Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“The water’s ready, m’lady. Let me help ye with—”
“I can manage, thank ye.”
The words came out sharper than Claricia had intended, and the young maidservant’s eyes widened before she bobbed a quick curtsy. Her hand reached for the door latch, and something in Claricia’s chest twisted with guilt.
“I’m sorry.” The apology tumbled out before pride could stop it. The girl paused, surprise flickering across her plain features. “I didnae mean tae snap at ye. ‘Tis been… a long day.”
Understanding softened the maid’s expression immediately.
“Och, nay need fer apologies, m’lady. Ye’ve been through a terrible fright, ye have.
” She moved back toward the copper tub steaming near the hearth, her nervousness melting into something gentler.
“Will ye be needin’ help with yer hair, at least?
‘Tis thick as anything, and the salt’ll make it a right mess if it’s nae combed through proper-like. ”
“Aye,” she admitted quietly. “That would be kind of ye.”
The girl’s smile transformed her whole face. “I’m Tovi, m’lady. If ye need anythin’ at all, ye just ask fer me, aye?”
“Thank ye, Tovi.”
Claricia let the girl help her from the shirt—his shirt, still carrying the scent of salt and leather and something darker she couldn’t quite name—and sank into the bath with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in her bones.
The water was almost too hot, but she welcomed the burn.
Welcomed anything that drove away the memory of freezing seawater closing over her head, of lungs screaming for air that wouldn’t come, of the terrifying certainty that she was going to die.
I almost died.
The realization hit her again, sharp as any blade. One moment she’d been falling, the next she’d been under—lungs burning, limbs tangling in sodden skirts, the current pulling her down into darkness. She’d felt her body giving up the fight, felt consciousness starting to slip away—
And then strong hands had grabbed her. Had dragged her back toward light and air and life.
Erik.
Tovi’s gentle fingers worked through the tangles in her hair, and Claricia forced herself to breathe. To focus on the crackle of the fire, the warmth soaking into her chilled bones, the sweet-smelling oil Tovi used to coax the snarls free.
“Yer hair’s a wonder, m’lady,” Tovi said softly. “Never seen such a color. Like chestnuts fresh from the shell, it is.”
“Me mother’s hair.” The words escaped before Claricia could stop them, carried on a wave of homesickness so acute it stole her breath. “She died when I was five. Winter sickness took her, and me faither… he never quite recovered.”
“I’m sorry fer yer loss, m’lady.” Tovi’s hands paused for just a heartbeat. “Me own mam passed three years ago. Some hurts never quite heal, dae they?”
“Nay,” Claricia whispered. “They dinnae.”
A darker thought crept in, unbidden and unwelcome.
Who were those men who wanted tae take me?
The attack had been too coordinated and they’d wanted her specifically.
Duncan MacRae’s face flashed in her mind.
He wouldnae… would he?
She dismissed that thought as quickly as it came. Duncan MacRae was ambitious and jealous, and his pride had most certainly been wounded, but orchestrating an attack on a royal decree? No, that was absurd.
It was most likely pirates or enemies of the Wolf’s—the man probably had hundreds of them.
A sharp knock shattered her thoughts.
Both women turned toward the door as it swung open without waiting for permission.
A young woman swept into the room with the kind of natural authority that made servants step aside without thinking.
She was nothing like Claricia had expected—not the broad-shouldered Viking she’d imagined, but slender and elegant, with hair so pale it was almost silver and eyes the color of a winter sky.
“Me name is Liv. Liv Eriksdottir,” the woman presented herself. Then she turned to the maid. “That’ll be all, Tovi,” Liv said, her tone polite but brooking no argument. “I’ll see tae Lady Claricia’s needs from here.”
Tovi bobbed a quick curtsy, gathering her supplies. “Aye, mistress. I’ve laid out the shift and gown on the bed, and there’s fresh linens fer dryin’—”
“Perfect. Thank ye.” Liv’s smile was genuine but dismissive, and Tovi took the hint, slipping from the room with practiced efficiency.
The door clicked shut, and suddenly Claricia was acutely aware of how vulnerable she was—naked in a stranger’s bath, in a stranger’s castle, with the cousin of the man who’d killed her brother studying her with those unsettling pale eyes.
“Lady Claricia.” Liv moved closer, her dove-gray gown whispering against the stone floor. “I trust the bath is adequate?”
“Aye. Thank ye.” Claricia fought the urge to sink deeper beneath the water. She refused to show weakness, even half-drowned and exhausted. “Tovi said ye’d help me dress?”
“Aye.” Liv picked up the length of linen Tovi had left warming by the fire, holding it ready.
“Though I confess I’m as curious about ye as I suspect ye are about me.
” Something flickered in those eyes—not quite mockery, but testing.
Weighing. “After all, ‘tis nae every day me cousin fishes a Highland bride from the sea.”
Claricia stood, water sluicing down her body as she reached for the linen.
“And ‘tis nae every day I’m nearly drowned by faceless attackers before bein’ dragged tae a Norse fortress against me will.
” She wrapped the cloth around herself, meeting Liv’s gaze steadily.
“We’re both havin’ unusual days, it seems.”
For a heartbeat, Liv simply stared.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a genuine sound that transformed her reserved face into something warm and almost mischievous.
“Och, ye’ll dae,” she said, amusement dancing in those pale eyes as she moved to help Claricia from the tub. “I was worried ye’d be some simperin’ thing who’d weep intae her pillow every night. Erik has nay patience fer tears.”
Claricia let Liv guide her toward the bed where the fresh shift waited. “I rarely cry. I’m more inclined tae throw things when I’m angry.”
“Aye, I heard ye slapped him.” Liv’s mouth twitched as she helped Claricia into the soft linen shift. “He was quite put out about it.”
“He was breathin’ intae me mouth!”
“Because ye’d stopped breathin’ altogether.” Liv held up the green gown, examining it with a critical eye before helping Claricia step into it. “Ungrateful wretch.”
The words were so unexpected—and delivered with such dry humor—that Claricia found herself laughing despite everything.
“Ungrateful?” she managed between startled chuckles. “The man kidnapped me!”
“Saved ye, more like. Twice, if we’re countin’.” Liv’s fingers worked the laces at Claricia’s back with practiced efficiency. “Ye’re rather accident-prone, arenae ye?”
Claricia opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “that I should thank him. Eventually. When I can manage it without wantin’ tae slap him again.”
Liv’s laugh was softer this time, tinged with something that might have been approval. “Och, aye. Ye’ll dae quite nicely indeed.”
“The Council’s ready fer ye, me jarl.”
Erik glanced up from the saddle he’d been inspecting, dirt still clinging to his boots from the ride.
Tormund stood in the courtyard doorway, wringing his weathered hands with the nervous energy of a man unused to hosting Highland nobility—particularly when said nobility had just been half-drowned and wrapped in his laird’s shirt like some bedraggled gift from the sea gods.
“Thank ye,” Erik ran a hand through his still-damp hair, salt spray crystallizing at the ends. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly.” He swerved around, “Tell me, what dae ye make of her.”
“Me jarl.” Tormund hesitated, his face creasing with something between concern and curiosity. “The lady… she’s nae what we expected.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. “What did ye expect, Tormund? Some docile Highland rose willin’ tae throw herself at the first savage who pulled her from the sea?”
“Nay, me jarl. ‘Tis just… she looks at ye like she cannae decide whether tae gut ye or kiss ye.”
Despite the tension coiled in his shoulders, Erik’s mouth twitched. “Guttin’ me would be the safer choice.”
Tormund chuckled, the sound warm despite the October chill settling over the courtyard. “I’ll fetch Mistress Liv then. The Council awaits in the Great Hall whenever ye’re ready.”
The Council.
Erik’s hands stilled on the leather. The four jarls who’d sailed to Skye to witness this doomed union, probably already deep in their cups and speculating about whether he’d survive the fortnight with his throat intact.
Erik grunted in acknowledgement and tossed the saddle to a stable hand, his mind already moving through the conversation to come. “And Tormund? Make sure the prisoner remains secured. Double the guards if ye must.”
“Already done, me jarl. Aksel’s seein’ tae it personally.”
Of course, he was. Aksel had that rare gift of anticipating Erik’s needs before he voiced them—a trait that had saved both their lives more times than either cared to count.
Erik strode toward the keep, his boots echoing against worn stone as servants scattered from his path like startled birds.
The familiar weight of responsibility settled heavier with each step toward four jarls expecting him to somehow make this gods-forsaken pact work while the king’s envoy breathed down their necks like a carrion crow waiting for the feast.
And two days until the weddin’.
Two days to convince a woman who blamed him for her brother’s death that she should willingly bind herself to him for life. Erik had faced down enemy ships in storm-tossed seas with better odds than that.