Erik left before she could respond, pulling the door shut behind him with more force than necessary.
The North Wing was silent when he returned, save for the crackle of torches and the ragged breathing coming from the interrogation room. Erik pushed through the door, his mood blacker than the storm clouds that had been gathering over the sea all day.
Aksel looked up from where he stood over the prisoner, blood on his knuckles and a grim set to his mouth. “She heard?”
“I dinnae think so.” Erik moved to the table where a basin of water sat, dunking his hands in it to scrub away the feel of Claricia’s body against his. It didn’t help. “But she was right outside the door.”
“Wanderin’ or spyin’?”
“Claims she was lost.” He dried his hands roughly. “Could be true. The castle is a maze if ye dinnae ken the passages.”
“Or she could be exactly what we’re afraid she is.” Aksel’s voice held no judgment, just grim practicality. “A spy sent tae gather information before the attacks resume.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. He’d considered that possibility. Dismissed it. Considered it again when she’d appeared in the North Wing like some ghostly apparition. But everything in him rebelled against the idea.
Claricia was fierce and proud and stubborn. But she wasn’t a spy. He’d stake his life on it. “She’s nae part of this,” he said finally. “I’d bet me sword on it.”
“Ye already have.” Aksel gestured to the prisoner slumped in the chair. “Along with yer head and everyone else’s in this castle if ye’re wrong.”
Erik turned his attention to the captured raider. The man was barely conscious, his face a mess of bruises and split skin. But he was breathing. Alive. Which meant he could still talk.
“Has he said anythin’?”
“Bits and pieces.” Aksel’s expression darkened. “Naethin’ useful. But he keeps mumblin’ the same thing over and over.”
“What?”
Aksel moved to the prisoner, gripping his jaw and forcing his head up. “Tell him.”
The man’s eyes rolled, unfocused. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. “The lady...” he slurred. “The lady willnae… be here fer long…”
Ice flooded Erik’s veins. “What did ye say?”
“The lady…” The prisoner’s eyes found Erik’s face, focusing with effort. “She willnae… be here long. They’re comin’ fer her. They always… come…”
“Who?” Erik crossed the room in two strides, his hands fisting in the man’s torn tunic. “Who’s comin’?”
But the prisoner’s eyes had already rolled back, consciousness fleeing. His head lolled forward, and no amount of shaking would rouse him.
Erik released him, stepping back. “How long has he been like this?”
“Comes and goes.” Aksel moved to the table, pouring water from a pitcher. “He’ll wake again. They always dae.”
Erik paced the small room, his mind racing. Someone wanted Claricia. Specifically. Enough to attack a royal envoy’s ship in broad daylight. Enough to risk the king’s wrath by targeting a bride of the Lairds’ Pact.
“What if it’s nae about the Pact?” The words came unbidden. “What if someone wants her fer other reasons?”
Aksel considered this. “Her father’s wealthy. Could be ransom.”
“Then why nae take her before she ever left Kintail?” Erik shook his head. “Nay, they waited until she was at sea. Until she was vulnerable and away from her clan’s protection.”
“So they could claim the Norsemen did it.” Understanding dawned in Aksel’s eyes. “Start a war. Destroy the Pact before it begins.”
“Or destroymespecifically.” Erik’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m the first marriage. The test fer whether the others will succeed. If me bride disappears or turns up dead...”
“The king would have yer head.”
“And the other jarls would revolt rather than risk the same fate.” The strategy was brilliant in its brutality. “One woman’s death could unravel everything.”
