He gestured toward the water, where a birlinn waited in the shallows—sleek and deadly, built for speed. “Get her on the boat. And if she fights, throw her in the hold.”
They dragged her toward the shore, and Claricia fought every step—twisting, kicking, making herself as difficult as possible. If she could just slow them down, just buy Erik a few more minutes?—
“Enough!” Duncan grabbed her jaw, forcing her tae meet his eyes. “Ye can board this boat walking or unconscious. Choose.”
She spat blood in his face.
He hit her again—harder this time—and darkness swam at the edges of her vision. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard shouting. Felt herself being lifted. The cold shock of ankle-deep water as they waded toward the birlinn.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Another round, me jarl?”
Erik waved Torsten off without looking, his mind elsewhere. Around them, the feast roared on—Sigurd trying to convince a serving girl he’d once fought off three men with nothing but a fishing gaff, Rorik laughing so hard at someone’s joke he’d nearly fallen off his bench, the musicians playing a reel that had half the hall dancing despite how deep they were in their cups.
“Somethin’s nae right,” Torsten said, louder now. “Ye ken ‘tis thefourthtime taenight our jarl’s waved away perfectly good ale.”
“So?”
“So, when we took that keep in Uist two summers back, ye drank till dawn and still made it tae trainin’ before the rest of us crawled out of bed.” Torsten squinted at him. “Are yeill? Should we fetch the healer fer ye?”
One of the younger warriors—Sten, who’d only seen sixteen winters and thought himself invincible—leaned across the table with a grin. “Maybe he’s waitin’ fer his lady tae come back and give permission before he starts celebratin’ proper like.”
The older men within earshot laughed, not mockingly, but with the easy warmth of warriors who’d decided they liked their jarl’s choice of wife.
“Or maybe,” Rorik called out, “he’s worried she’ll catch him drunk and make him sleep in the stables!”
More laughter. Erik should have shut it down, should have reminded them he was still the Wolf of Skye and could make them regret their loose tongues. Instead, he found himself scanning the hall entrance again.
How long has she been gone?
“See?” Sten said triumphantly. “He didnae even threaten tae gut me. The old Erik would’ve had me head fer that.”
“The old Erik didnae have a wife,” Sigurd added, his scarred face surprisingly gentle. “Leave the man be. Some of us think it’s good tae see him happy fer once.”
Aksel materialized at his elbow, cup in hand but eyes sharp as always. “They mean well, ye ken.”
“They’re drunk.”
“Ay—”
“But they’re nae wrong.” Erik’s voice dropped lower. “And tae be honest, she’s been gone longer than I’d like.”
That got Aksel’s attention. “How long?”
“Long enough that I noticed.” Erik’s jaw tightened. “Finnian had a strange look about him when he asked her tae take a walk. I didnae like it then, and I like it less now.”
“Strange how?”
“Like a man who’d made a choice and hated himself fer it already.” Erik hand drifted toward his sword hilt.
“Could be naethin’. Could be a faither realizin’ he’s truly lost his daughter tae another man. But…” Aksel said.
“But?” Erik was already standing, every warrior instinct suddenly screaming.
“But we both ken what men look like when they’re about tae betray someone.”
The words hit Erik like a fist to the gut. The feast noise suddenly felt too loud, too wrong.
