Enya froze. Her heart leaped into her throat like a trapped bird, and the warmth in her veins turned to ice in a second. The bliss evaporated, replaced by the stinging, metallic taste of old fear.
Harald let out a low, guttural huff of annoyance, his forehead dropping against hers for a fleeting second of frustration. He didn't move his arm from her, but she could feel the change in him—the shift from lover to laird, his muscles turning to corded iron.
"Who is it?" he roared, his voice cracking through the room like a thunderclap.
"It is Sir Henry," the voice on the other side answered, clipped and devoid of warmth. "The sun is up, Laird Alvsson. Thereare matters o’ state that require verification before the morning progresses. We have a schedule tae keep."
Harald closed his eyes, his jaw working as he ground his teeth together so hard, she heard the bone creak. "Wait," he commanded, the word dripping with a lethal, serrated irritation.
He pulled away from Enya, and she felt suddenly, violently exposed, as if the king’s men were already in the room, judging the marks on her skin. She was furious.
"It’s barely mornin’," she hissed, her voice regaining its sharp, biting edge. She yanked her shift over her head, her movements frantic. "And he’s come tae remind us that even our bed belongs tae the Crown. The man is a pestilence."
"He's an annoyance," Harald corrected, his voice tight as he pulled on his tunic. "And I promise ye, I’ll make him pay fer every second o' peace he’s stolen from us."
They dressed in a blur of haste and heavy silence. Enya’s heart pounded against her teeth, a frantic, sickening rhythm. The transition from the soft, golden intimacy of the furs to the cold, grey duty of the keep was a jagged one, leaving her feeling raw and defensive.
Harald strode to the door and ripped it open with a force that made the iron hinges scream.
Henry stood there, dressed in midnight-blue velvet that looked ridiculous. He looked past Harald, his gaze sweeping the room with a clinical, insulting curiosity.
"Why are ye disturbin' me peace, Henry?" Harald asked, his voice a low growl. He stood in the doorway, his massive frameblocking the envoy’s view of the bed, a wall of muscle and suppressed violence.
"The king’s peace requires proof, me laird," Henry said, his tone smooth and condescending. He held out a hand, his fingers long and pale. "The marriage sheets. I require them fer inspection and sealing. The alliance is nae legally binding until the consummation is verified and recorded fer the king’s archives."
The words hit Enya and she felt the blood drain from her face, only to return in a searing, frantic rush that burned across her cheekbones.
This is so humiliating.
She stood in the dimness of the room, her hands coming up to clutch the front of her gown, her fingers tangling in the fabric as if she could hide herself within it.
She felt the bile rise in her throat. Her gaze fell to the floor, her eyelashes casting long, flickering shadows as she fought to keep her expression a frozen mask. She felt like a mare being checked for her breeding, a prize to be authenticated before the trade was finalized.
Every instinct screamed at her to lash out—but instead, she forced her spine into a rigid, painful line. She swallowed the dry ash in her throat, her jaw locking so tight it sent a throb of pain through her temples.
Harald’s hand flew to the hilt of his dagger, his knuckles turning white. His anger was a living thing, radiating off him in suffocating waves. "Ye would dare," he hissed, his voice so low it was barely a whisper.
"I would fulfill the king's decree," Henry replied, his eyes finally meeting Harald’s with a cold, flickering defiance. "Unless, o’ course, there is some reason the laird cannae produce the proof? Perhaps the alliance isnae as solid as we were led tae believe?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Enya watched the back of Harald’s neck, the way his muscles bunched and corded. She knew he wanted to murder the man.Shewanted him to kill this damned Henry.
Slowly, with a hand that shook with suppressed rage, Harald reached back into the room. He didn't look at Enya as he snatched the linen from the bed—the proof of their union, of her surrender—and shoved it into Henry’s chest.
Henry took it without a flinch and took a long, silent look.
"It is in order," Henry said finally, his voice sounding bored. He folded the linen with a sharp, crisp motion and tucked it into a leather satchel. "The king will be pleased. I shall depart wi’in the hour."
He turned on his heel without another word, his silk skirts swishing against the stone floor.
Harald didn't move for a long time. When he finally turned, his face was pale, his eyes filled with a raw, bleeding apology that she couldn't bear to look at.
"Enya—"
"Dinnae, it’s nae yer fault," she interrupted, her voice sharp. "We have guests tae see off. The king’s man has his bloodied rag. Let’s nae keep the rest o’ the world waitin'."
They moved down the stone stairs together.
The Great Hall was a hive of activity, the air thick with the smell of stale ale and the smoke of guttering torches. The other lairds were buckling their sword belts, their wives smoothing travel-worn skirts.
