“Perfect. Thank ye.” Liv’s smile was genuine but dismissive, and Tovi took the hint, slipping from the room with practiced efficiency.
The door clicked shut, and suddenly Claricia was acutely aware of how vulnerable she was—naked in a stranger’s bath, in a stranger’s castle, with the cousin of the man who’d killed her brother studying her with those unsettling pale eyes.
“Lady Claricia.” Liv moved closer, her dove-gray gown whispering against the stone floor. “I trust the bath is adequate?”
“Aye. Thank ye.” Claricia fought the urge to sink deeper beneath the water. She refused to show weakness, even half-drowned and exhausted. “Tovi said ye’d help me dress?”
“Aye.” Liv picked up the length of linen Tovi had left warming by the fire, holding it ready. “Though I confess I’m as curious about ye as I suspect ye are about me.” Something flickered in those eyes—not quite mockery, but testing. Weighing. “After all, ‘tis nae every day me cousin fishes a Highland bride from the sea.”
Claricia stood, water sluicing down her body as she reached for the linen. “And ‘tis nae every day I’m nearly drowned by faceless attackers before bein’ dragged tae a Norse fortress against me will.” She wrapped the cloth around herself, meeting Liv’s gaze steadily. “We’re both havin’ unusual days, it seems.”
For a heartbeat, Liv simply stared.
Then, unexpectedly, she laughed—a genuine sound that transformed her reserved face into something warm and almost mischievous.
“Och, ye’ll dae,” she said, amusement dancing in those pale eyes as she moved to help Claricia from the tub. “I was worried ye’d be some simperin’ thing who’d weep intae her pillow every night. Erik has nay patience fer tears.”
Claricia let Liv guide her toward the bed where the fresh shift waited. “I rarely cry. I’m more inclined tae throw things when I’m angry.”
“Aye, I heard ye slapped him.” Liv’s mouth twitched as she helped Claricia into the soft linen shift. “He was quite put out about it.”
“He was breathin’intaeme mouth!”
“Because ye’d stopped breathin’ altogether.” Liv held up the green gown, examining it with a critical eye before helping Claricia step into it. “Ungrateful wretch.”
The words were so unexpected—and delivered with such dry humor—that Claricia found herself laughing despite everything.
“Ungrateful?” she managed between startled chuckles. “The man kidnapped me!”
“Saved ye, more like.Twice, if we’re countin’.” Liv’s fingers worked the laces at Claricia’s back with practiced efficiency. “Ye’re rather accident-prone, arenae ye?”
Claricia opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. “I suppose,” she said slowly, “that I should thank him. Eventually. When I can manage it without wantin’ tae slap him again.”
Liv’s laugh was softer this time, tinged with something that might have been approval. “Och, aye. Ye’ll dae quite nicely indeed.”
“The Council’s ready fer ye, me jarl.”
Erik glanced up from the saddle he’d been inspecting, dirt still clinging to his boots from the ride. Tormund stood in the courtyard doorway, wringing his weathered hands with the nervous energy of a man unused to hosting Highland nobility—particularly when said nobility had just been half-drowned and wrapped in his laird’s shirt like some bedraggled gift from the sea gods.
“Thank ye,” Erik ran a hand through his still-damp hair, salt spray crystallizing at the ends. “Tell them I’ll be there shortly.” He swerved around, “Tell me, what dae ye make of her.”
“Me jarl.” Tormund hesitated, his face creasing with something between concern and curiosity. “The lady… she’s nae what we expected.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. “What did ye expect, Tormund? Some docile Highland rose willin’ tae throw herself at the first savage who pulled her from the sea?”
“Nay, me jarl. ‘Tis just… she looks at ye like she cannae decide whether tae gut ye or kiss ye.”
Despite the tension coiled in his shoulders, Erik’s mouth twitched. “Guttin’ me would be the safer choice.”
Tormund chuckled, the sound warm despite the October chill settling over the courtyard. “I’ll fetch Mistress Liv then. The Council awaits in the Great Hall whenever ye’re ready.”
The Council.
Erik’s hands stilled on the leather. The four jarls who’d sailed to Skye to witness this doomed union, probably already deep in their cups and speculating about whether he’d survive the fortnight with his throat intact.
Erik grunted in acknowledgement and tossed the saddle to a stable hand, his mind already moving through the conversation to come. “And Tormund? Make sure the prisoner remains secured. Double the guards if ye must.”
“Already done, me jarl. Aksel’s seein’ tae it personally.”
