Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“So what will ye dae if they greet me with pitchforks and torches?”
Claricia shifted in her saddle, trying not to grimace at the way her thighs protested the unfamiliar motion.
They’d been riding for nearly an hour along the rocky coastline, and every muscle in her body was starting to voice its displeasure.
Erik rode beside her on a massive gray stallion that seemed carved from the same granite as Skye’s cliffs, while Aksel and four other warriors flanked them like shadows.
“They’ll nae have pitchforks,” Erik said, matter-of-fact as always. “Fish gaffs, maybe. And they’ve every right tae their suspicions—ye’re the first Highland bride they’ve seen, and most lost kin tae raids from the likes of yer clan.”
The reminder settled over her like a cold fog.
Me people.
As if she could claim any of them as her own anymore.
“I didnae raid their villages.”
“Nay. But they’ll remember who did.” Erik’s voice carried no judgment, just the blunt truth he always dealt in. “Same way ye saw me and remembered Logan.”
She had no answer for that. Because he was right, and they both knew it.
The village appeared as they crested a low rise—a handful of stone cottages huddled against the shore like sheep seeking shelter from the wind.
Smoke rose from peat fires, and the sharp tang of salt and fish guts carried on the breeze.
Small fishing boats bobbed in the natural harbor, their nets spread to dry like spider webs catching morning light.
And every single person in that village stopped what they were doing to stare as the riders approached.
“Stay close,” Erik murmured, and Claricia caught the subtle shift in his posture—shoulders back, spine straight, every inch the warrior chieftain these people called jarl. The Wolf of Skye, arriving to settle their disputes and remind them whose protection they lived under.
A grizzled man with a face like weathered leather stepped forward as they dismounted. His bow was respectful but perfunctory, his pale eyes sweeping over Claricia with the kind of assessment usually reserved for livestock at market.
“Me jarl.” The man’s Norse-thick Scots could have stripped paint. “Thank the gods. The mainlander’s been causin’ a right mess.”
“Bjorn.” Erik clasped the man’s forearm. “Me wife, Lady Claricia. She’s here tae learn how we handle village matters.”
Bjorn’s gaze flicked to her—quick as a knife, twice as sharp.
“Me lady.” The words came out like he’d been forced to swallow nettles.
Then, without waiting for her response, he turned back to Erik.
“The trader willnae unload the winter stores. The man speaks in riddles thick enough tae choke a bear. We’ve been arguin’ in circles fer two hours. ”
“Show me.”
They moved through the village in a small procession—Erik and Bjorn leading, Claricia flanked by Aksel’s solid presence on one side and another guard on the other.
She caught the stares, felt the weight of suspicion and curiosity following her like an unwelcome shadow.
A woman whispered something to her companion behind a knobbly hand.
Children peered from doorways with wide eyes before being pulled back inside by cautious mothers.
They hate me, or fear me. Maybe both.
The cargo sat on the shore in neat rows—barrels stamped with marks she recognized as grain stores, heavy sacks that could only be salt, smaller crates that might hold preserved fish or other trade goods.
Enough supplies to see a village this size through a harsh winter with bellies full instead of empty.
And standing guard over it all like a particularly stubborn dragon was a man who could have walked straight out of her childhood memories of Kintail.
He was Highland through and through—stocky and broad-shouldered, with wild gray hair escaping from beneath a wool cap and a face suggesting he’d been scowling since the womb. His plaid was faded but clean, and he gripped a sturdy walking stick like a weapon waiting for an excuse.
“About bloody time!” The man’s Scots came rapid-fire, each word tumbling over the next. “Been standin’ here since dawn wi’ nae a soul who speaks the king’s own tongue! Might as well be talkin’ tae a flock of sheep fer all the good it’s done me!”
Erik’s jaw tightened, and Claricia caught the frustrated incomprehension in his eyes. He’d clearly caught “time” and “dawn” but the rest had blown past like Highland wind.
Bjorn stepped forward, enunciating each word like speaking to a child. “We… understand… nae. Ye… speak… slower.”
“Slower?” The trader’s face went purple as a bruised plum. “This is slow! It’s nae me fault ye’ve nae proper grasp of civilized speech, ye thick-headed—”
“Enough.” Erik’s voice cut clean through the rising argument. He didn’t shout—didn’t need to. Every head turned.
The trader’s eyes landed on Erik, taking in the wolf-stamped leather, the sword that looked intimate with violence, the cold authority carved into his bearing. “Ye the laird?”
“I am. Ye have the cargo. We paid. What’s stoppin’ ye?”
“What’s stoppin’ me,” the trader said, speaking with exaggerated care, “is I cannae hand over valuable goods tae the first man who claims ownership! Me laird’ll have me head fer theft!”
Claricia watched Erik’s brow furrow as he tried to parse the flood of words. She saw him glance at Aksel, who gave a helpless shrug.
“Seal,” Erik repeated, latching onto familiar ground.
“Aye! The seal o’ confirmation! The document sayin’ ‘these goods belong tae Jarl Erik Thorsen’s holdings,’ signed and stamped by both parties!
” The man was gesticulating wildly now. “I was told—specifically told—I had tae put these directly intae authorized hands, and I’ll nae be breakin’ orders just because—”
“Let me speak tae him,” Claricia said, stepping forward before she’d decided to. Every eye swiveled toward her.
“Ye… understand that?”
“Every word. ‘Tis just a wee bit of thick Scots.” She moved closer to the trader. “Sir, I’m Lady Claricia Thorsen. Perhaps we can untangle this?”
The trader’s suspicious gaze swept over her. “Ye’re the Highland bride everyone’s whisperin’ about?”
“Guilty. And I understand yer position.” She kept her voice steady, reasonable. “Ye’ve sailed three days with valuable cargo. Ye cannae risk yer laird’s wrath by deliverin’ it improperly. That’s just sensible business practice.”
Some of the suspicion eased from his weathered face. “Finally! Someone with sense in their skull! These folk mean well, but I’ll nae break orders just because they’re impatient.”
“Of course nae. The problem is, they dinnae understand yer accent, and ye dinnae trust theirs. So everyone’s stuck arguin’ in circles.”
The trader jabbed his walking stick into the sand. “I keep tellin’ them about the seal, but they stare at me like I’m speakin’ in tongues!”
Claricia turned to Erik, switching to slower, clearer Scots. “He needs the official trade document—both seals on it. That proves everythin’s proper. Without it, he fears his chieftain will hold him accountable fer misdelivery.”
Erik turned to Bjorn, speaking rapid Norse punctuated with gestures.
Bjorn’s face went blank, then flushed red as a sunset. He called something to the other villagers, and a chaotic conversation in Norse erupted. Finally, a young man—barely past boyhood—stepped forward looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“Me jarl.” The young man’s Scots came halting and uncertain. “The seal… I have it. In safe place. At house.” He gestured vaguely toward the village.
The relief that washed over the trader’s face was almost comical. “Well why in blazes didnae someone say so from the start? Go fetch it, lad, before the tide turns!”
The young man bolted like his trousers were on fire.
Claricia turned back to the trader. “While we wait, would ye like water? Three days at sea is hard on the bones.”
“Aye, that it is. Me back’s been complainin’ since the Inner Minch.” The trader’s entire demeanor had shifted. “Ye’ve a sharp mind, me lady. Rare as hen’s teeth in these parts, if ye’ll pardon me sayin’ so.”
“None taken.”
Movement caught her eye—Erik standing several paces away, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. When their eyes met, something passed between them. Something that made her chest tighten.
The young villager returned at a dead run, clutching a leather packet like it held his life’s savings. He thrust it at the trader with a babble of apologetic Norse.
The trader opened it, examined the contents, and nodded with satisfaction. “There we are. Official trade agreement between Laird Kenneth MacLeod and Jarl Erik Thorsen, signed, sealed, and legal as the day is long.” He looked at the young man.
“Right!” The trader clapped his hands together. “Let’s get this cargo off me boat before nightfall catches me. I’ve nay desire tae sail the Minch in darkness.”
The transformation was immediate. What had been a tense standoff dissolved into organized activity as the villagers moved to help unload the precious winter stores. The trader directed traffic with the ease of long practice, his earlier suspicion replaced by professional efficiency.
Bjorn approached Erik, speaking Norse with obvious embarrassment. Erik’s response was too quiet to hear, but she caught the reassuring hand on the older man’s shoulder. No anger. No reprimand. Just understanding.
He’s kind when it matters.
“Me lady?”
Claricia turned to find a woman about her own age—work-roughened hands twisted together, eyes wary but softer than before. “Aye?”
“Thank ye. Fer sortin’ the misunderstandin’.” The woman’s Scots carried heavy Norse inflection but remained clear. “We were gettin’ worried. Winter’s comin’, and without those supplies...”
“Of course. I was glad tae help.”
It was a small thing. A tiny crack in the wall of suspicion. But it felt like a victory nonetheless.