, but he caught it at once, the brief hitch in her step, the way her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts. He turned his head slightly, studying her profile from the corner of his eye.
Fear,he thought. It was a cold, jagged thought. It made sense; she was a stranger there, and the sea was a fickle, murderous neighbor. He felt a savage, irrational urge to reach out and pull her against his side—to anchor her with a touch he had no right to give and no time to indulge.
Lewis did not wait for his personal inclinations.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
The memory of her behind the leaves—the heat, the hunger—flared in his mind, and it felt like a betrayal of the men now watching the horizon. He shoved the image into a dark corner of his mind and stepped toward her, his voice shifting into the flat, clinical tone of command.
