Chapter 13 #2
She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “There was work tae be done. Someone had tae make sure the feast didnae turn intae a disaster.”
“Most highborn ladies would’ve stayed in their chambers, fancyin’ themselves above hard labor.”
“Well, I’m nae most ladies, am I?” The words came out sharper than intended, defensive.
But Erik’s expression softened. “Nay. Ye’re certainly nae.” His hand tightened on hers. “They said ye learned their names. Asked after their families. Made them feel like they mattered.”
The sincerity in his voice did something strange to her insides—made them flutter and twist in ways she didn’t want to examine.
“They dae matter,” she said quietly. “A hall is only as strong as the people who keep it runnin’. Me maither said that, or so Logan told me.”
“Yer maither was wise.” Something shifted in his expression—respect, maybe, or the beginning of something deeper. “I didnae expect ye tae care. Thought ye’d spend yer time plottin’ ways tae make me life miserable.”
“Och, I dae plenty of that too, I assure ye.”
His laugh was genuine—a sound she hadn’t heard from him before. It transformed his face, softening the hard edges, making him look younger. “I dinnae doubt it.”
The moment stretched between them, something fragile and new taking shape in the space where only hatred and resentment should have lived.
“So… this is the Highland bride the Wolf has claimed.”
The voice sliced through their conversation like a blade. Claricia looked up to find a warrior standing before their table—middle-aged, with a face scarred by battle and eyes that held nothing but contempt as they raked over her.
The hall began to quiet, conversations dying as people sensed approaching conflict.
“She daesnae look like much,” the warrior continued, emboldened by drink and the attention of his peers. “Can Highland women even bear proper sons? Or will she give ye weak whelps that shame yer line?”
The words hit like a slap. Claricia felt Erik tense beside her, felt his hand tighten on hers in warning or restraint—she wasn’t sure which.
But she didn’t need his protection. Not for this. She set down her wine with deliberate care and rose to her feet, forcing the warrior to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact.
“I am Lady Claricia Thorsen,” she said, her voice carrying across the now-silent hall, “daughter of Laird Finnian MacKenzie, whose clan has held Kintail through five hundred years of blood and steel. Me people stood strong when Norse raiders came fer our shores. We drove back Sassenach armies who thought us easy prey. We’ve survived famine and plague and treachery from men twice as clever as ye’ll ever be. ”
The warrior’s face darkened, but she pressed on.
“So dinnae ye dare stand in this hall—me hall now—and question whether I have the strength tae bear sons worthy of Skye.” She leaned forward slightly, holding his gaze.
“The only weakness I see here is a man foolish enough tae insult his lady in front of his laird, on her weddin’, because he’s too intoxicated tae remember his place. ”
Shocked silence fell across the Great Hall.
Then, Erik rose—slow and predatory, like a snake uncoiling before a strike. He straightened his back, and suddenly the warrior looked small in comparison.
“Me wife,” Erik said, his voice cold enough to frost steel, “just defended her honor and her blood. But let me make somethin’ crystal clear, Ulfric, fer ye and anyone else wonderin’.
” He paused, letting his gaze sweep the hall.
“Claricia stands under me protection. She speaks with me authority. Any insult tae her is an insult tae me. And ye ken what I dae tae men who insult me in me own hall.”
The threat hung heavy in the air, unmistakable.
Claricia crossed her arms, eyeing Erik with exasperation. “Ye dinnae need tae bare yer teeth on me behalf.”
He glanced at her, eyebrow raised.
“Besides,” she continued, though warmth bloomed traitorously in her chest at his defense. “I dinnae need rescuin’ from battles I’m clearly winnin’.”
For a heartbeat, the tension stretched taut as a bowstring, the only sound that of something clattering in the distance of the kitchens.
Then, Ivar’s laugh exploded from his chest—wild and delighted. “By Odin’s eye, that’s entertainment! Our Lady of Skye nearly had him pissin’ himself before ye even stood up!”
“Hmph. The lass has teeth,” Harald observed, his pale eyes assessing Claricia with the cold calculation of a man evaluating a weapon. “Sharp ones by the look of it.”
“Sharper than the Wolf’s, apparently,” Magnus added, though his tone carried an edge that suggested he was testing Erik more than praising Claricia. “Ye sure ye ken what ye’ve gotten yerself intae, Wolf?”
Erik’s jaw tightened, his hand sliding possessively to the back of Claricia’s chair. “I ken exactly what I’ve got.”
“That so?” Magnus pressed, something dangerous flickering in his hazel eyes. “Because from where I’m sittin’, it looks a lot like she’ll be the one leadin’ ye around by the—”
“Careful, Magnus.” Erik’s voice dropped to something lethal.
Magnus raised his horn in mock surrender, but his smile suggested he’d gotten the reaction he wanted.
Ulfric’s jaw worked, pride warring with self-preservation. Finally, he lowered his head stiffly. “Aye, me jarl. Me apologies, Lady Thorsen.”
“Accepted,” Erik said coolly. “See that ye remember it.”
Erik remained standing until Ulfric disappeared into the crowd, his posture rigid with barely leashed violence. When he finally lowered himself back into his chair, the movement was deliberate, controlled—a wolf deciding not to pursue fleeing prey.
His hand found hers beneath the table, grip tight enough to border on painful.
“Fierce,” he said quietly, the single word carrying weight.
“Aye, well.” She tried to sound unaffected, though her heart still hammered. “Ye married a MacKenzie. What did ye expect?”
His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the noise around them. “I expected hatred. Defiance. Maybe a dagger in me ribs when I wasnae lookin’.” He paused, studying her face. “I didnae expect tae be… proud of ye.”
The admission stole her breath. Claricia opened her mouth to respond, when Aksel appeared at Erik’s shoulder, leaning down to murmur something too quiet for her to hear.
Erik’s expression shifted—frustration flashing briefly before settling back into careful neutrality.
“Time tae go,” he said, turning to her.
“Och fer the love of… what is it now?” she asked, reaching for a piece of bread. “I’m starving, can I just—”
“The envoy wants us tae dae our duty.” His hand found the small of her back, steady and warm and unmistakably possessive. “Come along then, wife. Let’s face what comes next.”