"Let’s get ye tae bed," he whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The gray light of dawn filtered through the narrow, arched windows of the solar. It caught the steam rising from the porridge and the sharp, silver glint of the butter knife.
Harald sat across from Enya, his posture as rigid as the stone walls surrounding them. He watched her over the rim of his cup. Her skin was still pale from the previous night’s ordeal, but her eyes—those mismatched, defiant eyes—held a new, fragile light.
He felt a fierce, almost painful surge of protectiveness. The admission of love he had made in the bath still echoed in the quiet corners of the room. It had been a terrifying surrender of his armor.
The silence was broken by the thud of boots in the corridor. A servant knocked tentatively before leaning in, his face etched with a mixture of confusion and urgency.
"Laird Alvsson... the folk. They’ve gathered in the inner bailey. They’re askin' fer... fer the lady."
Harald’s hand tightened around the handle of his mug. His first instinct, honed by a decade of wary leadership, was suspicion.
They’ve heard the whispers. They’ve come tae demand why a spy sits at me table.
He looked at Enya, seeing the way her hand trembled slightly as she set down her spoon. Her composed mask was in place, but he could see the wariness in the set of her shoulders—the practiced readiness for rejection.
"I’ll go," she said, her voice quiet but steady.
"We’ll go taegether," Harald corrected, standing up.
He reached across the table, his large hand covering hers for a brief, firm second. His touch was meant to be an anchor, but his own heart was hammering against his ribs.
As they stepped out onto the stone steps overlooking the bailey, the cold morning air bit at them. A crowd had gathered—laborers with soot-stained faces, weavers, and the guards who had fought the fire.
Harald felt Enya stiffen beside him. He moved half a step in front of her, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He was ready to command them to disperse, ready to be the tyrant if it meant sparing her another wound to her spirit.
Then, a woman stepped forward.
It was Mairi, the wife of one of his youngest stonemasons. She held the hand of the small boy who looked up at the stairs with wide, silent eyes. Mairi’s face was red-rimmed from crying, but her expression was one of profound, trembling gratitude.
"Me Lady," Mairi’s voice carried through the quiet air. She reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out a small, roughly carved wooden bird, similar to those the village children played with. "Me Da made this fer the lad. He wanted ye tae have it. Tae remember... that he breathes because o’ ye."
The child she saved last night.
Enya gasped, a small, broken sound that tore at Harald’s heart. He watched her grip the stone railing, her knuckles turning white.
Mairi bowed her head, a deep, respectful gesture. "We were wrong, me lady. In a stranger we looked fer danger. But danger daesnae dive intae the deep fer a mason’s son." Then she handed her the bird.
One by one, others followed. An old man stepped forward, his voice gruff. "Forgive us, me lady. The Laird chose ye, and we should have kent his word was enough. Ye’re one o’ us now. Fer as long as the stones stand."
Harald stood motionless, a lump forming in his throat that no amount of stoicism could swallow. He looked at his people—these hard, stubborn folk who usually only moved when he barked a command. They weren't acting out of duty today. They were acting out of a shared, quiet sincerity. They had seen Enya’s soul in the water, and they had chosen her, just as he had.
A profound sense of pride swelled within him for the woman beside him. She stood composed, her head held high, though he could see the glint of tears in her eyes.
"Thank ye," Enya whispered, her voice carrying just enough edge to keep it from breaking. "I... I only did what needed daeing."
"That’s what a Norse woman daes," the old man replied, and the crowd began to murmur in agreement before slowly drifting back to their labors.
Harald turned to her as the bailey emptied. The morning sun finally broke through the clouds, illuminating the copper strands in her hair. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock behind her ear. He felt a terrifying level of love for her—a love that made him feel both invincible and entirely breakable.
"Ye heard them," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to her forehead. "Ye’re one o’ us, Enya. Always."
He wanted to stay there, to pull her into the shadows of the solar and never let her go. But duty was a jealous master.
"I have tae go tae the chamber," he said, his tone shifting back to the measured gravity of the Laird. "The Council is waiting tae speak of the fire."
