“As ye wish.” Aksel disappeared down the corridor, and Claricia could have sworn she heard him chuckling.
Erik turned back to her, and the expression on his face made her stomach flip. “Ye have ten minutes tae get ready. And Claricia?”
“Aye?”
“Try nae tae cause any more trouble today, aye? Me pride can only take so much damage in one mornin’.”
Despite herself, she laughed. And when he smiled back—a real smile that reached his eyes and made him look almost boyish—something warm and dangerous bloomed in her chest.
Och,I’m in such trouble.
But for the first time since leaving Kintail, it felt like the kind of trouble she might actuallywant.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“So what will ye dae if they greet me with pitchforks and torches?”
Claricia shifted in her saddle, trying not to grimace at the way her thighs protested the unfamiliar motion. They’d been riding for nearly an hour along the rocky coastline, and every muscle in her body was starting to voice its displeasure. Erik rode beside her on a massive gray stallion that seemed carved from the same granite as Skye’s cliffs, while Aksel and four other warriors flanked them like shadows.
“They’ll nae have pitchforks,” Erik said, matter-of-fact as always. “Fish gaffs, maybe. And they’ve every right tae their suspicions—ye’re the first Highland bride they’ve seen, and most lost kin tae raids from the likes of yer clan.”
The reminder settled over her like a cold fog.
Me people.
As if she could claim any of them as her own anymore.
“Ididnae raid their villages.”
“Nay. But they’ll remember who did.” Erik’s voice carried no judgment, just the blunt truth he always dealt in. “Same way ye saw me and remembered Logan.”
She had no answer for that. Because he was right, and they both knew it.
The village appeared as they crested a low rise—a handful of stone cottages huddled against the shore like sheep seeking shelter from the wind. Smoke rose from peat fires, and the sharp tang of salt and fish guts carried on the breeze. Small fishing boats bobbed in the natural harbor, their nets spread to dry like spider webs catching morning light.
And every single person in that village stopped what they were doing to stare as the riders approached.
“Stay close,” Erik murmured, and Claricia caught the subtle shift in his posture—shoulders back, spine straight, every inch the warrior chieftain these people calledjarl. The Wolf of Skye, arriving to settle their disputes and remind them whose protection they lived under.
A grizzled man with a face like weathered leather stepped forward as they dismounted. His bow was respectful butperfunctory, his pale eyes sweeping over Claricia with the kind of assessment usually reserved for livestock at market.
“Me jarl.” The man’s Norse-thick Scots could have stripped paint. “Thank the gods. The mainlander’s been causin’ a right mess.”
“Bjorn.” Erik clasped the man’s forearm. “Me wife, Lady Claricia. She’s here tae learn how we handle village matters.”
Bjorn’s gaze flicked to her—quick as a knife, twice as sharp. “Me lady.” The words came out like he’d been forced to swallow nettles. Then, without waiting for her response, he turned back to Erik. “The trader willnae unload the winter stores. The man speaks in riddles thick enough tae choke a bear. We’ve been arguin’ in circles fer two hours.”
“Show me.”
They moved through the village in a small procession—Erik and Bjorn leading, Claricia flanked by Aksel’s solid presence on one side and another guard on the other. She caught the stares, felt the weight of suspicion and curiosity following her like an unwelcome shadow. A woman whispered something to her companion behind a knobbly hand. Children peered from doorways with wide eyes before being pulled back inside by cautious mothers.
They hate me,or fear me. Maybe both.
The cargo sat on the shore in neat rows—barrels stamped with marks she recognized as grain stores, heavy sacks that could only be salt, smaller crates that might hold preserved fish or other trade goods. Enough supplies to see a village this size through a harsh winter with bellies full instead of empty.
And standing guard over it all like a particularly stubborn dragon was a man who could have walked straight out of her childhood memories of Kintail.
He was Highland through and through—stocky and broad-shouldered, with wild gray hair escaping from beneath a wool cap and a face suggesting he’d been scowling since the womb. His plaid was faded but clean, and he gripped a sturdy walking stick like a weapon waiting for an excuse.
