“Generous of ye.” Erik drained his ale in one long pull, feeling the burn all the way down. “Though I suspect each of our brides will bring their own unique flavor of catastrophe.”
“Undoubtedly.” Harald’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Though at least yers tried tae drown herself before ye could muck it up. That shows initiative.”
Despite everything—the attack, the danger, the impossible task ahead—Erik felt laughter rumble in his chest. These men understood. They stood bound by the same decree, facing the same impossible odds, each carrying wounds from wars that had stolen too much and given back too little.
“The weddin’ takes place in two days,” Erik said, his voice hardening with resolve. “The royal envoy will witness it, verify the union, and report back tae Alexander. Until then, we keep the lady safe, find out who attacked her ship, and pray tae whatever gods still listen that this daesnae end in bloodshed.”
Erik pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against stone. “I want guards doubled on all approaches tae the castle.Magnus, ye have the sharpest eyes—position yer men on the walls. Harald, yer ships still patrol the waters?”
“Aye. Naething approaches Skye without me say-so.”
“Good. Ivar, Ragnar—” Erik hesitated, measuring his next words carefully. “I need ye both tae make inquiries. Discreetly. Find out what ye can about Duncan MacRae. His whereabouts, his allies, whether he has cause tae want this match destroyed.”
“Ye really think a spurned Highland laird would attack a royal decree?” Ragnar’s tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“I think a man with naethin’ left tae lose is the most dangerous creature alive.” Erik met each of their gazes in turn. “And I’ll nae take chances with me wife’s safety.”
“Yer wife,” Magnus repeated softly. “She’s nae that yet, braither.”
“She will be.” The certainty in Erik’s voice surprised even himself. “Two days from now, Claricia Mackenzie will be Lady of Skye. And anyone who tries tae stop that will answer tae me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and threat. The four jarls exchanged glances—some amused, some thoughtful, all knowing that Erik had just drawn a line in the sand that he’d defend with blood if necessary.
“Well then.” Ivar stood, stretching like a satisfied cat. “I suppose we’d best make sure ye survive tae see yer wedding night. Would be a shame tae waste all this drama on a corpse.”
“Yer concern is touchin’,” Erik said dryly.
“Isnae it?” Ivar grinned, that reckless spark dancing in his dark eyes. “I’m practically a saint.”
“Saints dinnae usually reek of ale and hubris,” Magnus observed.
Harald rose with the fluid grace of a man constantly ready for battle. “We’ll see tae our tasks, Erik. Ye focus on yer bride. And fer the love of Odin’s ravens, try nae tae make things worse before the wedding.”
“How could I possibly make things worse?”
The four jarls looked at him with identical expressions of amused disbelief.
“Ye’re Erik Thorsen,” Ragnar said simply. “Ye’ll find a way. Now, let’s get tae dinner so we can meet the new Lady Thorsen and see what all the fuss is about.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Iken ye dinnae have manners, but ye could try knockin’, ye savage!”
Erik froze in the doorway. Claricia stood beside the wardrobe in nothing but her shift, the fabric thin enough that firelight painted the soft curves beneath in gold and shadow. Her hair tumbled loose over one shoulder, and her eyes blazed with an indignation that should have warned him away.
Instead, something low in his gut tightened with want.
“I knocked,” he said, though he knew damn well he hadn’t. “Ye didnae answer.”
“Because I wasdressin’!” She snatched a woolen gown from the bed and held it against her chest like a shield. “Daes yer kind have nay concept of privacy?”
Erik stepped inside, closing it behind him with deliberate care. “If ye’re expectin’ an apology, ye’ll be waitin’ a long time.”
“An apology? From the Wolf of Skye?” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “I’d sooner expect tenderness from a winter storm.”
“Then we understand each other.” He leaned against the door and studied her—the flush creeping up her neck, the way her fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the gown, the rapid rise and fall of her chest beneath that damned shift. All of it spoke louder than her cutting words. “We marry in two days, Claricia. Best ye get accustomed tae me presence.”
The color drained from her face. “Two days?”
