Despite the tension coiling through his shoulders, Erik almost smiled.
Of course she willnae.
It would have been easier if she’d been meek. Biddable. The sort of woman who accepted her fate with quiet tears and downcast eyes.
But Erik had never wanted easy.
“Tell the lady,” he said, emphasizing the title just enough to make Bjorn straighten, “that her clothes are ruined. Salt water and blood dinnae wash clean. She can wear me shirt or she can freeze. Her choice.”
Bjorn swallowed hard. “She… she willnae like that answer, me jarl.”
“Then she can come tell me herself.”
The lad fled.
Aksel made a sound that might have been a cough or a laugh. “Ye’re enjoyin’ this.”
Erik gripped the rail hard enough to make the wood creak. “I’ve got a bride who hates me, attackers still unaccounted fer, and four impatient jarls waitin’ tae witness this farce of a weddin’. What part of this am I supposed tae be enjoyin, exactly?”
“The part where she’s got spirit, ye idgit.” Aksel’s voice dropped lower, serious now. “Ye need a woman with fire, Erik. Someone who’ll stand beside ye, nae behind.”
“She thinks I murdered her braither.”
“Did ye?”
The question hung between them like a blade. Erik’s hands tightened on the rail until his knuckles went white.
“I gave the order tae retreat the moment I saw how young he was,” he said finally, each word tasting like ash. “But it was too late. One of me men caught him with a blade before I could stop it. The lad fell, and by the time I reached him…” He stopped, the memory rising sharp and unwelcome. Logan MacKenzie’s face, young and terrified. Blood spreading across his plaid like spilled wine. “By the time I reached him, he was already gone.”
“Ye tried tae save him.”
“Aye. But try daesnae bring the dead back.” Erik released the rail, forcing his hands to unclench. “And it daesnae change the fact that I led that raid. That I’m responsible fer all of it.”
“War makes killers of us all,” Aksel said quietly.
Before Erik could respond, the cabin door burst open with enough force to rattle the hinges, and Claricia emerged like a storm given human form.
She’d managed to tie his shirt at the waist with what looked like a strip of leather she’d found somewhere, but it still hung to her knees, the neckline sliding off one pale shoulder. Her chestnuthair had dried in wild tangles around her face, and her cheeks were flushed with what might have been fever or fury or both. Her blue-green eyes locked on him with the precision of an arrow finding its mark.
“Ye absolute, insufferable, pig-headed—” She stopped at the top of the steps, swaying slightly as the ship pitched beneath her feet. One hand shot out to grip the mast for balance.
Every man on deck froze.
Erik moved before he thought, crossing the distance in three strides. His hands caught her waist, steadying her, and she stiffened under his touch.
“Let go. Of me.”
He kept his grip firm but not bruising, acutely aware of how small she felt under his hands. “The deck is nay place fer?—”
“Fer what? Fer yer inconvenient bride?” She pushed at his chest, but there was no real strength behind it. The color had drained from her face, leaving her looking pale and slightly green. “I need air. And I need—” Her throat worked.
Seasickness. Of course. Erik had grown up on these waters, had spent more of his life on a ship than on solid ground. But she was Highland-born, raised on mountains and glens, and the sea was as foreign to her as kindness seemed to be to him.
“Here.” He guided her to the rail, keeping one hand on her back in case she swayed again. “Deep breaths, aye?”
She obeyed, gulping down the salt-sharp wind like a drowning woman breaking the surface. Several long moments passed. The men pretended to busy themselves with ropes and sails, but Erik caught them stealing glances—taking in the length of her bare legs, the way his shirt clung to her frame, the wild tumble of her hair
Something hot and possessive flared in his chest. “Eyes on yer work,” he said, his voice cutting across the deck like a blade.
