“Especially then. Because it means ye care enough tae try.” She rose on her toes to kiss him softly. “Now stop fussin’ and come help me make certain yer warriors dinnae drink all the mead before the toasts.”
The feast was everything Claricia had hoped for—laughter and music filling the hall until the very stones seemed to vibrate with joy. Guests packed every table: Erik’s warriors and their families, villagers from the settlement beyond the castle, household staff dressed in their finest. Even the gruff old blacksmith had donned a relatively clean tunic for the occasion.
Claricia watched from the high table as two of Erik’s younger warriors attempted an increasingly competitive drinking game, cheered on by the raucous crowd around them. Beside her, Erik was deep in conversation with one of his captains, but hishand rested on her thigh beneath the table—a warm, possessive weight that sent pleasant shivers up her spine.
Finnian sat on her other side, managing a smile when toasts were raised, though Claricia noticed how his hand kept straying to his cup, how his eyes followed her with an intensity that made her uneasy. She’d tried to draw him into conversation several times, but he’d deflected with vague pleasantries, his gaze distant.
“M’lady!” Isla appeared at her elbow again, this time flushed with excitement rather than panic. “The men are askin’ fer a toast from the jarl!”
Erik’s conversation broke off. He glanced at Claricia, something vulnerable flickering through his expression—dae I have tae?—before he stood, raising his cup. The hall gradually quieted, hundreds of eyes turning toward the high table.
“I’m nae a man of words,” Erik began, his voice carrying easily through the space. “Most of ye ken that I prefer blades tae banter.”
“Here, here!” someone shouted, drawing laughter.
Erik’s mouth twitched. “But tonight calls fer words, so I’ll try nae tae mangle them too badly.” His gaze found Claricia, and everything else seemed to fall away. “Several weeks ago, I married Lady Claricia as I was commanded tae dae by the king.
The hall had gone absolutely silent now, every person leaning forward to catch his words.
“I expected duty,” Erik continued. “Obligation. A cold marriage bed and colder silences. What I got instead was…” He paused, seeming to struggle for the right words. “Fire. Challenge. A woman who refused tae bow when I expected submission, who fought back when I expected compliance, who somehow saw past the Wolf tae the man underneath and decided he was worth it anyway.”
Claricia’s vision blurred with tears.
“So I raise me cup tae me wife,” Erik said, lifting his drink high. “Tae Claricia MacKenzie Thorsen, who’s brought light intae shadows I didnae even ken were dark. Who’s turned this castle intae a home. Who’s proven that sometimes the king’s cruelty can birth unexpected blessin’s.”
“Tae Lady Claricia!” the hall roared, and the sound was like thunder.
The kiss he gave her was thorough enough to draw catcalls and good-natured ribbing from the crowd, but Claricia barely heard it. All she knew was Erik’s arms around her, his heart beating against hers, and the perfect rightness of finally speaking the truth aloud before witnesses who’d celebrate it rather than condemn it.
When they broke apart, both breathless, Aksel stood with his own cup raised. “Tae marriages that start as duty and end asdevotion!” he called. “May the rest of us poor bastards be half as lucky when the king calls our names!”
More laughter, more drinking, more noise as the feast continued with renewed enthusiasm.
But before Claricia could sit, another figure rose from one of the lower tables—Torsten, one of Erik’s oldest warriors, a man with more scars than teeth and a reputation for brutal honesty.
“A toast!” he bellowed, and somehow his gravelly voice cut through the chaos. The hall quieted again, curious.
Torsten raised his cup toward Claricia, his weathered face splitting in a gap-toothed grin. “When the jarl told us he was takin’ a Highland bride, we thought the king had lost his bloody mind. Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady, but we’d been fightin’ yer kind fer so long we couldnae imagine one of ye sittin’ at our table.”
A few uncomfortable chuckles rippled through the crowd.
“But then ye arrived,” Torsten continued, “and ye solved the dispute at the fishin’ village when none of us could—got that stubborn mainland trader tae unload the winter stores with naught but yer clever tongue and quick wit. Ye’ve reorganized the castle stores so efficiently even old Bjorn stopped grumblin’ about wastin’ grain. And within a few weeks…” he shook his head wonderingly, “ye’ve made every man, woman, and bairn in this castle understand what the jarl already kent—that ye’re nae just a Highland bride forced upon us by a king’s decree. Ye’reourlady. Our Wolf’s mate. And any bastard who tries tae takeye from us will have tae go through every sword in this hall first.” The roar of approval was deafening. Men pounded tables, women cheered, and Claricia had to blink rapidly to keep tears from spilling over.
“Tae Lady Claricia!” Torsten finished. “The Highland lass who conquered the Wolf!”
Erik’s arm went around her waist, steadying her as emotion threatened to overwhelm her completely. She leaned into his strength, grateful beyond words for that moment, that place, those people who’d accepted her despite everything that should have kept them apart.
“They’d follow ye intae battle if ye asked.” Erik murmured in her ear.
“I dinnae want them followin’ me intae battle,” she whispered back. “I want them followin’ ye home safe from it.”
The musicians struck up a Highland reel, and couples began moving toward the cleared space before the hearth. Erik stood, offering his hand with mock formality.
“Dance with me, wife.”
She let him lead her into the swirl of bodies, hyperaware of every point where they touched—his palm warm and callused against hers, his other hand settling at her waist with possessive certainty. Around them, other couples moved through thepattern: Aksel spinning a blushing serving girl with surprising grace, Liv dancing with one of the young warriors who’d been trying to catch her eye for weeks, even old Torsten attempting the steps with his wife.
The hall had transformed into something magical—firelight and music and laughter weaving together into a tapestry of pure joy. This was what peace looked like, Claricia realized. Not grand treaties or political maneuvering, but moments like these, where people from different worlds could celebrate together without swords drawn or hatred burning.
