CHAPTER ONE
Inner Minch on the way tae Skye, two months later
“If ye could stop heavin’ yer guts over the side, me lady, we’d make better time.”
Claricia MacKenzie’s knuckles had gone bone-white against the weathered rail, her grip so tight she half-expected splinters to embed themselves under her nails. The ship pitched beneath her feet, and her stomach lurched in violent protest. Bile teased the back of her throat, mingling with the taste of salt spray until she couldn’t tell where the sea ended and her misery began.
“I’mtryin’, Henry,” she managed through clenched teeth, her voice barely audible over the crash of waves against the hull. The guard stood beside her as steady as the mountains of Kintail, one scarred hand braced against the mast while she swayed like a newborn foal. “The sea doesnae seem tae care fer me cooperation.”
Henry’s chuckle rumbled warm in his chest despite the bitter October wind cutting across the deck. “Aye, the Inner Minch has nay manners. First time at sea is always the worst of it, me lady.”
First and last, if the gods have any mercy left fer me.
The thought brought no comfort. Claricia forced herself upright, using every scrap of MacKenzie pride to keep from crumpling. Her father’s daughter did not break. Not from a rebellious stomach, not from wind that smelled of brine and kelp, and certainly not from water that stretched endlessly toward a horizon she couldn’t see—dark, hungry, and utterly unforgiving beneath the steel-gray sky.
Even if that water made her heart race and her palms sweat with a terror she’d carried since childhood.
“Tell me again,” she said, desperate for any distraction from the churning in her belly and the dread coiling tighter around her ribs, “why the Wolf couldnae simply come tae Kintail? Why must I be the one sailin’ tae me own execution while he sits warm in his hall, countin’ his loot and sharpenin’ his claws?”
“Because King Alexander commands it, me lady.” Henry’s expression softened with something that might have been pity. “The Lairds’ Pactrequires the brides tae come tae the Isles. Proof of Highland submission, they’re callin’ it.”
“Submission.” The word tasted fouler than the bile she’d been spitting into the waves. “Me faither yields his daughter tae aNorse savage who probably eats with his hands and sleeps with his boots on, and the crown has the gall tae call it diplomacy.”
“‘Tis another word fer survival, me lady.” Henry’s voice dropped low enough that only she could hear it over the groan of timber and sail. “Five Viking lairds wed tae five Highland brides within the next years. Kinship instead of raids. Blood ties instead of bloodshed.” He paused, glancing around before adding, “Though between ye and me, I’d bet the king’s countin’ on at least two of these marriages endin’ in murder before Yuletide is upon us.”
Despite everything, a sharp laugh escaped her. Leave it to Henry to find the dark humor in her nightmare.
“Well, at least Duncan MacRae willnae be one of them” she muttered, surprised by the bitterness in her own voice.
Henry’s expression flickered—something between sympathy and concern. “Aye, me lady. Apparently, he took the annulment hard—harder than most expected.”
“That’s only because Duncan takes everythin’ hard when it daesnae go his way.” Claricia gripped the rail tighter as another wave made her stomach lurch. She’d known Duncan since they were children—had watched him grow from a sweet boy into a man whose pride had curdled into something uglier. “He’ll have nay trouble findin’ another bride. Soon enough there’ll be a lass who actuallywantstae marry him.”
“Maybe,” Henry didn’t sound convinced. “Though I heard he made quite the scene at yer faither’s hall when the decree arrived. Threatened tae appeal tae the king himself.”
“And how has that worked out fer him?”
“Och, about as well as ye’d expect. The Crown daesnae take kindly tae havin’ its commands questioned.” Henry paused, then added quietly, “Just… keep yer wits about ye, me lady. A man like Duncan MacRae daesnae easily forget bein’ humiliated… especially nae in front of half the Highland chiefs.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the spray from the sea ran down her spine. But before she could respond, Henry’s attention shifted to the horizon, his face creasing in concern.
Claricia knew the logic well enough—had it beaten into her head by her father, the king’s envoy, even the village priest.The Lairds’ Pact.A royal decree that had shattered her perfectly adequate betrothal to Duncan MacRae—a man she tolerated, if not actually liked—and bound her instead to Erik Thorsen.
The Wolf of Skye.
The man whose raids had killed her brother.
Logan.His name was a wound that never healed, a scar that pulled tight with every breath. She could still see his face the morning he’d ridden out three years past, so proud in his first real command, his MacKenzie plaid bright against his shoulder.Twenty years old and convinced he was invincible. She could still see her father’s face when they’d brought Logan home. Wrapped in that same plaid, stained rust-brown. His eyes closed. His skin gray. His blood long since cold.
All because of Norse raids. All because of men like Erik Thorsen.
“Me lady?” Henry’s voice cut through the memory like a blade through silk. “Ye’ve gone pale as fresh snow.”
Claricia swallowed hard, tasting copper. “The seasickness. How much longer?”
“We should sight Skye within the hour, weather holdin’.” He turned his gaze toward the expanse of water surrounding them, his weathered face creasing with concern. “Though I’ll admit, I dinnae like how empty these waters are. Usually more vessels about.”
She followed his stare. Nothing but gray waves rolling endlessly toward a gray sky, broken only by distant formations of black rock jutting from the sea like rotted teeth. The royal galley cut through the water with steady purpose, its sail pregnant with wind, but they were utterly, completely alone on that vast and unforgiving surface.
