“About bloody time!” The man’s Scots came rapid-fire, each word tumbling over the next. “Been standin’ here since dawn wi’ nae a soul who speaks the king’s own tongue! Might as well be talkin’ tae a flock of sheep fer all the good it’s done me!”
Erik’s jaw tightened, and Claricia caught the frustrated incomprehension in his eyes. He’d clearly caught “time” and “dawn” but the rest had blown past like Highland wind.
Bjorn stepped forward, enunciating each word like speaking to a child. “We… understand… nae. Ye… speak… slower.”
“Slower?” The trader’s face went purple as a bruised plum. “Thisisslow! It’s nae me fault ye’ve nae proper grasp of civilized speech, ye thick-headed?—”
“Enough.” Erik’s voice cut clean through the rising argument. He didn’t shout—didn’t need to. Every head turned.
The trader’s eyes landed on Erik, taking in the wolf-stamped leather, the sword that looked intimate with violence, the cold authority carved into his bearing. “Ye the laird?”
“I am. Ye have the cargo. We paid. What’s stoppin’ ye?”
“What’sstoppin’me,” the trader said, speaking with exaggerated care, “is I cannae hand over valuable goods tae the first man who claims ownership! Me laird’ll have me head fer theft!”
Claricia watched Erik’s brow furrow as he tried to parse the flood of words. She saw him glance at Aksel, who gave a helpless shrug.
“Seal,” Erik repeated, latching onto familiar ground.
“Aye! The seal o’ confirmation! The document sayin’ ‘these goods belong tae Jarl Erik Thorsen’s holdings,’ signed and stamped by both parties!” The man was gesticulating wildly now. “I was told—specifically told—I had tae put these directly intae authorized hands, and I’ll nae be breakin’ orders just because?—”
“Let me speak tae him,” Claricia said, stepping forward before she’d decided to. Every eye swiveled toward her.
“Ye… understand that?”
“Every word. ‘Tis just a wee bit of thick Scots.” She moved closer to the trader. “Sir, I’m Lady Claricia Thorsen. Perhaps we can untangle this?”
The trader’s suspicious gaze swept over her. “Ye’re the Highland bride everyone’s whisperin’ about?”
“Guilty. And I understand yer position.” She kept her voice steady, reasonable. “Ye’ve sailed three days with valuable cargo. Ye cannae risk yer laird’s wrath by deliverin’ it improperly. That’s just sensible business practice.”
Some of the suspicion eased from his weathered face. “Finally! Someone with sense in their skull! These folk mean well, but I’ll nae break orders just because they’re impatient.”
“Of course nae. The problem is, they dinnae understand yer accent, and ye dinnae trust theirs. So everyone’s stuck arguin’ in circles.”
The trader jabbed his walking stick into the sand. “I keep tellin’ them about the seal, but they stare at me like I’m speakin’ in tongues!”
Claricia turned to Erik, switching to slower, clearer Scots. “He needs the official trade document—both seals on it. That proves everythin’s proper. Without it, he fears his chieftain will hold him accountable fer misdelivery.”
Erik turned to Bjorn, speaking rapid Norse punctuated with gestures.
Bjorn’s face went blank, then flushed red as a sunset. He called something to the other villagers, and a chaotic conversation in Norse erupted. Finally, a young man—barely past boyhood—stepped forward looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“Me jarl.” The young man’s Scots came halting and uncertain. “The seal… I have it. In safe place. At house.” He gestured vaguely toward the village.
The relief that washed over the trader’s face was almost comical. “Well why in blazes didnae someone say so from the start? Go fetch it, lad, before the tide turns!”
The young man bolted like his trousers were on fire.
Claricia turned back to the trader. “While we wait, would ye like water? Three days at sea is hard on the bones.”
“Aye, that it is. Me back’s been complainin’ since the Inner Minch.” The trader’s entire demeanor had shifted. “Ye’ve a sharp mind, me lady. Rare as hen’s teeth in these parts, if ye’ll pardon me sayin’ so.”
“None taken.”
Movement caught her eye—Erik standing several paces away, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. When their eyes met, something passed between them. Something that made her chest tighten.
The young villager returned at a dead run, clutching a leather packet like it held his life’s savings. He thrust it at the trader with a babble of apologetic Norse.
