Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“If ye’re want tae win over that bull-headed jarl of ours, ye’d best start with his stomach, me lady. ‘Tis the shortest road tae a Viking’s heart.”
Claricia looked up from the worn wooden table where she’d been reviewing the castle’s stores, finding Mhari’s weathered face creased with knowing amusement. The kitchen was warm despite the autumn chill, filled with the scent of baking bread and herbs drying from the rafters.
“I’m nae tryin’ tae win anyone’s heart,” she said, setting the herbs aside with more force than necessary. “Least of all that big brute’s.”
The cook let out a bark of laughter that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.
She wiped her hands on her apron, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Ye can lie tae yerself all ye like, lass, but dinnae try it with me. I’ve been feedin’ that stubborn man since he was a lad of fifteen, raisin’ his wee cousin and tryin’ tae hold this castle together with spit and fury. ”
Claricia felt heat creep up her neck. She’d come to the kitchen seeking distraction—anything to escape the confusing tangle of emotions that had plagued her since the ride with Erik.
Though perhaps ‘plagued’ isnae quite the right word anymore.
Earlier that morning, she’d been walking the corridor near the Great Hall when voices had drifted through a partially open door. She’d heard Erik’s voice, unmistakable in its rough timber, but… softer than she’d ever heard it.
“Come here, wee one. Let me see.”
Claricia had frozen, her curiosity warring with propriety. She shouldn’t have eavesdropped. But a gentleness in his tone she hadn’t known he possessed drew her closer.
Through the gap in the door, she’d seen Erik kneeling on the stone floor, his massive frame folded down to the level of a small girl—no more than six or seven, with tangled dark hair and tears streaming down her face.
One of the servant’s daughters, Claricia had guessed.
The child clutched her hand to her chest, whimpering.
“Let me see,” Erik repeated, patient as a saint. “I cannae help if ye dinnae show me what’s wrong.”
The girl had slowly extended her hand, revealing an angry red burn across her palm. Claricia’s own hand had twitched in sympathy.
“Och, ye’re a brave wee dove, arenae ye.” Erik’s voice held nothing but kindness. “Did the hearth bite ye?”
A tiny nod, more tears spilling over.
“Ach, well, hearths can be vicious beasts. But I’ll tell ye a secret.
” He’d pulled a strip of clean linen from his belt and begun wrapping the child’s hand with movements so careful, so practiced, that Claricia’s breath had caught.
“The trick is tae be fiercer than they are. D’ye think ye can dae that? ”
Another nod, this one steadier.
“Good lass. Now, I want ye tae go find Mhari in the kitchen and tell her the Wolf said ye’re tae have two honey cakes fer yer bravery. Can ye remember that?”
“Can I really have two, me jarl?” The girl’s voice had been small, awed.
“Aye. One fer the burn, and one fer nae screamin’ loud enough tae wake the dead. Ye’re a wee Valkyrie, ye are.”
The child had giggled and thrown her good arm around Erik’s neck in a fierce hug that had made the fearsome Wolf of Skye go perfectly still. Then, slowly, carefully, he’d wrapped one arm around her small frame and held her like she was made of glass.
“Off with ye now,” he’d said, his voice rougher than before. “Before I change me mind about those cakes.”
The girl had scampered off, and Erik had remained kneeling on the cold stone floor for a long moment, his head bowed, his massive shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths.
Claricia had fled before he could discover her, her heart pounding, her carefully constructed hatred cracking like thin ice under spring thaw.
That wasnae the savage who’d slaughtered Logan. That couldnae be the same monster I was taught tae fear.
That was a man who carried clean linen for burned children. Who knew how to gentle his strength into kindness. Who offered honey cakes as medicine for small hurts because he understood that sometimes comfort mattered more than coin. And it terrified her far more than his reputation ever had.
Because if Erik Thorsen could be kind—if he could be gentle and patient and good—then everything she’d built her defenses upon was a lie. And if it was a lie, then what did that make her grief? Her anger? Her sworn hatred?
“I only came tae help with the feast preparations,” she said, lifting her chin. “As the lady of this castle, ‘tis me duty tae oversee such things. Besides, if I am tae survive here, I must understand me enemy… startin’ with his weaknesses.”
“Mmm.” The cook didn’t look convinced, but she gestured toward the long wooden table. “Well then, Lady Claricia, if ye’re so keen on duty, ye can help us with these turnips. Though I’ll warn ye, they’re stubborn as the jarl himself.”
At that moment, Liv swept through the doorway, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She’d braided her pale hair that morning, the plait falling over one shoulder, and wore a simple gray gown that somehow made her look both practical and regal.
“There ye are! I’ve been huntin’ all over fer ye.” She dropped her burden on a nearby bench and joined them, slightly breathless. “The maids are after me about the banners… d’ye think blue or gray fer the ceremony?”
“Blue,” Claricia said, then hesitated. “Unless there’s some Norse tradition I should ken about? I dinnae want tae—”
“Nay, the blue’s lovely.” Something soft moved across Liv’s face. “Besides, Erik daesnae hold much with the old ways anymore. Says we’re Scottish now, and that’s the end of it.”
There was loss threaded through those words, quiet but unmistakable. Claricia wondered what it cost to abandon one’s history, to declare oneself something one was not born to be, all for the sake of belonging somewhere that would never fully claim one.
“Dinnae let Mhari intimidate ye,” Liv continued, her light voice carrying an undercurrent of amusement. “She’s all bark.”
“And ye’re all cheek,” Mhari shot back, but her tone was fond.
Claricia moved with Liv to the table, grateful for a familiar task.
“So,” Liv said quietly, sliding a cutting board and knife toward her. “How are ye findin’ Skye?”
The question was casual, but Claricia sensed the weight behind it. Liv had been unfailingly kind since her arrival, but there was still a wariness between them—the natural suspicion between Norse and Scot, between those who’d lost family to raids and revenge and those responsible for it.
“’Tis bonnie,” Claricia admitted, reaching for a turnip. “Wild and fierce. Like...” She trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought.
“Like him?” Liv supplied, her pale eyes knowing.
“I wasnae going tae say that.”
“But ye were thinkin’ it.” Liv’s blade flashed as she quartered another turnip with swift, sure movements.
“Erik’s more like this land than he’ll admit.
All sharp edges and cold winds on the surface, but.
..” She paused, seeming to weigh her words.
“There’s warmth underneath, if ye ken where tae look. ”
Claricia’s hands stilled on the turnip. “Ye care fer him greatly.”
“He’s the only family I have left. When me maither died in the raid that killed his parents, Erik was only fifteen.
He could have sent me away, or later married me off tae some jarl’s son tae secure an alliance.
Instead, he raised me himself, learned tae braid hair and mend dresses between leadin’ raids and defendin’ our shores.
” Her voice softened. “He’s been both braither and faither tae me. So aye, I care fer him.”
“He daesnae seem the type tae want happiness,” she said quietly. “Only duty.”
“Because nay one’s ever taught him the difference.
” Mhari’s voice cut through their conversation as she moved to the hearth, pulling a tray of golden cakes from the heat.
The sweet scent intensified, making Claricia’s mouth water despite herself.
“The man lives like a monk most days, all honor and responsibility and nae a moment’s softness. ”
“That’s nae entirely true,” Liv protested, but there was a hint of agreement in her tone. “He has his weaknesses.”
“Aye.” Mhari set the tray down with a flourish, revealing perfectly formed honey cakes, their tops glistening with a golden glaze. “One weakness, at least. The man would sell his claymore fer these beauties.”
Claricia blinked. “Honey cakes?”
“His favorite since he was a lad.” Mhari’s expression turned sly. “Though I dinnae make them often anymore. Spoils him rotten when I dae, and the man’s insufferable enough without encouragement.”
An idea began to form in Claricia’s mind—foolish, perhaps, but impossible to ignore. “Could ye… could ye teach me tae make them?”
The kitchen fell silent. Liv’s knife paused mid-chop. Mhari’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
“Teach ye?” the cook repeated slowly.
“Aye.” Claricia felt her cheeks warming again but pushed on.
“I ken it’s nae… proper, perhaps, fer the lady of the castle tae be bakin’, but I’ve always liked workin’ with me hands, and if I’m tae live here, I should…
” She trailed off, not quite sure how to articulate the tangle of motivations driving her request.
She wanted to understand him. Wanted to offer something that wasn’t born of duty or the king’s command. Wanted to see if there was truly warmth beneath all those sharp edges, as Liv had claimed.
Mhari studied her for a long moment, then something in her weathered face softened. “Well,” she said gruffly, “I suppose there’s nay harm in it. Come here, lass, and I’ll show ye the way of it.”
An hour hours later, Claricia stood before the hearth with flour dusting her sleeves and honey somehow smeared across one cheek, staring down at the tray of slightly lopsided but undeniably golden honey cakes she’d just pulled from the fire.