Every single head turned, watching her with expressions ranging from curiosity to skepticism to something that might have been approval. She could feel their judgment like a physical weight.
Will she shame him? Will she prove herself worthy? Can a Highland lass truly be Lady of Skye?
At the hall’s far end, before a hearth that roared like something alive, Erik Thorsen stood waiting.
Beside him stood the other jarls. Harald, watchful as a hawk. Magnus with his thoughtful gaze that seemed to see too much. Ivar grinning like he’d bet money on how this would play out. And Ragnar, still as carved stone, expression giving away nothing.
A nervous priest clutched his prayer book with white-knuckled fingers. Lord Pemberton hovered to the side, doubtless memorizing every detail for his report to the Crown, but it was the look on Erik’s face that made her heart stop. He looked at her like the breath had been knocked from his lungs and he was still trying to remember how to draw it back.
Something in her chest tightened painfully.
Logan, fergive me. I ken I shouldnae want him. I ken I should hate him. But when he looks at me like that...
Her feet began to move, carrying her forward through the watchful silence. Each step felt weighted with significance, as if she were walking not just toward marriage but toward something that would change the very shape of her soul.
When she reached him, Erik extended his hand.
She stared at it for a heartbeat—at the calluses earned through years of sword work, the faint scar across his knuckles, the steadiness of his fingers. This hand had killed. Had taken lives, possibly including Logan’s.
And yet when she placed her palm against his, his touch was gentle. Almost reverent.
“I wasnae sure ye’d come,” he said quietly, for her ears alone.
Claricia lifted her chin. “I gave me word.”
His thumb traced across her knuckles, the gesture so tender it made her throat tight. “Aye, but words are easy tae break when the alternative is…” He trailed off, jaw tightening.
“Is what?”
“Me.” The single word carried more weight than it should have. “I wouldnae have blamed ye if ye’d tried tae run.”
Claricia blinked at him. She’d expected arrogance, possession, maybe even mockery. Not this quiet vulnerability that made him seem almost human.
“Where would I run tae?” she asked. “The sea? Tried that already. Didnae work out well fer me.”
His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
The priest cleared his throat nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the intimacy of their exchange. “Me laird, shall we… we begin?”
Erik didn’t look away from her face. “Aye. Let’s bind ourselves proper, then.”
The priest launched into Latin prayers—old words worn smooth by centuries of repetition. But between each formal phrase, Erik’s warriors called out in Old Norse, their voices rough and joyful.
“Dóminus vobiscum,” the priest intoned.
“Þórr vé þik!” someone bellowed from the back—Thor bless ye—and masculine laughter rippled through the crowd.
The priest’s eye twitched but he soldiered on gamely. “We are gathered in the sight of God and His Majesty the King?—”
“Get tae the vows, Faither,” Erik interrupted, though his tone wasn’t unkind. “Nay sense in drawin’ this out.”
The priest fumbled with his prayer book. “Yes, of course, me laird. Dae ye, Erik Thorsen, Laird of Skye, take this woman as yer lawful wife? Tae honor and protect, fer as long as ye both shall live?”
“I dae.” The words fell like stones into still water—creating ripples that would spread farther than either of them could see.
“And dae ye, Lady Claricia MacKenzie of Kintail, take this man as yer lawful husband? Tae honor and stand beside him, fer as long as ye both shall live?”
Stand beside… nae obey? Her throat felt tight. “Aye. I dae.”
