“Useful skill fer anyone,” Ragnar observed, laying down his own hand with obvious reluctance. “I yield, lass. Ye’ve bested me fairly.”
Only Harald and Erik remained.
Erik watched Claricia consider her cards, watched the way firelight played across her features as she calculated her next move. She’d relaxed over the course of the evening, the rigid fear in her shoulders easing as the jarls treated her with respect. She’d even laughed at one of Ivar’s ridiculous tales, the sound surprised and genuine.
I want tae hear that laugh again.
“Yer turn, Wolf.” Claricia’s voice pulled him back. “Unless ye’re too distracted tae focus?”
“Never too distracted fer a winnin’ hand, little bird.”
“Dinnae call me that.”
“Why nae? It fits. All fierce and stubborn, ready tae take flight the moment I dare turn me back on ye.”
“Two days,” Ivar sing-songed, clearly delighted. “Two days until she’s very much yers, braither.”
“Shut yer face, Ivar,” Erik and Claricia said in perfect unison.
The jarls erupted into laughter. Erik caught Claricia’s gaze across the table, saw her fighting her own amusement, and felt something dangerous take root in his chest.
Och, ye will be the death of me, woman!
“I fold,” Harald announced, setting down his cards. “Lady Claricia, the victory is yers. I’ve nay shame in admittin’ when I’m bested by a superior player.”
“Then play,” Claricia challenged Erik, leaning forward. “Unless the Wolf is afraid of a wee Highland lass?”
They played in weighted silence. It was a battle, Erik realized—not of blades and blood, but of wills and wants and stubborn pride on both sides.
In the end, she won by a single card.
“Well,” Erik said, studying his defeated hand with something close to admiration. “Ye certainly kept that promise about never losin’.”
“I told ye I was clever.” But there was no gloating in her voice, only exhaustion finally catching up. She covered a yawn with her hand. “Fergive me. ‘Tis been a rather long day.”
“Aye. Drownin’… arrivin’ at an enemy castle… beatin’ five Viking jarls at cards—I can see how that might tire a lass out.” Ivar stood, bowing with surprising gallantry. “Lady Claricia, ye’ve been a delight. I look forward tae many more evenin’s of ye robbin’ me of me silver.”
One by one, the jarls offered their farewells and drifted toward their chambers. Until only Erik, Claricia, and Liv remained in the dimly lit library.
“I’ll escort ye tae yer room,” Liv said gently, touching Claricia’s shoulder. “Come, ye need rest.”
But Claricia’s gaze remained fixed on Erik, something unreadable in her expression. “They respected me,” she said quietly. “Yer allies. They didnae mock me or treat me like some prize tae be passed around. They respected me.”
“Did ye think they wouldnae?”
“I didnae ken what tae expect.” She stood slowly, gathering her skirts. “But I’ll admit… this evening was nae what I feared it would be.”
“Good.” He rose as well, suddenly aware of how close they stood and then she walked away with Liv at her side.
Erik watched her go, watched the way firelight caught in her hair, the proud set of her shoulders despite her exhaustion. Around him, all was quiet.
But his mind remained on Claricia. On the way she’d laughed with his allies, the clever way she’d played her cards, the brief moment when she’d thanked him for the Highland food and let her guard slip just enough that he’d seen the woman beneath the warrior’s pride.
I want her respect,want her tae look at me and see more than the man who’s responsible fer her losin’ her braither.
But Erik knew respect couldn’t be taken by force or commanded by decree. It had to be earned. And he had spent so many years being feared that he’d forgotten how to be anything else. But for Claricia—forthe stubborn, clever, fierce little bird who’d beaten them all at cards and then thanked him with genuine warmth for a simple kindness—he found he was willing to try, willing to learn, willing to adapt.
Even if it meant becoming someone he no longer recognized.
