Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Ye’re allowed tae be nervous, ye ken. ‘Tis yer weddin’ day.”
The corridor felt too long and too short all at once.
Claricia’s fingers worried the crimson fabric of her skirts as she walked, the silver beads in her hair clicking softly with each step. Behind her, Liv’s presence was steady.
She kens I’m barely holdin’ it together.
Could everyone see the way her hands trembled, the way her breath came shallow despite her best efforts to appear calm?
“Claricia.” Liv’s voice was gentle. “Ye’ll wear a hole in that fabric if ye keep frettin’ at it.”
She dropped her hands immediately, then hated herself for the tell. “Liv…” She stopped walking. “How did ye… when ye lost yer parents, how did ye...”
The question died on her tongue. What was she even asking? How did one forgive the unforgivable?
Liv’s eyes softened with understanding. “Ye’re wonderin’ how I dinnae hate every Highlander I see, aye? How I can stand here helpin’ ye prepare tae marry me cousin when it was Highland steel that took me maither?”
Claricia nodded mutely.
“Because hatred’s a heavy thing tae carry.” Liv reached out, squeezing her hand briefly. “Erik isnae whatever monster lives in yer head wearin’ his face.” She paused. “Give him a chance tae surprise ye. That’s all I’m sayin’.”
Before Claricia could respond, the massive oak doors to the Great Hall swung open.
Sound rushed out—conversations, laughter, the crackle of the enormous hearth—and with it, the scent of roasted meat and mead and burning pine.
The hall had been transformed—though calling it mere decoration felt insufficient.
Massive wolf banners hung from every pillar, their silver threadwork catching firelight and throwing dancing shadows across stone walls.
Fresh rushes covered the floor, releasing the sharp-sweet scent of rosemary and lavender with each step.
Torches blazed in their sconces, turning the cavernous space into something almost warm, almost welcoming.
Every single head turned, watching her with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism to something that might have been approval. She could feel their judgment like a physical weight.
Will she shame him? Will she prove herself worthy? Can a Highland lass truly be Lady of Skye?
At the hall’s far end, before a hearth that roared like something alive, Erik Thorsen stood waiting.
Beside him stood the other jarls. Harald, watchful as a hawk. Magnus with his thoughtful gaze that seemed to see too much. Ivar grinning like he’d bet money on how this would play out. And Ragnar, still as carved stone, expression giving away nothing.
A nervous priest clutched his prayer book with white-knuckled fingers.
Lord Pemberton hovered to the side, doubtless memorizing every detail for his report to the Crown, but it was the look on Erik’s face that made her heart stop.
He looked at her like the breath had been knocked from his lungs and he was still trying to remember how to draw it back.
Something in her chest tightened painfully.
Logan, fergive me. I ken I shouldnae want him. I ken I should hate him. But when he looks at me like that...
Her feet began to move, carrying her forward through the watchful silence. Each step felt weighted with significance, as if she were walking not just toward marriage but toward something that would change the very shape of her soul.
When she reached him, Erik extended his hand.
She stared at it for a heartbeat—at the calluses earned through years of sword work, the faint scar across his knuckles, the steadiness of his fingers. This hand had killed. Had taken lives, possibly including Logan’s.
And yet when she placed her palm against his, his touch was gentle. Almost reverent.
“I wasnae sure ye’d come,” he said quietly, for her ears alone.
Claricia lifted her chin. “I gave me word.”
His thumb traced across her knuckles, the gesture so tender it made her throat tight. “Aye, but words are easy tae break when the alternative is…” He trailed off, jaw tightening.
“Is what?”
“Me.” The single word carried more weight than it should have. “I wouldnae have blamed ye if ye’d tried tae run.”
Claricia blinked at him. She’d expected arrogance, possession, maybe even mockery. Not this quiet vulnerability that made him seem almost human.
“Where would I run tae?” she asked. “The sea? Tried that already. Didnae work out well fer me.”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
The priest cleared his throat nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the intimacy of their exchange. “Me laird, shall we… we begin?”
Erik didn’t look away from her face. “Aye. Let’s bind ourselves proper, then.”
The priest launched into Latin prayers—old words worn smooth by centuries of repetition. But between each formal phrase, Erik’s warriors called out in Old Norse, their voices rough and joyful.
“Dóminus vobiscum,” the priest intoned.
“Tórr vé tik!” someone bellowed from the back—Thor bless ye—and masculine laughter rippled through the crowd.
The priest’s eye twitched but he soldiered on gamely. “We are gathered in the sight of God and His Majesty the King—”
“Get tae the vows, Faither,” Erik interrupted, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “Nay sense in drawin’ this out.”
The priest fumbled with his prayer book. “Yes, of course, me laird. Dae ye, Erik Thorsen, Laird of Skye, take this woman as yer lawful wife? Tae honor and protect, fer as long as ye both shall live?”
“I dae.” The words fell like stones into still water—creating ripples that would spread farther than either of them could see.
“And dae ye, Lady Claricia MacKenzie of Kintail, take this man as yer lawful husband? Tae honor and stand beside him, fer as long as ye both shall live?”
Stand beside… nae obey? Her throat felt tight. “Aye. I dae.”
The priest produced a length of ribbon—half red, half blue, the colors of their houses woven together in a pattern that suggested neither dominated the other. He began wrapping it around their joined hands in the old way, the handfasting that predated both their faiths.
“Hjarta vie hjarta,” the priest said haltingly, clearly uncomfortable with the Norse tongue. “Hond vie hond.”
“Heart tae heart,” Aksel’s voice carried from somewhere behind Erik, warm with approval. “Hand tae hand. Bound together in this life and the next.”
“What the Crown has decreed,” the priest continued in Latin, relief evident in his voice, “let nay man tear asunder. What these vows have bound, let nay force attempt to break.” He straightened, meeting Erik’s eyes with something like defiance. “I declare ye husband and wife before God and king.”
For a heartbeat, the hall held its breath.
Then it erupted. Warriors roared their approval, fists pounding tables in rhythmic thunder that shook dust from the rafters. Ale horns raised, mead sloshing, and someone started beating a drum—primal and hypnotic, like a heartbeat made audible.
Erik pulled her close until barely a breath separated them.
“Breathe, little bird,” he whispered against her temple, voice rough.
“I am breathin’.”
“Barely.” He turned them both to face the crowd, their bound hands raised high. “Me wife—Lady Claricia Thorsen of Skye!”
The noise redoubled—feet stamping until the floor shook, drums pounding, voices raised in songs she didn’t know but felt in her bones nonetheless.
Claricia felt the sound vibrate through her, felt the weight of what she’d just done settle across her shoulders like a cloak she wasn’t sure she had the strength to carry.
They were led to the high table and seated side by side. Platters appeared faster than she could track: roasted venison that fell apart at the touch of a knife, salmon so fresh it must have been swimming that morning, honeyed mead in silver cups, and dishes she couldn’t name.
“Eat,” Erik murmured, cutting a piece of venison and raising it to her lips. The intimate gesture made her flush, but she parted her lips and let him feed her.
“Are ye tryin’ tae fatten me up?” she asked once she’d swallowed.
His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. “Just makin’ sure ye have yer strength.” His voice dropped lower. “Ye’ll be needin’ it later.”
Heat pooled in her belly at the promise in those words. She reached for her wine to hide her reaction, taking bigger gulps than was probably wise.
Around them, the feast grew louder and wilder.
The jarls had claimed seats nearby. Magnus was telling some impossible story about a sea battle that involved a kraken the size of a longship.
Harald kept interrupting with increasingly technical corrections about actual kraken anatomy, his pale eyes glinting with suppressed amusement as Magnus grew more exasperated.
“—and I’m tellin’ ye, their tentacles are strong enough tae crush a hull—”
“Nae if the crew kent what they were daein’,” Harald interjected smoothly. “Kraken are ambush predators. They rely on surprise. A well-trained crew can—”
“By Thor’s beard, Harald, I’m tryin’ tae tell a story, nae give a bloody biology lecture!”
Ivar, three cups deep and flushed, leaned toward them with a conspiratorial grin. “How long dae ye think before Magnus throws somethin’ at Harald’s head?”
“Before the next round of mead is served,” Erik replied without hesitation.
“I’ll take that wager,” Ragnar said—the first words Claricia had heard him speak all evening. His voice was surprisingly soft, at odds with his imposing frame.
Through it all, Erik remained by her side, his leg pressed against hers beneath the table, his thumb occasionally tracing patterns on her wrist where their hands were bound, his attention divided between his men and his new wife in a way that made her feel both watched and protected.
“The servants speak well of ye,” he said during a lull in conversation, his voice pitched for her ears alone. “Said ye worked alongside them yesterday, helpin’ with preparations. They were… impressed.”