Brave little bird.
She could have collapsed under the weight of five battle-hardened jarls studying her. Instead, she’d come out swinging.
“I’m Ivar Ragnarsson of Barra,” Ivar said with an exaggerated bow. “And I promise tae only charm ye a wee bit. Wouldnae want tae make our host jealous, would we now.”
“Erik?” Claricia’s gaze flicked to him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Jealous? I suspect he’d be more concerned about his wine stores runnin’ dry than any competition fer me attention.”
“Careful, lass,” Magnus warned, though his tone held warmth. “Erik’s known tae be possessive about what’s his. Even if he pretends otherwise.”
“I’m nae his.” The words came quick, defensive. “Nae yet.”
“Two days,” Ragnar reminded her gently. “Then ye’ll be bound tae him by law and gods alike.”
Erik watched her throat work as she swallowed, saw the flash of something raw before she schooled it away.
Fear. She’s terrified of what comes after the weddin’.
“Come, lass.” He gestured to the empty seat beside him. “Sit. Eat. We dinnae bite—unless ye ask fer it.”
She moved toward the table with Liv’s guidance, taking the seat to his right with the grace of a woman who’d been raised in noble halls. But her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the ale, and Erik found himself wanting to cover them with his own.
Instead, he poured her ale himself, his arm brushing hers in the process. She stiffened at the contact, but didn’t pull away.
“The food may nae be what ye’re accustomed tae,” he said quietly, pitched for her ears alone. “But I’ve had the cook prepare some Highland dishes as well. Ye’ll find them near yer plate.”
Her gaze snapped to his, startled. “Ye… ye had them make…”
“I’m nae a complete savage, despite what ye think.” Satisfaction warmed him at her surprise. “Might as well have food that daesnae turn yer stomach.”
“Thank ye.” The words cost her—he could hear it in the way they caught in her throat. And somehow that made them worth more than all the pretty speeches he’d heard from allied jarls.
“Eat,” he commanded, gentler now. “Ye’ll need yer strength fer what comes next.”
“And what comes next?”
Erik glanced toward the library visible through the archway, where cards and ale waited. “We discover if ye’re as clever as ye are stubborn.”
“A challenge, then?”
“Call it what ye will.” He caught her gaze and held it. “But dinnae say I didnae warn ye when ye lose.”
Her smile was sharp as a blade. “I never lose, Erik Thorsen.”
Two hours later, Erik leaned back in his chair and watched Claricia lay down a card that made Ivar swear colorfully in Norse.
“How is shedaein’this?” the younger jarl demanded, staring at his depleted pile of tokens. “I’ve been playin’ cards since before I could hold a sword, and this Highland lass is wipin’ the floor with me!”
“Because,” Claricia said sweetly, “I pay attention. Ye’ve a tell, me laird—yer left eye twitches when ye’re bluffin’.”
“Me eye daes nae—” Ivar’s hand flew to his face. “Daes it?”
“Like a rabbit’s nose,” Magnus confirmed, barely containing his laughter. “I’ve been meanin’ tae mention it fer years.”
“And ye didnae think tae warn mebeforeI lost half me silver?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Harald gathered his own cards, studying them with the focus of a tactician planning war. “Lady Claricia, I must ask—where did ye learn tae play like this?”
“Me faither’s men.” She discarded a card and drew another, movements economical and precise. “When I was a bairn, they’d let me watch their games. Taught me the rules, showed me how tae read players. I used tae think it was because they liked me.” Her smile turned wry. “Then I realized they were trainin’ me tae spot liars. Useful skill fer a laird’s daughter.”
