Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“Iken ye dinnae have manners, but ye could try knockin’, ye savage!”
Erik froze in the doorway. Claricia stood beside the wardrobe in nothing but her shift, the fabric thin enough that firelight painted the soft curves beneath in gold and shadow. Her hair tumbled loose over one shoulder, and her eyes blazed with an indignation that should have warned him away.
Instead, something low in his gut tightened with want.
“I knocked,” he said, though he knew damn well he hadn’t. “Ye didnae answer.”
“Because I was dressin’!” She snatched a woolen gown from the bed and held it against her chest like a shield. “Daes yer kind have nay concept of privacy?”
Erik stepped inside, closing it behind him with deliberate care. “If ye’re expectin’ an apology, ye’ll be waitin’ a long time.”
“An apology? From the Wolf of Skye?” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “I’d sooner expect tenderness from a winter storm.”
“Then we understand each other.” He leaned against the door and studied her—the flush creeping up her neck, the way her fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the gown, the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath that damned shift.
All of it spoke louder than her cutting words.
“We marry in two days, Claricia. Best ye get accustomed tae me presence.”
The color drained from her face. “Two days?”
“The ceremony takes place two days hence, with the king’s envoy as witness.” He pushed off the door, moving toward her with measured steps. “Did ye think ye’d have weeks tae plot yer escape? Months tae scheme some way out of this?”
“I wasnae schemin’.” She backed toward the window, maintaining distance between them like a wild creature cornered. “I simply… expected more time tae adjust.”
“Adjust.” Erik stopped an arm’s length away, close enough to catch the scent of lavender soap on her skin, close enough to see the flecks of green in her blue eyes. “From where I stand, it looks more like ye’re measurin’ the height of that window and wonderin’ if ye’d survive the drop.”
Her chin lifted. “Me laird is very observant.”
“Dinnae call me that.”
“What else should I call ye? ‘Tis proper address fer—”
“I’m nae some spoiled Highland laird in his fancy castle, lass.
I’m a jarl, and if ye cannae bring yerself tae call me by me given name, then dinnae bother speakin’ tae me at all.
” The words came out harsher than he intended, scraped raw by frustration he couldn’t quite name.
“I’ve enough men who call me ‘me jarl’ with fear in their voices.
I’ll nae have me wife addin’ tae the chorus. ”
“Wife.” She said it like a curse. “I’m nae that yet.”
“Ye will be. In two days, Claricia Mackenzie will become Claricia Thorsen, Lady of Skye, and naethin’ short of death will change that fact.
” He reached out slowly, giving her time to retreat if she chose.
When she didn’t, he caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, marveling at its softness as he twirled it around his fingers.
“The sooner ye accept that, the easier this will be. Fer both of us.”
“Easy?” She jerked away from his touch, eyes flashing. “There’s naethin’ easy about bein’ sold like a bloody sheep, forced tae marry the bastard who murdered me braither!”
There it is.
The accusation he’d been waiting for. Erik let his hand fall to his side, curling it into a fist. “I’m sorry ye lost yer braither but I didnae murder him.
I led a raid on a Highland settlement that had been attackin’ our supply ships.
Men died on both sides. If Logan Mackenzie chose tae stand in me path, that was his decision. ”
“He was twenty years old!”
“He was a warrior old enough tae hold a blade.” Erik’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “Dinnae mistake me fer a man who apologizes fer defendin’ his people, lass. If ye’re waitin’ fer me tae fall on me knees and beg yer forgiveness, ye’ll be an old wench before it happens.”
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Then Claricia did something unexpected—she laughed. Not the bitter sound from before, but something genuine, if tinged with exhaustion.
“Well, at least ye’re honest about bein’ a brute.”
“Aye, well.” He found himself fighting a smile. “I’m everythin’ but proper, as ye’ve already discovered. Best ye remember that before ye decide tae test me patience further.”
“And if I choose tae test it anyway?”
“Then we’ll both discover just how stubborn the other can be.” Erik turned toward the door, needing distance before he did something foolish like close the space between them. “Be ready fer dinner in an hour. Me allies are here fer the weddin’, and they’re expectin’ tae meet ye.”
“Will ye be escortin’ me?”
He paused, hand on the latch. “Liv will bring ye down.”
“I see.” Her voice went cold. “So ye’ll demand I call ye by name, and allow ye tae claim me as yer wife, but ye willnae even dae me the courtesy of enterin’ a room on me arm?”
Erik looked back at her. She stood straighter now, the woolen gown clutched before her like armor, her jaw set with the kind of pride that could start wars or end them.
A lass worth fightin’ fer.
“I’m nae a man who daes things by half, Claricia. When I escort ye intae that hall, when I claim ye before me allies and me people, ‘twill be as me wife, nae me betrothed. Until then—” He pulled open the door “—we remain what we are. Two strangers bound by a decree neither of us wanted.”
He left before she could respond, but her voice followed him into the corridor.
“Erik.”
He stopped, surprised she’d used his name. He turned to find her framed in the doorway, backlit by firelight, looking every inch the Highland lady she’d been raised to be.
“Two days,” she said quietly. “And then what?”
Then everythin’ changes.
Then we make the best of what we’ve been given.”
Erik made his way toward the Great Hall, the sounds of celebration growing louder with each step. Torchlight flickered along the stone corridor.
“Me jarl.”
Aksel emerged from a side passage, his expression grim.
Erik stopped. “Tell me.”
“The prisoner is secured in the north wing.” Aksel kept his voice low, mindful of passing servants. “Still unconscious, but breathin’. I’ve posted guards—four men, rotatin’ every six hours. Nay one gets near him without word from ye.”
“Good.” Erik’s jaw tightened. “When he wakes, I want tae ken immediately.”
“D’ye think he’ll talk?”
“Och, he’ll talk.” The promise carried a darker edge. “One way or another, we’ll get the truth.”
Aksel nodded once, then gestured toward the hall. “The jarls are waitin’ fer ye. And I suspect they’ll have their opinions about all of this.”
“They always dae.” Erik straightened his shoulders, pushing the violence of the day away. For now, he had a bride to present to his allies, and a show of strength to maintain.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors, and warmth and noise washed over him.
“There he is!” Ivar called out, raising his horn in salute. “The blushin’ groom himself. Did ye properly terrify yer bride… or did she terrify ye?”
“Both,” Erik admitted, claiming his seat at the table’s head. A servant appeared with ale, which he accepted gratefully. “She’s… nae what I expected.”
“Ach, how so?” Magnus leaned forward, hazel eyes sharp with interest.
“She fights.” Erik took a long pull from his horn. “Nae with blades, but with words that cut deeper than steel. And she has this way of lookin’ at me like I’m somethin’ she scraped off her boot.”
“Sounds entertainin’,” Ragnar observed in his rumbling baritone. “Better than a docile lass who’d bore ye tae death within a fortnight.”
“What concerns me,” Harald said quietly, his pale eyes reflecting firelight, “is the lass’s safety. Have ye learned anythin’ from the prisoner?”
Erik’s mood darkened. “Naethin’ yet. He’s still unconscious in the north wing. When he wakes, I’ll get answers—one way or another.”
“And in the meantime?” Harald pressed. “Ye leave her vulnerable?”
“I’ve doubled the guard. Aksel’s positioned men at every entrance. No one approaches the castle without our knowledge.” Erik met each of their gazes in turn. “I’ll nae have her harmed. Whatever else she thinks of me, she’ll be safe under me protection.”
“Speaking of the lass...” Ragnar nodded toward the hall’s entrance. “I believe yer bride approaches.”
Erik turned, and the breath caught in his chest.
Claricia entered on Liv’s arm, dressed in a gown of deep green wool that brought out the color in her eyes.
Her hair had been tamed into an intricate braid that fell over one shoulder, and though her expression remained carefully neutral, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight hesitation in her step.
She was terrified, and doing everything in her power to hide it.
The jarls rose as one—a show of respect that clearly surprised her. Her gaze swept the table, lingering on each man briefly before settling on Erik with something that might have been accusation or plea.
“Me jarls,” Liv said smoothly. “May I present Lady Claricia Mackenzie of Kintail, soon tae be Lady Thorsen of Skye.”
Ivar grinned wide. “Well now. The king wasnae jestin’ when he said the Highland lasses were bonnie, was he?”
Claricia’s eyebrow arched. “I’m guessin’ that makes ye the charmer? I’d like tae ken which ones tae avoid.”
Laughter erupted around the table, and Erik felt his chest tighten with something dangerously close to pride.
Brave little bird.
She could have collapsed under the weight of five battle-hardened jarls studying her. Instead, she’d come out swinging.
“I’m Ivar Ragnarsson of Barra,” Ivar said with an exaggerated bow. “And I promise tae only charm ye a wee bit. Wouldnae want tae make our host jealous, would we now.”
“Erik?” Claricia’s gaze flicked to him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Jealous? I suspect he’d be more concerned about his wine stores runnin’ dry than any competition fer me attention.”