Harald did not answer immediately. He looked to the first scout instead. “In yer judgement?”
The man drew a breath. “Close enough tae see the stonework, me jarl.”
A tightening settled beneath Harald’s ribs, brief but unmistakable. “Dae ye believe they marked the keep?”
The first man hesitated, then nodded. “Once. Brief-like. One o’ them looked back before they disappeared.”
Harald absorbed that in silence, his gaze dropping briefly to the table as he fitted the details together. When he looked up again, Henry had leaned forward, fingers steepled, his expression sharpened with interest.
"Are there enemies who would risk this?" Henry persisted, leaning forward, his fingers steepled in a way that made Harald want to break them. "Old feuds, Harald? Or perhaps... a provocation we havenae discussed?"
Harald’s jaw tightened until it felt like it might crack. He knew what Henry was implying. The wedding.
"Lewis has never lacked fer enemies, Henry," Harald countered, his voice turning to iron. "And I dinnae need a history lesson while me borders are being walked by strangers."
“And yet,” Henry persisted, “such movement suggests provocation.”
Harald stood up straight, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the council table.
"Nay one moves on this island without me kenning," he said, the words falling like hammer blows. "And nay threat goes unanswered. If they want tae test the depth o' the water, I’ll be happy tae drown them in it."
Henry inclined his head, but there was something dissatisfied in the motion. “Naturally. Still, it may be prudent tae consider whether certain alliances?—”
“That’s enough.” Harald’s voice cut cleanly through the chamber, the edge in it sharper than Henry had anticipated.
Henry’s jaw tightened. “I only meant?—”
“I ken precisely what ye meant.” Harald leaned forward then, forearms braced against the table, the movement unhurried but unmistakable in its intent. His gaze fixed on Henry and did not waver. “And I’ll remind ye that Lewis answers tae nay one beyond this hall.”
The words left no space for argument.
Henry inclined his head, stiff and restrained, but something displeased lingered in his eyes before he looked away. Harald held the silence a moment longer, ensuring the point had landed where it needed to.
He looked around the table, his gaze a challenge to any man who doubted him. But inside, his thoughts were a riot. Enya. The anticipation in her eyes. The scouts at the wall. He had to get back to her. He had to know what she was hiding.
“That will be all,” he said at last. “Increase the watches along the coast. Double patrols at dusk and dawn. I want eyes on every approach. If they return, I want tae ken before they take a second step on me land.”
Chairs scraped back as the Council rose. Orders were repeated, cloaks gathered, voices kept low as the men filed out in ones and twos. Harald remained where he was, hands still on the table, until the chamber emptied and the door closed behind the last of them.
Only then did he straighten.
The quiet that followed was a physical weight, thick with the iron-scent of the scouts' fear and the sour underlying note of Henry’s words.
Harald crossed to the narrow slit of the window, his boots heavy on the stone. He pressed a hand against the freezing masonry, the rough texture biting into his palm, but his gaze didn't settle on the yard below. Henry spoke as if the secrets of Lewis were his to hoard, as if the power was already shifting away from the head of the table. A complication he didn't have the patience to solve with diplomacy.
His thoughts betrayed him then, slipping back to the shadows of the corridor. To Enya.
He couldn't shake the way she had yielded. A woman who looked at a naked laird without flinching shouldn't have bowed so easily to a man like Henry. Her retreat felt calculated, a tactical withdrawal that left him feeling exposed. And that look—that sharp, electric flash of anticipation when the threat was mentioned—it sat in his gut like a swallowed stone.
Was she looking fer a rescue? Or was she the one who called them here?
The heat he had felt at the lake had soured into a cold, hard knot of suspicion. Harald drew a slow, jagged breath, the damp air of the keep filling his lungs. He pushed himself away from the wall, his jaw set so tight it ached.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Harald had read the same line three times, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember a single word of it.
The ledger lay open like a mocking witness to his failure. The ink was neat, orderly, and utterly meaningless. His attention was a frayed rope, snapping and whipping back to a single image every time he tried to anchor it to the page. He slammed the quill down—a sharp, stinging tap—and shoved back from the desk. The chair shrieked against the stone floor, a sound that grated against his already raw nerves.
