Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Ye’ve outdone yerself, m’lady.”
Claricia turned from arranging the last of the heather sprigs along the high table to find Mhari beaming at her, flour still dusting the cook’s plump cheeks.
The Great Hall glowed with warmth—rushes laid fresh and sweet-smelling, candles burning in every sconce, tables groaning beneath platters of roasted venison and honey-glazed duck.
“’Tis certainly bonnie,” Claricia admitted, surveying her work with tired satisfaction.
She’d been organizing since dawn—directing servants, approving dishes, ensuring every detail reflected the importance of this celebration.
A union between the Highlanders and the Norse.
Between her father’s line and Erik’s. Between two hearts that had somehow found each other despite a king’s decree and centuries of bloodshed.
Erik’s confession from earlier that day still echoed through her like cathedral bells, thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth on her, the way he’d looked at her afterward with such raw vulnerability that her chest had ached.
“The jarl will be pleased,” Mhari said, patting her arm with maternal affection. “As will yer faither. ‘Tis a proper feast fer a proper union.”
Claricia’s smile wavered. Her father. She’d barely seen her father for the rest of the day—he’d kept to his chambers, claiming fatigue from travel, though she suspected he was simply avoiding her.
He’ll come around, he has tae. Because I’m nae leavin’. This is me home now.
“M’lady!” A young serving girl—Isla, barely fourteen—appeared at her elbow with wide, panicked eyes. “The mead! Cook says we’ve nae enough mead fer the toasts, and the men will riot if there’s only ale, and—”
“Breathe, lass.” Claricia caught the girl’s trembling hands. “How much mead dae we have?”
“Three barrels, but Cook says we need five fer a proper feast with this many—”
“Three will be plenty if we’re clever about it.” Claricia squeezed once and released her. “Serve the mead fer the formal toasts, then switch tae the good ale afterward. They’ll nae complain if the ale is strong enough.”
Isla’s face cleared. “Aye, m’lady! I’ll tell Cook!” She scurried off, nearly colliding with Liv in the doorway.
“Chaos and calamity,” Liv observed dryly, watching the girl disappear. “Just another day preparin’ fer a Norse feast.”
“Daes the clan’s folk always eat like they’re on the verge of stormin’ a castle?” Claricia asked, eyeing the truly staggering amount of food covering every available surface.
“Only when we’re celebratin’. Or mournin’.
Or… actually, aye, we always eat like this.
” Liv moved to her side, adjusting one of the heather arrangements with a critical eye.
“Ye’ve made the hall beautiful, though. Even Erik’s hardened warriors are eyein’ the decorations like they might weep intae their beards. ”
“Vikings dinnae weep.”
“Och, they dae. They just call it ‘somethin’ in their eye’ and blame it on the smoke.” Liv’s expression turned sly. “Speakin’ of me cousin, have ye seen him recently? He’s been pacin’ his chamber like a man facin’ execution rather than a celebration.”
Warmth bloomed in Claricia’s chest. “D’ye think he’s nervous?”
“Terrified. ‘Tis rather adorable, actually. I’ve never seen the Wolf of Skye reduced tae fidgetin’ with his belt and askin’ Aksel if his tunic makes him look”—she affected Erik’s gruff voice—”‘like I’m tryin’ too hard.’“
Claricia couldn’t suppress her grin. “He didnae!”
“Och, he absolutely did. Aksel told him he looked fine, then spent the next ten minutes teasin’ him about turnin’ intae a lovesick pup.” Liv’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I believe the exact words were, ‘The Wolf has been domesticated. Alert the kingdom.”
“I need tae see this.” Claricia started toward the door, but Liv caught her arm.
“Let him stew a bit longer. Besides”—she gestured at the controlled chaos around them—”ye have approximately forty-seven more disasters tae prevent before the guests arrive.”
As if summoned by her words, a tremendous crash echoed from the kitchens, followed by Mhari’s creative cursing in what sounded like three different languages.
“Forty-eight,” Liv corrected.
An hour later, with the kitchen crisis resolved, Claricia finally made her way toward her chambers. She found Aksel standing guard outside the door, looking far too amused for a man supposedly on duty.
“Is he presentable?” she asked.
Aksel’s grin was wicked. “Depends on yer definition. He’s dressed, if that’s what ye’re askin’. Whether he’s fit fer public viewin’…” He shrugged eloquently. “I’ll let ye be the judge.”
She knocked—a pointed gesture, since Erik never extended her the same courtesy—and entered without waiting for a response.
Erik stood before the bronze mirror, tugging at the collar of his deep gray tunic with clear frustration.
He’d obviously made an effort—his hair was neatly braided, his beard trimmed close, and he wore his finest clothes.
But the man who’d faced down raiders and rival jarls without flinching looked like he might bolt through the window at any moment.
“I look ridiculous,” he announced without preamble.
Claricia closed the door and leaned against it, drinking in the sight of him. “Ye look handsome.”
“I look like a man playin’ dress-up. Like I’m pretendin’ tae be somethin’ I’m nae.” He yanked at the tunic again. “This is too fine. Too… soft. Me men will think I’ve gone weak.”
“Yer men will think ye’re honored tae celebrate yer marriage properly,” she corrected, crossing to him.
She reached up to smooth the fabric he’d wrinkled.
“And ye’re nae playin’ at anythin’. Ye’re allowed tae be more than just the Wolf, ye ken.
Ye’re allowed tae be Erik—the man who loves me, who wants tae celebrate that love with a proper feast.”
His hands came up to bracket her waist, steadying himself with her touch. “I dinnae ken how tae dae this. The courtship and finery and makin’ pretty speeches.”
“Then ‘tis a good thing I dinnae need pretty speeches.” She traced the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there. “I just need ye. Exactly as ye are—rough edges and all.”
Some of the tightness left his shoulders. “Even when I’m terrified of disappointin’ ye?”
“Especially then. Because it means ye care enough tae try.” She rose on her toes to kiss him softly. “Now stop fussin’ and come help me make certain yer warriors dinnae drink all the mead before the toasts.”
The feast was everything Claricia had hoped for—laughter and music filling the hall until the very stones seemed to vibrate with joy.
Guests packed every table: Erik’s warriors and their families, villagers from the settlement beyond the castle, household staff dressed in their finest. Even the gruff old blacksmith had donned a relatively clean tunic for the occasion.
Claricia watched from the high table as two of Erik’s younger warriors attempted an increasingly competitive drinking game, cheered on by the raucous crowd around them.
Beside her, Erik was deep in conversation with one of his captains, but his hand rested on her thigh beneath the table—a warm, possessive weight that sent pleasant shivers up her spine.
Finnian sat on her other side, managing a smile when toasts were raised, though Claricia noticed how his hand kept straying to his cup, how his eyes followed her with an intensity that made her uneasy.
She’d tried to draw him into conversation several times, but he’d deflected with vague pleasantries, his gaze distant.
“M’lady!” Isla appeared at her elbow again, this time flushed with excitement rather than panic. “The men are askin’ fer a toast from the jarl!”
Erik’s conversation broke off. He glanced at Claricia, something vulnerable flickering through his expression—dae I have tae?—before he stood, raising his cup. The hall gradually quieted, hundreds of eyes turning toward the high table.
“I’m nae a man of words,” Erik began, his voice carrying easily through the space. “Most of ye ken that I prefer blades tae banter.”
“Here, here!” someone shouted, drawing laughter.
Erik’s mouth twitched. “But tonight calls fer words, so I’ll try nae tae mangle them too badly.” His gaze found Claricia, and everything else seemed to fall away. “Several weeks ago, I married Lady Claricia as I was commanded tae dae by the king.
The hall had gone absolutely silent now, every person leaning forward to catch his words.
“I expected duty,” Erik continued. “Obligation. A cold marriage bed and colder silences. What I got instead was…” He paused, seeming to struggle for the right words.
“Fire. Challenge. A woman who refused tae bow when I expected submission, who fought back when I expected compliance, who somehow saw past the Wolf tae the man underneath and decided he was worth it anyway.”
Claricia’s vision blurred with tears.
“So I raise me cup tae me wife,” Erik said, lifting his drink high. “Tae Claricia MacKenzie Thorsen, who’s brought light intae shadows I didnae even ken were dark. Who’s turned this castle intae a home. Who’s proven that sometimes the king’s cruelty can birth unexpected blessin’s.”
“Tae Lady Claricia!” the hall roared, and the sound was like thunder.
The kiss he gave her was thorough enough to draw catcalls and good-natured ribbing from the crowd, but Claricia barely heard it.
All she knew was Erik’s arms around her, his heart beating against hers, and the perfect rightness of finally speaking the truth aloud before witnesses who’d celebrate it rather than condemn it.
When they broke apart, both breathless, Aksel stood with his own cup raised. “Tae marriages that start as duty and end as devotion!” he called. “May the rest of us poor bastards be half as lucky when the king calls our names!”
More laughter, more drinking, more noise as the feast continued with renewed enthusiasm.