Chapter 7 #2
“What’s wrong?” Erik’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He’d dismounted and was watching her with an intensity that felt almost invasive.
“Naethin’.” The lie tasted bitter. “I’m just... ‘tis a long ride, that’s all.”
He studied her for a long moment, then his gaze slid to the loch and back to her face. Understanding dawned in his expression—not judgment, but something that might have been recognition.
“Ye’re afraid of the water.”
It wasn’t a question, but Claricia found herself answering anyway.
“I cannae swim. Never learned. Me maither...” She stopped, surprised by how easily the words came.
“Me maither drowned when I was five. After that, me faither kept me away from deep water. Said he couldnae bear tae lose anyone else tae it.”
Erik was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn’t respond. “Ye have courage, lass. Ye fell intae the Inner Minch and survived. Most people who cannae swim wouldnae have lasted half as long as ye did.”
The compliment caught her off guard. “I survived because ye pulled me out.”
“Aye. But ye fought. Even drownin’, even terrified, ye still fought.” He moved closer, and she realized he was offering his hand to help her dismount. “That’s worth more than kennin’ how tae swim.”
She took his hand before she could think better of it, and the warmth of his palm against hers sent sparks racing up her arm. He lifted her down with effortless strength, setting her on her feet but not immediately letting go.
They stood close, with nothing but morning air and unspoken words between them. “The attack on the ship,” Erik said quietly. “Did ye see anythin’ that might help identify who sent them?”
The question pulled her back to reality with jarring force. “Nay. They wore nay colors, nay clan markers.” She frowned, remembering. “But they were organized. Trained. It wasnae some random raid fer plunder.”
“Nay. They came fer ye specifically.” His jaw tightened. “Which means someone daesnae want this marriage tae happen. Someone with resources enough tae field armed men and nae fear crossin’ the king.”
“One of yer countless enemies, then?”
“I’m nae feudin’ with anyone.” But something flickered in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or suspicion. “All me enemies are either dead or too smart tae risk the king’s wrath.”
“Then who—”
“I’ll find out.” The promise carried weight, and something darker beneath it. “I’ve got men questionin’ the prisoner we captured. He’ll talk. They always talk eventually.”
The casual way he said it sent a chill down her spine. This was the Wolf of Skye. The warrior whose reputation was built on blood and ruthlessness. The man who’d led the raid that killed her brother.
Logan.
The memory rose sharp and sudden. Her brother’s face, young and eager and so convinced he was invincible. The messenger arriving at Kintail with news that shattered their world. Her father’s grief that had turned to stone, hardening him into someone Claricia barely recognized.
“Ye’re thinkin’ about him.” Erik’s voice pulled her back. “Yer braither.”
She should have denied it. Should have turned away and refused to discuss it. Instead, she met his gaze and let him see the truth. “Every time I look at ye, I remember that he’s dead because of ye.”
“Aye.” No denial. No excuses. Just that single word, heavy with acknowledgment. “I led that raid. I gave the orders. And if yer braither stood against us, then aye—his blood is on me hands as surely as if I’d struck the blow meself.”
The honesty of it stole her breath. She’d expected deflection, justification, anything but this brutal acceptance of responsibility.
“But I’ll tell ye this, Claricia.” He stepped closer, and she saw something raw in his eyes. “War makes killers of us all. Highland, Norse, it daesnae matter. We all lose kin. And I willnae beg yer forgiveness fer defendin’ me people, ye’ll be an old woman before it happens.”
“I wouldnae expect ye tae.” The words came out quieter than she’d intended. “Beggin’ daesnae seem like yer style.”
He held her gaze. “But that daesnae mean I dinnae… regret it. The loss. The waste of it all. Young men dyin’ fer feuds older than their grandfathers.”
Something in her chest loosened at that admission. Not forgiveness—she wasn’t ready for that, might never be. But understanding, perhaps. The recognition that grief lived on both sides of every blade.
“Come,” Erik said finally, breaking the moment. “I want tae show ye the rest before we head back.”
They remounted and rode on, the tension between them shifting into something more complex. Erik pointed out landmarks—the village where his people lived, the training grounds where his warriors practiced, the cliffs where Norse ships had first landed generations ago.
The sun was high overhead when they returned to the castle. Erik led her through corridors she hadn’t seen before, showing her the kitchens where the cook greeted her with warm curiosity, the armory where weapons gleamed in neat rows, the Great Hall where tapestries depicted battles long past.
“Ye can go anywhere in the keep,” he said as they climbed a narrow staircase. “Ask fer anythin’ ye need. The staff answer tae me, but they’ll answer tae ye as well once we’re wed.”
“Anywhere?” Claricia couldn’t help the skepticism in her voice.
“Aye.” Then his expression went cold, shuttered. “Except the North Wing.”
The abrupt shift made her pause. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s nae an answer—”
“’Tis the only one ye’re gettin’.” His voice had gone hard, carrying that edge of command that probably made his warriors snap to attention. “The North Wing is mine, and mine alone. Understood?”
She should have agreed. Should have recognized the warning in his tone and backed down. Instead, she lifted her chin in defiance. “And if I test ye? What then?”
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “Then ye’ll learn exactly how unforgivin’ the Wolf can be.”
“Fine,” she said coldly. “I’ll stay out of yer precious North Wing.”
“Good.” But there was no triumph in his voice, only that same shuttered hardness. “Now, is there anythin’ ye need fer yer chambers? Books, perhaps? Sewin’ supplies?”
The abrupt shift back to civility threw her off balance. “I… ye dinnae have tae—”
“I’m aware of what I dae and dinnae have tae dae.” He started walking again, forcing her to follow. “But ye’ll be livin’ here. Might as well make it bearable.”
Claricia’s mind raced. He was offering her something, however grudgingly. And if there was one thing her father had taught her, it was to never waste an opportunity.
She kept her voice carefully neutral. “I’d like books.
Real books, nay just psalters and household accounts.
Poetry, histories, tales from other lands.
And paints—proper ones, nae children’s pigments.
Canvas, too, or panels if ye have them. And fine paper fer drawin’, the kind that daesnae bleed when ye use ink. ”
She’d asked for luxuries that would cost a small fortune, half-expecting him to refuse or laugh at her audacity.
Instead, Erik simply nodded. “Ye’ll have it within the week.”
“Just like that?”
He glanced at her, and that hint of amusement was back. “Did ye think I’d refuse?”
“I thought ye’d tell me I was bein’ difficult.”
“Ye are bein’ difficult.” But there was no heat in the words. “Ye’re bein’ stubborn and proud and testin’ every boundary ye can find. But I’d rather have a wife who demands what she wants than one who suffers in silence.”
The casual use of wife made something flutter in her chest. Not quite acceptance, but something dangerously close to it.
Erik stopped at a small door she hadn’t noticed before, set into an alcove behind a tapestry. “This is a hidden exit. Leads down tae the lower passages and out tae the cliffs. If there’s ever danger—a fire, an attack, anythin’—ye use this path. Understood?”
“Why are ye showin’ me this?”
“Because I protect what’s mine.” He pushed the door open, revealing steep stone steps descending into darkness. “Remember it. Hope ye never need it.”
Claricia stared at the passageway, then back at him.
That morning he’d been a brute who didn’t know how to knock.
A savage who’d killed her brother. A warrior whose reputation was built on blood and ruthlessness.
But he’d also shown her his lands with quiet pride.
Acknowledged his role in Logan’s death without flinching.
Agreed to give her books and paints without question.
Shown her an escape route in case she ever needed to flee.
Who are ye really, Erik Thorsen?
“I need tae see tae the trainin’,” he said abruptly, as if he could read the confusion in her expression and wanted no part of it. “Rest. We dine again taenight with the jarls.”
He left before she could respond, his boots echoing down the corridor with that same purposeful stride.
Claricia stood alone in the empty hallway, her mind spinning with contradictions. She should hate him. She did hate him.
Didn’t she?
Claricia found her gaze drifting, as if pulled by some unseen magnetic force.
And there he was. Erik, stripped to the waist despite the autumn chill, his body all corded muscle and warrior’s grace as he faced off against Aksel with practice swords. Sweat gleamed on his skin, catching the afternoon light. Every movement was precise, controlled, deadly.
Beautiful, in a way that stole her breath.
Och, ye’re in trouble, lass. So much trouble.