Then we make the best of what we’ve been given.”
Erik made his way toward the Great Hall, the sounds of celebration growing louder with each step. Torchlight flickered along the stone corridor.
“Me jarl.”
Aksel emerged from a side passage, his expression grim.
Erik stopped. “Tell me.”
“The prisoner is secured in the north wing.” Aksel kept his voice low, mindful of passing servants. “Still unconscious, but breathin’. I’ve posted guards—four men, rotatin’ every six hours. Nay one gets near him without word from ye.”
“Good.” Erik’s jaw tightened. “When he wakes, I want tae ken immediately.”
“D’ye think he’ll talk?”
“Och, he’ll talk.” The promise carried a darker edge. “One way or another, we’ll get the truth.”
Aksel nodded once, then gestured toward the hall. “The jarls are waitin’ fer ye. And I suspect they’ll have their opinions about all of this.”
“They always dae.” Erik straightened his shoulders, pushing the violence of the day away. For now, he had a bride to present to his allies, and a show of strength to maintain.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors, and warmth and noise washed over him.
“There he is!” Ivar called out, raising his horn in salute. “The blushin’ groom himself. Did ye properly terrify yer bride… or did she terrify ye?”
“Both,” Erik admitted, claiming his seat at the table’s head. A servant appeared with ale, which he accepted gratefully. “She’s… nae what I expected.”
“Ach, how so?” Magnus leaned forward, hazel eyes sharp with interest.
“She fights.” Erik took a long pull from his horn. “Nae with blades, but with words that cut deeper than steel. And she has this way of lookin’ at me like I’m somethin’ she scraped off her boot.”
“Sounds entertainin’,” Ragnar observed in his rumbling baritone. “Better than a docile lass who’d bore ye tae death within a fortnight.”
“What concerns me,” Harald said quietly, his pale eyes reflecting firelight, “is the lass’s safety. Have ye learned anythin’ from the prisoner?”
Erik’s mood darkened. “Naethin’ yet. He’s still unconscious in the north wing. When he wakes, I’ll get answers—one way or another.”
“And in the meantime?” Harald pressed. “Ye leave her vulnerable?”
“I’ve doubled the guard. Aksel’s positioned men at every entrance. No one approaches the castle without our knowledge.” Erik met each of their gazes in turn. “I’ll nae have her harmed. Whatever else she thinks of me, she’ll be safe under me protection.”
“Speaking of the lass...” Ragnar nodded toward the hall’s entrance. “I believe yer bride approaches.”
Erik turned, and the breath caught in his chest.
Claricia entered on Liv’s arm, dressed in a gown of deep green wool that brought out the color in her eyes. Her hair had been tamed into an intricate braid that fell over one shoulder, andthough her expression remained carefully neutral, he could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight hesitation in her step.
She was terrified, and doing everything in her power to hide it.
The jarls rose as one—a show of respect that clearly surprised her. Her gaze swept the table, lingering on each man briefly before settling on Erik with something that might have been accusation or plea.
“Me jarls,” Liv said smoothly. “May I present Lady Claricia Mackenzie of Kintail, soon tae be Lady Thorsen of Skye.”
Ivar grinned wide. “Well now. The king wasnae jestin’ when he said the Highland lasses were bonnie, was he?”
Claricia’s eyebrow arched. “I’m guessin’ that makes ye the charmer? I’d like tae ken which ones tae avoid.”
Laughter erupted around the table, and Erik felt his chest tighten with something dangerously close to pride.
