She was already running, skirts gathered in both fists as she flew down the stone steps. Cold wind whipped at her face, but she barely felt it.
“Claricia.” Finnian’s usually stern voice broke on her name as she crashed into his arms. He caught her the way he had when she was small, and for one stolen moment she was seven years old again, wrapped in the only safety she’d ever known.
“Ye came,” she whispered against rough wool, fighting the sting behind her eyes.
“Did ye doubt it?” Large hands framed her face, tilting it up with a gentleness that nearly undid her. Those sharp blue eyes—the ones that had catalogued every scraped knee and childhood triumph—now hunted for wounds of a different sort. His weathered face had new lines she didn’t remember. “Och, lass, look at ye. Are they starvin’ ye here? And what’s this?” His thumb brushed across a faint bruise on her wrist from where she’d caught herself during their wild ride back from the ambush.
“’Tis naethin’, I just caught it on?—”
“Naethin’?” His voice rose, drawing attention from warriors scattered across the courtyard. Several turned to look. “’Tis naenaethin’when I see me daughter wearin’ bruises like?—”
“Faither, please.” She caught his hands, squeezing hard enough to pull his focus back. “I promise ye, I’m well. Truly.”
But she could see he didn’t believe her. Could see him cataloguing every shadow under her eyes, every sign of strain.
“We should get ye inside,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice. “Ye must be frozen through. How was the crossin’?”
“Smooth enough.” His eyes had found something over her shoulder, and she watched his expression shutter closed likekeep gates under siege. “Ach… I see the Wolf of Skye has seen fit tae greet me personally.”
She glanced back. Erik had moved closer without making a sound—silent as the predator everyone claimed him to be. He stood perhaps ten paces away, his face that familiar mask of cold authority, but she could read the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested near his sword hilt.
The Wolf and the Stag, circlin’ each other in me courtyard like lads measurin’ their?—
“Laird MacKenzie.” Erik’s voice carried across the space between them, formal and measured. “Welcome tae Castle Thorsen.”
“Aye, well.” Finnian’s tone held a bitter edge. “When a faither must sail hostile waters just tae lay eyes on his daughter, a man starts tae question what ‘welcome’ truly means.”
She managed to shepherd her father inside without further bloodshed—verbal or otherwise—getting him settled in guest quarters with promises of hot food and warmer fires. A bath. Fresh clothes. Only when he’d thawed and eaten did she suggest he join her in her chamber.
Now, watching him take in the space she shared with Erik—the massive bed carved with Norse runes, the wolf pelts draped across chairs, the leather straps and weapons that marked this as a warrior’s domain, the unmistakable stamp of a husband’sclaim on every surface—she wondered if privacy would have been wise after all.
His face had gone carefully blank. That particular expression he wore when he was fighting to control his temper.
“So.” Finnian’s voice was carefully neutral moments later as he settled into the chair across from her. The servants had just left. “Ye’re certain ye wish tae speak here? Wherehecan hear?”
Claricia glanced at the heavy wooden door. Erik was out there somewhere, surely listening. But it didn’t bother her. “I’m certain.”
Finnian nodded slowly, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The firelight caught the silver threading through his hair. “Then I’ll nae mince words, lass. Duncan MacRae came tae see me before I left Kintail.”
Her stomach dropped like a stone into dark water. “What business daes Duncan have?—”
“He’s worried fer ye. Says things here… arenae what the king believes.” Finnian’s weathered hands gripped hers, urgent. Desperate, even. “Says he has men, resources. That he can get ye away from this place, take ye somewhere safe, while we make a proper appeal tae the crown?—”
“Nay!” The word tore out of her. She jerked her hands free, standing so fast her chair scraped stone with a screech that made her wince. “Faither?—”
“Yer braither isdeadbecause of these bloody savages!” He surged upright, voice rising despite the closed door. “And now I’m supposed tae sail away and let ye share a bed with the man who led that cursed raid?”
The words hit like a fist to the chest. For a moment she couldn’t breathe.
“It wasnaeErik’sblade that claimed Logan’s life.”
The silence that followed was so complete she could hear her own heartbeat.
The words hung between them like a blade suspended by a thread.
Finnian’s face drained of color, then flooded red. “Ye stand there and defend him? After what his people did tae our family—after Logan?—”
“He’s nae what ye think.” Her voice cracked but she pushed through. Forced the words out past the tightness in her throat. “He’s just tryin’ tae keep his own alive—same as ye’ve always done. Same as Logan would’ve done.”
