Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Faither!”
The word tore from Claricia’s throat as a figure dismounted in the courtyard below several days later.
She couldn’t see his face, but she’d know that broad-shouldered silhouette anywhere—the careful dignity despite travel weariness, the MacKenzie plaid draped across his shoulders like a declaration of pure Highland pride.
She was already running, skirts gathered in both fists as she flew down the stone steps. Cold wind whipped at her face, but she barely felt it.
“Claricia.” Finnian’s usually stern voice broke on her name as she crashed into his arms. He caught her the way he had when she was small, and for one stolen moment she was seven years old again, wrapped in the only safety she’d ever known.
“Ye came,” she whispered against rough wool, fighting the sting behind her eyes.
“Did ye doubt it?” Large hands framed her face, tilting it up with a gentleness that nearly undid her.
Those sharp blue eyes—the ones that had catalogued every scraped knee and childhood triumph—now hunted for wounds of a different sort.
His weathered face had new lines she didn’t remember.
“Och, lass, look at ye. Are they starvin’ ye here?
And what’s this?” His thumb brushed across a faint bruise on her wrist from where she’d caught herself during their wild ride back from the ambush.
“’Tis naethin’, I just caught it on—”
“Naethin’?” His voice rose, drawing attention from warriors scattered across the courtyard. Several turned to look. “’Tis nae naethin’ when I see me daughter wearin’ bruises like—”
“Faither, please.” She caught his hands, squeezing hard enough to pull his focus back. “I promise ye, I’m well. Truly.”
But she could see he didn’t believe her. Could see him cataloguing every shadow under her eyes, every sign of strain.
“We should get ye inside,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. “Ye must be frozen through. How was the crossin’?”
“Smooth enough.” His eyes had found something over her shoulder, and she watched his expression shutter closed like keep gates under siege. “Ach… I see the Wolf of Skye has seen fit tae greet me personally.”
She glanced back. Erik had moved closer without making a sound—silent as the predator everyone claimed him to be. He stood perhaps ten paces away, his face that familiar mask of cold authority, but she could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested near his sword hilt.
The Wolf and the Stag, circlin’ each other in me courtyard like lads measurin’ their—
“Laird MacKenzie.” Erik’s voice carried across the space between them, formal and measured. “Welcome tae Castle Thorsen.”
“Aye, well.” Finnian’s tone held a bitter edge. “When a faither must sail hostile waters just tae lay eyes on his daughter, a man starts tae question what ‘welcome’ truly means.”
She managed to shepherd her father inside without further bloodshed—verbal or otherwise—getting him settled in guest quarters with promises of hot food and warmer fires. A bath. Fresh clothes. Only when he’d thawed and eaten did she suggest he join her in her chamber.
Now, watching him take in the space she shared with Erik—the massive bed carved with Norse runes, the wolf pelts draped across chairs, the leather straps and weapons that marked this as a warrior’s domain, the unmistakable stamp of a husband’s claim on every surface—she wondered if privacy would have been wise after all.
His face had gone carefully blank. That particular expression he wore when he was fighting to control his temper.
“So.” Finnian’s voice was carefully neutral moments later as he settled into the chair across from her. The servants had just left. “Ye’re certain ye wish tae speak here? Where he can hear?”
Claricia glanced at the heavy wooden door. Erik was out there somewhere, surely listening. But it didn’t bother her. “I’m certain.”
Finnian nodded slowly, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The firelight caught the silver threading through his hair. “Then I’ll nae mince words, lass. Duncan MacRae came tae see me before I left Kintail.”
Her stomach dropped like a stone into dark water. “What business daes Duncan have—”
“He’s worried fer ye. Says things here… arenae what the king believes.” Finnian’s weathered hands gripped hers, urgent. Desperate, even. “Says he has men, resources. That he can get ye away from this place, take ye somewhere safe, while we make a proper appeal tae the crown—”
“Nay!” The word tore out of her. She jerked her hands free, standing so fast her chair scraped stone with a screech that made her wince. “Faither—”
“Yer braither is dead because of these bloody savages!” He surged upright, voice rising despite the closed door. “And now I’m supposed tae sail away and let ye share a bed with the man who led that cursed raid?”
The words hit like a fist to the chest. For a moment she couldn’t breathe.
“It wasnae Erik’s blade that claimed Logan’s life.”
The silence that followed was so complete she could hear her own heartbeat.
The words hung between them like a blade suspended by a thread.
Finnian’s face drained of color, then flooded red. “Ye stand there and defend him? After what his people did tae our family—after Logan—”
“He’s nae what ye think.” Her voice cracked but she pushed through. Forced the words out past the tightness in her throat. “He’s just tryin’ tae keep his own alive—same as ye’ve always done. Same as Logan would’ve done.”
“Have ye lost all sense?”
“Nay. But I’ve finally gained some perspective.” She lifted her chin, met his eyes. “Or maybe I’m just tired of hatin’ him because everyone tells me I should.”
“He’s twisted yer mind against yer own blood—”
“Yer daughter makes her own mind, Laird MacKenzie. Ye should ken that.”
The new voice came from the doorway. Erik stood there, face carefully blank.
Claricia’s pulse kicked up, but not from fear. From something that felt dangerously close to vindication. “Seems ye’re part of this conversation after all, me jarl. Perhaps ye should stop lurkin’ in the corridors and join us properly?”
Erik’s gaze held hers for a long moment before he stepped into the room. The space suddenly felt smaller with all three of them in it. More volatile, like adding oil to fire.
“Yer daughter is safe here, Laird MacKenzie.” Erik’s voice was quiet. Controlled. The kind of control that came from years of practice keeping his temper leashed. “Ye have me word.”
“Yer word.” Finnian’s laugh was sharp as broken glass. “Fergive me if a faither finds small comfort in that. Words are—”
“We’ll finish this at supper,” Claricia cut in, looking between them. Between the two most important men in her life, circling each other like wolves. “All of us. With civility, if ye can manage it.”
The tension didn’t ease as servants laid out the evening meal in Erik’s solar.
If anything, the intimate setting—just the three of them at a table meant for private counsel—only sharpened the edges of every unspoken grievance.
No audience to play to. No witnesses to temper behavior.
Just three people, a table, and enough animosity to start a war.
Claricia took her seat between the two men and braced herself.
Finnian sat ramrod straight, barely touching the venison on his plate.
Each time he lifted his cup, his hand shook slightly—whether from rage or restraint, she couldn’t tell.
Erik ate with his usual methodical efficiency, seemingly unbothered by the hostile glares being directed his way, but she’d learned to read the small tells.
The tightness around his eyes. The deliberate slowness of his movements. A predator pretending to be calm.
Claricia pushed food around her plate and wished desperately to be anywhere else.
“The isle is well-defended?” Finnian asked, tone suggesting he already doubted the answer.
“Aye.” Erik took a measured sip of ale. “Increased patrols along the coast. More men at the harbor.”
“And yet.” Finnian set down his cup with deliberate care. “Me daughter acquired those bruises under all this… vigilance.”
Claricia saw Erik’s hand tighten fractionally on his knife.
“There was an incident days past. An ambush on the coast road. Yer daughter was unharmed.”
“An ambush.” Finnian’s voice went dangerously soft. “How convenient that this detail escaped yer letter.”
“It was after the letter was sent and it was dealt with—”
“She could’ve been killed!” Finnian slammed his cup down hard enough to rattle the table.
“Faither, please—”
“Nay, I want tae hear what kind of protection he’s offerin’ ye as his wife! As—”
“Calm. Down.”
Erik’s voice didn’t rise, but something in it made the air go sharp. He stood slowly, and Claricia was reminded of a wolf rising to its full height—all coiled power and deadly calm.
“Ye’re concerned fer yer daughter. As ye well should be.” Erik’s eyes never left Finnian’s. “But ye’ll nae question me ability tae protect what’s mine.”
“Yers?” Finnian rose to meet him. “She was mine before the king played his games—”
“Enough!” Claricia’s hands hit the table hard enough to make cups jump. Wine sloshed. A knife clattered. Both men stared at her with wide eyes. “Both of ye, just… stop this.”
They turned to stare at her—her father with wounded fury written across every line of his face, Erik with something that might have been surprise buried beneath granite control.
“Faither, I understand ye’re frightened fer me.
Truly, I dae.” She looked between them. “But Erik is me husband now. Whether either of us chose it or nae, whether ye approve or nae—he’s me husband.
And ye—” She turned to Erik, saw him watching her with those pale, unreadable eyes.
“Ye need tae ken that he’s me faither. He raised me.
Protected me. Loved me when I had naethin’ and nay one.
He’ll nae simply trust ye because a king commanded it. ”
“Claricia—”