"Did it." Now he was definitely almost smiling. "And now?"
"Now I'm reconsiderin’ me strategic choices." Enya looked down at herself—at the ruined traveling dress, the mud coating her from chest to hem, the sorry state of her boots. "Among other things."
"Ye're shakin'."
"It's freezin’."
"Aye." Harald released her elbow but didn't step back. "Ye should get warm. There's spare cloaks on the horses."
"I dinnae need yer cloak." The words came out sharper than she intended, years of rejection making her defensive even whensomeone was trying to help. "I need tae check on me maid. Where's Amelia?"
"She's fine. Leo's seein' tae her and the guards." Harald's gaze flicked past her, then back. "Two of yer men are dead. One's badly injured but might survive. The fourth ran when the fight started."
Guilt hit her hard and fast. Those men had died trying to protect her. Had died because Finley insisted on pressing forward, on not stopping.
"Where is Laird Cameron, by the way? I was told he'd be escortin' ye tae Lewis personally."
And there it was. The first test. The first lie she'd have to tell.
"He had tae establish camp before dark," Enya said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded. "The journey took longer than expected, and he thought it safer tae?—"
"Tae send ye on alone?" Harald's eyes narrowed. "Through the most dangerous stretch of road on the island?"
"He left me with guards."
"Who are now mostly dead." Harald's voice was still calm, but something sharp had entered it. "Fergive me, Lady Cameron, but yer braither's idea of safety seems... questionable."
"He's nae here tae defend himself."
"Nay. He's nae." Harald held her gaze for a long moment, and Enya had the uncomfortable feeling he could see right through her. See the lie, the fear, everything Finley had asked her to hide. "But ye are. So perhaps ye can tell me why the Laird of Clan Cameron would send his only sister—his unmarried sister, who'smeant tae seal a royal alliance—through hostile territory with a guard of four men."
Because he's using me.
"Perhaps," Enya said carefully, "ye should ask him yerself when ye see him. If ye see him."
"Oh, I'll see him." Something dark flickered in Harald's expression. "I'll make certain of it."
The threat, because it was definitely a threat, should have frightened her. Should have sent her running back to her brother with warnings about the dangerous Norse laird who'd seen through their plan in the first five minutes.
Instead, she felt something uncomfortably close to relief.
"Ye're bleedin'."
Harald's observation jerked her back to the present. "What?"
"Yer face." He raised one hand slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted. When she didn't, his fingers brushed the side of her jaw—feather-light, barely there. "Ye've a cut. Did someone hit ye?"
The memory rushed back—the ambusher's fist, the explosion of pain, the taste of blood. "It's naethin'."
"It's nae naethin'." Harald's voice had gone very quiet. "Someone struck ye hard enough tae split the skin. Who? And why?"
Enya stared at him, at that man she'd been sent tae betray and felt something in her chest twist painfully.
It was so unexpected she didn't know what to do with it.
"The one ye killed first," she heard herself say. "The one who grabbed me when... when he saw me eyes."
Harald's expression didn't change, but his hand fell away from her face. "I see."
