It was an excuse—they both knew it. Her mare had calmed considerably. But Claricia didn’t argue. Not when his hands closed around her waist, lifting her onto his stallion with surprising gentleness despite the blood and violence still clinging to him. Not when he swung up behind her, his chest solid and warm against her back, his arms bracketing her as he gathered the reins.
“Hold on, little bird,” he murmured against her hair, quiet enough that only she could hear. “I’ve got ye.”
And despite everything—despite the fear still thrumming through her veins, despite the bodies they were leaving behind, despite the treachery lurking somewhere in the shadows—she believed him.
The ride back passed in a blur of fading light and thundering hooves, but Claricia was aware of every point where Erik’s body touched hers. His chest against her back, rising and falling with each breath. His arms bracketing her, solid and sure despite the blood seeping through his sleeve. The way his chin occasionally brushed the top of her head when the path grew rough and he leaned forward to keep her balanced.
She should have been thinking about the attack, about the men who’d tried to take her, about Duncan’s name falling from now dead lips. Instead, all she could focus on was the steady thrum of Erik’s heartbeat against her spine—proof that he was alive, that they’d both survived, that his promise to keep her safe hadn’t been empty words.
They rode hard for the castle, arriving just as the last light bled from the sky. The moment they clattered through the gates, Erik was barking orders—sending men to search the bodies they’d brought back, posting extra guards on the walls, dispatching riders to scout the land.
Through it all, blood continued to seep through his shirt, darkening the fabric, dripping onto his saddle.
“Erik.” Claricia twisted in his arms as he dismounted, trying to see the wound properly. “Ye need the healer?—”
“I need tae see tae me men first.” He set her on her feet with careful efficiency, already moving toward where they’d laid the injured guard on a makeshift stretcher. “Finn’s wound is deeper than mine.”
“But—”
He was already gone, kneeling beside the wounded warrior, checking the hasty field dressing with competent hands. Watching him work—watching him ignore his own pain to care for his people—made something twist painfully in Claricia’s chest.
This is who he is. A man who puts everyone else first. A man who bleeds for his people without complaint or expectation of thanks.
She’d grown up surrounded by men who demanded loyalty, who expected sacrifice from those beneath them while not always giving in return. Her father. Duncan. Even the Highland chiefs who’d visited Kintail over the years—all of them leaders who ruled through fear or obligation or the accident of birth.
Erik was different. He didn’t demand loyalty. He earned it with every action, every choice, every moment like that, where he put his people’s welfare above his own. The warriors didn’t follow him because they had to. They followed him because he’d proven, again and again, that he would bleed for them first.
Nay wonder they’d die fer him.
She waited. Watched him oversee the healer’s work on Finn, watched him personally check each of his other warriors for injuries, watched him coordinate the search efforts and defensive preparations with Aksel. Through it all, his shoulder bled, his movements grew stiffer, and his face went paler.
And through it all, he didn’t stop.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Right, that’s enough of this then!” Claricia had had enough. She marched across the courtyard, seized his uninjured arm with both hands, and pulled.
“What—”
“Ye’re comin’ with me.” Her voice carried authority. “Right now. Before ye bleed tae death from sheer pigheaded stubbornness.”
Aksel, standing nearby, nodded. “I’d listen tae her, me jarl. She has that look women get right before they start throwin’ things.”
Erik opened his mouth to argue—but Claricia tugged harder. “Now, Erik. Or so help me, I’ll drag ye there by yer ear.”
For a heartbeat, she thought he might actually resist. Then something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or reluctant amusement—and he let her pull him toward the keep.
“Bossy wee thing, arenae ye?”
“I’maggressively helpful,” she shot back, though her tone was more teasing than reprimand.
They made it to their chamber without further argument, though she could feel the eyes following them—guards and servants alike watching their laird being bullied by his slip of a Highland wife.
Claricia kicked the door shut behind them and pointed at the bed. “Sit.”
“I’m nae a dog?—”
“Sit. Down.” She was already moving to the washstand, gathering the supplies she’d insisted on keeping in their chamber. Clean linen, a mixture for cleaning wounds, needle and thread just in case. “And get that shirt off before the blood dries intae it.”
