Claricia’s hands tightened on the reins as they approached, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs in that familiar, shameful way.
Just a loch,just water. ‘Tis nae going tae reach out and drag ye in.
But her body remembered the cold. The darkness. The way her lungs had burned as water filled them.
“What’s wrong?” Erik’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He’d dismounted and was watching her with an intensity that felt almost invasive.
“Naethin’.” The lie tasted bitter. “I’m just... ‘tis a long ride, that’s all.”
He studied her for a long moment, then his gaze slid to the loch and back to her face. Understanding dawned in his expression—not judgment, but something that might have been recognition.
“Ye’re afraid of the water.”
It wasn’t a question, but Claricia found herself answering anyway. “I cannae swim. Never learned. Me maither...” She stopped, surprised by how easily the words came. “Me maither drowned when I was five. After that, me faither kept me away from deep water. Said he couldnae bear tae lose anyone else tae it.”
Erik was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn’t respond. “Ye have courage, lass. Ye fell intae the Inner Minch and survived. Most people who cannae swim wouldnae have lasted half as long as ye did.”
The compliment caught her off guard. “I survived because ye pulled me out.”
“Aye. But ye fought. Even drownin’, even terrified, ye still fought.” He moved closer, and she realized he was offering his hand to help her dismount. “That’s worth more than kennin’ how tae swim.”
She took his hand before she could think better of it, and the warmth of his palm against hers sent sparks racing up her arm. He lifted her down with effortless strength, setting her on her feet but not immediately letting go.
They stood close, with nothing but morning air and unspoken words between them. “The attack on the ship,” Erik said quietly. “Did ye see anythin’ that might help identify who sent them?”
The question pulled her back to reality with jarring force. “Nay. They wore nay colors, nay clan markers.” She frowned, remembering. “But they were organized. Trained. It wasnae some random raid fer plunder.”
“Nay. They came fer ye specifically.” His jaw tightened. “Which means someone daesnae want this marriage tae happen. Someone with resources enough tae field armed men and nae fear crossin’ the king.”
“One of yer countless enemies, then?”
“I’m nae feudin’ with anyone.” But something flickered in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or suspicion. “All me enemies are either dead or too smart tae risk the king’s wrath.”
“Then who?—”
“I’ll find out.” The promise carried weight, and something darker beneath it. “I’ve got men questionin’ the prisoner we captured. He’ll talk. They always talk eventually.”
The casual way he said it sent a chill down her spine. This was the Wolf of Skye. The warrior whose reputation was built on blood and ruthlessness. The man who’d led the raid that killed her brother.
Logan.
The memory rose sharp and sudden. Her brother’s face, young and eager and so convinced he was invincible. The messenger arriving at Kintail with news that shattered their world. Her father’s grief that had turned to stone, hardening him into someone Claricia barely recognized.
“Ye’re thinkin’ about him.” Erik’s voice pulled her back. “Yer braither.”
She should have denied it. Should have turned away and refused to discuss it. Instead, she met his gaze and let him see the truth. “Every time I look at ye, I remember that he’s dead because of ye.”
“Aye.” No denial. No excuses. Just that single word, heavy with acknowledgment. “I led that raid. I gave the orders. And if yer braither stood against us, then aye—his blood is on me hands as surely as if I’d struck the blow meself.”
The honesty of it stole her breath. She’d expected deflection, justification, anything but this brutal acceptance of responsibility.
“But I’ll tell ye this, Claricia.” He stepped closer, and she saw something raw in his eyes. “War makes killers of us all. Highland, Norse, it daesnae matter. We all lose kin. And I willnae beg yer forgiveness fer defendin’ me people, ye’ll be an old woman before it happens.”
“I wouldnae expect ye tae.” The words came out quieter than she’d intended. “Beggin’ daesnae seem like yer style.”
He held her gaze. “But that daesnae mean I dinnae… regret it. The loss. The waste of it all. Young men dyin’ fer feuds older than their grandfathers.”
Something in her chest loosened at that admission. Not forgiveness—she wasn’t ready for that, might never be. But understanding, perhaps. The recognition that grief lived on both sides of every blade.
