Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“Me jarl, we’ll make landfall within the hour.”
Erik turned from where he’d been watching the gray smudge of Skye grow solid against the horizon. Aksel stood at his shoulder, steady as the stones that made up their castle walls, his face betraying nothing of the chaos they’d just survived.
“The lass?” Erik asked, keeping his voice low enough that only Aksel could hear.
“Still below. Hasnae moved since ye left her.” Aksel’s pale eyes flickered with something that might have been amusement. “Though I heard her retchin’ intae the basin a few moments past.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. He’d left her alone in his cabin, wrapped in his shirt like a half-drowned sprite, looking furious and frightened in equal measure.
The memory of her bare legs, the way the linen had clung to curves he had no business noticing, the defiant tilt of her chin even as she’d trembled from cold and shock…
Nae. Dinnae go there.
“Send someone tae check on her,” he said, his voice rougher than intended. “Make sure she’s...presentable.”
“Presentable.” Aksel’s mouth twitched. “Fer the men?”
“Aye.”
“Or fer ye?”
Erik’s silence stretched long enough that the men at the far end of the deck suddenly found their knots fascinating.
Aksel merely raised one eyebrow, unimpressed. “Go on then. Glower at me. We both ken ye’ll answer the question eventually.”
“Just dae it, will ye,” Erik muttered, turning back to the approaching isle.
Skye had been his burden since he was fifteen years old, since the night Highlanders had come in the dark and taken everything.
His parents. His aunt. His childhood. Left him with nothing but a sobbin’ five-year-old cousin, a burning need for vengeance, and the bitter understanding that mercy was a luxury neither Norsemen nor Scots could afford.
He’d made Skye strong through blood and steel. Through raids that kept their coffers full and their enemies wary. Through a reputation that preceded him like winter storms—brutal, unforgiving, and impossible to ignore.
The Wolf of Skye.
And now he was bringing home a Highland bride. A woman whose brother he’d killed in battle. A woman who looked at him like he was the monster in every story her clan had told around their fires.
“Me jarl.” One of his men—Bjorn, young and too eager—approached with the caution of a man walking on ice. “The lady requests… that is, she wishes tae ken if…”
“Spit it out, lad.”
“She wants her clothes back, me jarl. Says she willnae come above deck in naught but yer shirt.”
Despite the tension coiling through his shoulders, Erik almost smiled.
Of course she willnae.
It would have been easier if she’d been meek. Biddable. The sort of woman who accepted her fate with quiet tears and downcast eyes.
But Erik had never wanted easy.
“Tell the lady,” he said, emphasizing the title just enough to make Bjorn straighten, “that her clothes are ruined. Salt water and blood dinnae wash clean. She can wear me shirt or she can freeze. Her choice.”
Bjorn swallowed hard. “She… she willnae like that answer, me jarl.”
“Then she can come tell me herself.”
The lad fled.
Aksel made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh. “Ye’re enjoyin’ this.”
Erik gripped the rail hard enough to make the wood creak. “I’ve got a bride who hates me, attackers still unaccounted fer, and four impatient jarls waitin’ tae witness this farce of a weddin’. What part of this am I supposed tae be enjoyin, exactly?”
“The part where she’s got spirit, ye idgit.” Aksel’s voice dropped lower, serious now. “Ye need a woman with fire, Erik. Someone who’ll stand beside ye, nae behind.”
“She thinks I murdered her braither.”
“Did ye?”
The question hung between them like a blade. Erik’s hands tightened on the rail until his knuckles went white.
“I gave the order tae retreat the moment I saw how young he was,” he said finally, each word tasting like ash.
“But it was too late. One of me men caught him with a blade before I could stop it. The lad fell, and by the time I reached him…” He stopped, the memory rising sharp and unwelcome.
Logan MacKenzie’s face, young and terrified.
Blood spreading across his plaid like spilled wine.
“By the time I reached him, he was already gone.”
“Ye tried tae save him.”
“Aye. But try daesnae bring the dead back.” Erik released the rail, forcing his hands to unclench. “And it daesnae change the fact that I led that raid. That I’m responsible fer all of it.”
“War makes killers of us all,” Aksel said quietly.
Before Erik could respond, the cabin door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges, and Claricia emerged like a storm given human form.
She’d managed to tie his shirt at the waist with what looked like a strip of leather she’d found somewhere, but it still hung to her knees, the neckline sliding off one pale shoulder.
Her chestnut hair had dried in wild tangles around her face, and her cheeks were flushed with what might have been fever or fury or both.
Her blue-green eyes locked on him with the precision of an arrow finding its mark.
“Ye absolute, insufferable, pig-headed—” She stopped at the top of the steps, swaying slightly as the ship pitched beneath her feet. One hand shot out to grip the mast for balance.
Every man on deck froze.
Erik moved before he thought, crossing the distance in three strides. His hands caught her waist, steadying her, and she stiffened under his touch.
“Let go. Of me.”
He kept his grip firm but not bruising, acutely aware of how small she felt under his hands. “The deck is nay place fer—”
“Fer what? Fer yer inconvenient bride?” She pushed at his chest, but there was no real strength behind it. The color had drained from her face, leaving her looking pale and slightly green. “I need air. And I need—” Her throat worked.
Seasickness. Of course. Erik had grown up on these waters, had spent more of his life on a ship than on solid ground. But she was Highland-born, raised on mountains and glens, and the sea was as foreign to her as kindness seemed to be to him.
“Here.” He guided her to the rail, keeping one hand on her back in case she swayed again. “Deep breaths, aye?”
She obeyed, gulping down the salt-sharp wind like a drowning woman breaking the surface.
Several long moments passed. The men pretended to busy themselves with ropes and sails, but Erik caught them stealing glances—taking in the length of her bare legs, the way his shirt clung to her frame, the wild tumble of her hair
Something hot and possessive flared in his chest. “Eyes on yer work,” he said, his voice cutting across the deck like a blade.
“Or better yet—” Erik’s voice dropped lower, colder, carrying the weight of every raid he’d led, every battle he’d won, every man who’d learned too late that crossing the Wolf of Skye meant death.
“Any man who looks at me wife with anythin’ but respect will find himself missin’ the parts that let him look at women at all! ”
Silence. The kind that pressed against eardrums and made hearts beat faster.
Then Aksel’s voice, mild as summer rain: “Ye heard the jarl. Back tae work, lads.”
Beside him, Claricia had gone very still. Erik glanced down and found her staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “Why did ye dae that?” she asked quietly.
“Because what’s mine stays mine.”
“I’m nae yers.” But the protest lacked her earlier fire. She looked tired. Overwhelmed. Still fighting, but barely holding the line.
“Nae yet,” he agreed. “But in two days, ye will be. And I protect what belongs tae me.”
“Like property.”
“Like pack.” The correction came out harder than he’d intended. “Like clan. Like the people who depend on me tae keep them safe.” He moved closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
“Safe from everyone but ye, ye big oaf!”
“I’ve never forced a lass tae lay with me,” he said quietly. “And I’ll nae start with me wife.”
She met his eyes then, searching for the lie. He let her look, keeping his expression as open as he knew how. Whatever she saw there made something in her posture soften.
“Land ahead!” The shout came from the bow, breaking the moment like a stone through glass.
Erik looked up to see Skye rising before them, all jagged cliffs and rolling moors, his castle perched on the headland. Home. With all its ghosts and memories and burdens.
And now, a bride.
“Come,” he said, offering her his arm with a formality that felt strange on his tongue. “Let me show ye yer new home.”
She stared at his arm like it might bite. “I can walk on me own.”
“In me shirt, with bare feet, in front of all me men?” He raised an eyebrow.
For a heartbeat, he thought she’d refuse out of pure spite. They stood together at the rail as the ship glided toward the harbor, and Erik tried not to think about how her scent—sea salt and something floral he couldn’t name—made him want to lean closer.
The harbor buzzed with activity as they made berth.
Erik’s men secured the lines with practiced efficiency while dock workers scrambled to unload cargo and tend to the survivors from Claricia’s escort.
Through it all, Erik kept one hand on Claricia’s elbow, steering her through the crowd with the kind of proprietary attention that made his intentions clear to everyone watching.
She was his. And they would treat her accordingly.
“Me jarl.” Aksel fell into step beside them as they moved through the crowd, his presence as steady as the tide. Though he’d been on the ship during the rescue, the chaos of battle had left little room for proper introductions.
“Aksel, now that we’re ashore—meet Lady Claricia MacKenzie properly.” Erik stressed her title, making it clear to anyone within earshot this wasn’t some conquest or prisoner. “Me betrothed. She’ll be mistress of this hall come two days hence.”