“M’lady!” A young serving girl—Isla, barely fourteen—appeared at her elbow with wide, panicked eyes. “The mead! Cook says we’ve nae enough mead fer the toasts, and the men will riot if there’s only ale, and?—”
“Breathe, lass.” Claricia caught the girl’s trembling hands. “How much mead dae we have?”
“Three barrels, but Cook says we need five fer a proper feast with this many?—”
“Three will be plenty if we’re clever about it.” Claricia squeezed once and released her. “Serve the mead fer the formal toasts, then switch tae the good ale afterward. They’ll nae complain if the ale is strong enough.”
Isla’s face cleared. “Aye, m’lady! I’ll tell Cook!” She scurried off, nearly colliding with Liv in the doorway.
“Chaos and calamity,” Liv observed dryly, watching the girl disappear. “Just another day preparin’ fer a Norse feast.”
“Daes the clan’s folk always eat like they’re on the verge of stormin’ a castle?” Claricia asked, eyeing the truly staggering amount of food covering every available surface.
“Only when we’re celebratin’. Or mournin’. Or… actually, aye, we always eat like this.” Liv moved to her side, adjusting one of the heather arrangements with a critical eye. “Ye’ve made the hall beautiful, though. Even Erik’s hardened warriors are eyein’ the decorations like they might weep intae their beards.”
“Vikings dinnae weep.”
“Och, theydae.They just call it ‘somethin’ in their eye’ and blame it on the smoke.” Liv’s expression turned sly. “Speakin’ of me cousin, have ye seen him recently? He’s been pacin’ his chamber like a man facin’ execution rather than a celebration.”
Warmth bloomed in Claricia’s chest. “D’ye think he’s nervous?”
“Terrified. ‘Tis rather adorable, actually. I’ve never seen the Wolf of Skye reduced tae fidgetin’ with his belt and askin’ Aksel if his tunic makes him look”—she affected Erik’s gruff voice—”‘like I’m tryin’ too hard.’“
Claricia couldn’t suppress her grin. “Hedidnae!”
“Och, he absolutely did. Aksel told him he looked fine, then spent the next ten minutes teasin’ him about turnin’ intae a lovesick pup.” Liv’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I believe the exact words were, ‘The Wolf has been domesticated. Alert the kingdom.”
“I need tae see this.” Claricia started toward the door, but Liv caught her arm.
“Let him stew a bit longer. Besides”—she gestured at the controlled chaos around them—”ye have approximately forty-seven more disasters tae prevent before the guests arrive.”
As if summoned by her words, a tremendous crash echoed from the kitchens, followed by Mhari’s creative cursing in what sounded like three different languages.
“Forty-eight,” Liv corrected.
An hour later, with the kitchen crisis resolved, Claricia finally made her way toward her chambers. She found Aksel standing guard outside the door, looking far too amused for a man supposedly on duty.
“Is he presentable?” she asked.
Aksel’s grin was wicked. “Depends on yer definition. He’s dressed, if that’s what ye’re askin’. Whether he’s fit fer public viewin’…” He shrugged eloquently. “I’ll let ye be the judge.”
She knocked—a pointed gesture, since Erik never extended her the same courtesy—and entered without waiting for a response.
Erik stood before the bronze mirror, tugging at the collar of his deep gray tunic with clear frustration. He’d obviously made an effort—his hair was neatly braided, his beard trimmed close, and he wore his finest clothes. But the man who’d faced down raiders and rival jarls without flinching looked like he might bolt through the window at any moment.
“I look ridiculous,” he announced without preamble.
Claricia closed the door and leaned against it, drinking in the sight of him. “Ye look handsome.”
“I look like a man playin’ dress-up. Like I’m pretendin’ tae be somethin’ I’m nae.” He yanked at the tunic again. “This is too fine. Too… soft. Me men will think I’ve gone weak.”
“Yer men will think ye’re honored tae celebrate yer marriage properly,” she corrected, crossing to him. She reached up to smooth the fabric he’d wrinkled. “And ye’re nae playin’ at anythin’. Ye’re allowed tae be more than just the Wolf, ye ken.Ye’re allowed tae be Erik—the man who loves me, who wants tae celebrate that love with a proper feast.”
His hands came up to bracket her waist, steadying himself with her touch. “I dinnae ken how tae dae this. The courtship and finery and makin’ pretty speeches.”
“Then ‘tis a good thing I dinnae need pretty speeches.” She traced the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there. “I just need ye. Exactly as ye are—rough edges and all.”
Some of the tightness left his shoulders. “Even when I’m terrified of disappointin’ ye?”
