Of course, he was. Aksel had that rare gift of anticipating Erik’s needs before he voiced them—a trait that had saved both their lives more times than either cared to count.
Erik strode toward the keep, his boots echoing against worn stone as servants scattered from his path like startled birds. The familiar weight of responsibility settled heavier with each step toward four jarls expecting him to somehow make this gods-forsaken pact work while the king’s envoy breathed down their necks like a carrion crow waiting for the feast.
And two days until the weddin’.
Two days to convince a woman who blamed him for her brother’s death that she should willingly bind herself to him for life. Erik had faced down enemy ships in storm-tossed seas with better odds than that.
The Great Hall opened before him, firelight dancing across ancient tapestries that depicted battles his ancestors had fought when those lands answered only to Norse kings. Harald, Magnus, Ivar, and Ragnar already occupied seats around the long oak table, their expressions ranging from amused to concerned as they watched him enter.
“About bloody time,” Ivar drawled, his dark eyes glittering with mischief above the rim of his ale horn. “We were beginnin’ tae wonder if yer bride had drowned ye fer sport.”
“Give him a moment, Ivar.” Harald’s voice carried the weight of command even when suggesting patience. “The man just fished his betrothed from the Inner Minch. I’d wager he has more pressin’ concerns than entertainin’ yer wit.”
“Wit implies cleverness,” Magnus observed mildly, though the faint smile playing at his lips took any sting from the words. “What Ivar possesses is more akin tae… persistent audacity.”
Ragnar said nothing, but his steady blue gaze tracked Erik’s movement as he claimed the chair at the table’s head—a silent assessment that missed nothing and judged even less.
“How is she?” Magnus asked once Erik had settled, his tone shifting to genuine concern. “Aksel mentioned she wasnae breathin’ when ye pulled her aboard.”
“She’s alive.” Erik poured himself a measure of ale from the pitcher, needing the burn to settle the knot in his chest. “Furious, soaked tae the bone, and convinced I’m the demon who murdered her braither, but alive.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Ivar said cheerfully. “Most marriages begin with far less passion.”
“Ivar, shut yer face before I shut it fer ye.” The words came out harsher than Erik intended, but the image of Claricia’s pale, lifeless face as he’d breathed air back into her lungs still haunted him. The way her eyes had flown open, green-blue and blazing with life—and then the sharp crack of her palm against his jaw.
I’d take a thousand such slaps if it meant she kept breathin’.
“Fergive me braither.” Harald’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “He forgets that nae all of us find amusement in others’ misfortune.”
“Braither?” Erik’s eyebrows rose despite himself. “Since when dae ye claim kinship with this whelp?”
“Since he saved me arse in that skirmish off Lewis last summer,” Harald replied, though his expression remained impassive. “Braithers in arms, if nae by blood. Though some days I question the wisdom of that debt.”
“As dae I,” Ivar muttered into his ale, earning a sharp look from Magnus.
Ragnar finally broke his silence, his deep voice carrying across the hall like distant thunder. “The attackers. What dae we ken of them?”
Erik’s hands tightened around his horn. Trust Ragnar to cut through the posturing and reach the heart of the matter. “Naethin’ yet. They wore nay clan colors, used grappling hooks that suggest practice, and seemed determined tae either kill or capture the lady. We’ve one survivor, unconscious in the dungeons.”
“’Tis mere inconvenience,” Magnus murmured. “Dead men cannae talk, but unconscious ones are only temporarily silent.”
“Aye. He’ll wake.” Erik’s tone brooked no argument. “And when he daes, he’ll tell me everythin’ he kens about who sent him and why.”
“Ye think this was planned?” Harald leaned forward, his strategist’s mind already working through possibilities.
“Possibly.” Erik rolled the ale horn between his palms, feeling the smooth wood worn by generations of jarls before him. “Or someone with a personal grudge against the match. I’ve heard said that the lady was already promised tae Duncan MacRae of Clan MacRae.”
Ivar whistled low. “MacRae daesnae strike me as the type tae accept royal annulment with grace.”
“Is any man?” Ragnar asked quietly. “The king’s decree stripped away promised alliances, severed betrothals, humiliated proud lairds across the Highlands. We’d be fools tae think there’ll be nae resistance.”
A heavy silence settled over the table, broken only by the pop and hiss of logs in the great hearth.
“The Pact demands we each take a Highland bride,” Harald said finally, his pale eyes reflecting firelight. “But the Pact daesnae guarantee those brides will survive long enough tae wed us. Or that we’ll survive weddin’ them.”
“Cheerful bastard, arenae ye?” Ivar raised his horn in mock salute. “Here’s tae marriage, death, and the fine line between them.”
“Here’s tae Erik bein’ the first tae test those waters,” Magnus added, though his hazel eyes held sympathy rather than mockery. “May the rest of us learn from yer mistakes.”
