The girl had scampered off, and Erik had remained kneeling on the cold stone floor for a long moment, his head bowed, his massive shoulders rising and falling with deep breaths.
Claricia had fled before he could discover her, her heart pounding, her carefully constructed hatred cracking like thin ice under spring thaw.
That wasnae the savage who’d slaughtered Logan. That couldnae be the same monster I was taught tae fear.
That was a man who carried clean linen for burned children. Who knew how to gentle his strength into kindness. Who offered honey cakes as medicine for small hurts because he understood that sometimes comfort mattered more than coin. And it terrified her far more than his reputation ever had.
Because if Erik Thorsen could be kind—if he could be gentle and patient and good—then everything she’d built her defenses upon was a lie. And if it was a lie, then what did that make her grief? Her anger? Her sworn hatred?
“I only came tae help with the feast preparations,” she said, lifting her chin. “As the lady of this castle, ‘tis me duty tae oversee such things. Besides, if I am tae survive here, I must understand me enemy… startin’ with his weaknesses.”
“Mmm.” The cook didn’t look convinced, but she gestured toward the long wooden table. “Well then, Lady Claricia, if ye’re so keen on duty, ye can help us with these turnips. Though I’ll warn ye, they’re stubborn as the jarl himself.”
At that moment, Liv swept through the doorway, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She’d braided her pale hair that morning, the plait falling over one shoulder, and wore a simple gray gown that somehow made her look both practical and regal.
“There ye are! I’ve been huntin’ all over fer ye.” She dropped her burden on a nearby bench and joined them, slightly breathless. “The maids are after me about the banners… d’ye think blue or gray fer the ceremony?”
“Blue,” Claricia said, then hesitated. “Unless there’s some Norse tradition I should ken about? I dinnae want tae?—”
“Nay, the blue’s lovely.” Something soft moved across Liv’s face. “Besides, Erik daesnae hold much with the old ways anymore. Says we’re Scottish now, and that’s the end of it.”
There was loss threaded through those words, quiet but unmistakable. Claricia wondered what it cost to abandon one’s history, to declare oneself something one was not born to be, all for the sake of belonging somewhere that would never fully claim one.
“Dinnae let Mhari intimidate ye,” Liv continued, her light voice carrying an undercurrent of amusement. “She’s all bark.”
“And ye’re all cheek,” Mhari shot back, but her tone was fond.
Claricia moved with Liv to the table, grateful for a familiar task.
“So,” Liv said quietly, sliding a cutting board and knife toward her. “How are ye findin’ Skye?”
The question was casual, but Claricia sensed the weight behind it. Liv had been unfailingly kind since her arrival, but there was still a wariness between them—the natural suspicion between Norse and Scot, between those who’d lost family to raids and revenge and those responsible for it.
“’Tis bonnie,” Claricia admitted, reaching for a turnip. “Wild and fierce. Like...” She trailed off, not wanting to finish the thought.
“Like him?” Liv supplied, her pale eyes knowing.
“I wasnae going tae say that.”
“But ye were thinkin’ it.” Liv’s blade flashed as she quartered another turnip with swift, sure movements. “Erik’s more like this land than he’ll admit. All sharp edges and cold winds on the surface, but...” She paused, seeming to weigh her words. “There’s warmth underneath, if ye ken where tae look.”
Claricia’s hands stilled on the turnip. “Ye care fer him greatly.”
“He’s the only family I have left. When me maither died in the raid that killed his parents, Erik was only fifteen. He could have sent me away, or later married me off tae some jarl’s son tae secure an alliance. Instead, he raised me himself, learned tae braid hair and mend dresses between leadin’ raids and defendin’our shores.” Her voice softened. “He’s been both braither and faither tae me. So aye, I care fer him.”
“He daesnae seem the type tae want happiness,” she said quietly. “Only duty.”
“Because nay one’s ever taught him the difference.” Mhari’s voice cut through their conversation as she moved to the hearth, pulling a tray of golden cakes from the heat. The sweet scent intensified, making Claricia’s mouth water despite herself. “The man lives like a monk most days, all honor and responsibility and nae a moment’s softness.”
“That’s nae entirely true,” Liv protested, but there was a hint of agreement in her tone. “He has his weaknesses.”
“Aye.” Mhari set the tray down with a flourish, revealing perfectly formed honey cakes, their tops glistening with a golden glaze. “One weakness, at least. The man would sell his claymore fer these beauties.”
Claricia blinked. “Honey cakes?”
“His favorite since he was a lad.” Mhari’s expression turned sly. “Though I dinnae make them often anymore. Spoils him rotten when I dae, and the man’s insufferable enough without encouragement.”
An idea began to form in Claricia’s mind—foolish, perhaps, but impossible to ignore. “Could ye… could ye teach me tae make them?”
