Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Isle of Skye, Castle Thorsen, Scotland
“She’s still nae breathin’, me jarl. Should I—”
“Get back.” Erik Thorsen’s voice cut through the shouting above deck like a blade through silk.
He hauled the woman onto his longship with one arm, water streaming from her body in rivulets, her lips already turning blue.
“Secure the deck, Aksel. I want every last hornunger who attacked that ship alive fer interrogation. The ones still breathin’, anyway. ”
“Aye, me jarl.” His captain’s boots thundered across the boards as he barked orders in Norse that sent their warriors surging back across both vessels in controlled chaos.
Erik barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed to the woman in his arms—the Highland bride he’d been sailing to meet, now looking more corpse than living thing.
Her sodden dress clung to her petite frame, her chestnut hair plastered dark against skin gone the color of new snow. Her chest utterly, terrifyingly still.
If me bride dies before we’re even wed, I’m bringin’ the full wrath of the old gods tae whoever’s behind this!
He carried her below deck, taking the ladder one-handed with the ease of a man who’d spent half his life at sea.
The space below was cramped—his private cabin barely large enough for the bed built into the wall, a chest, and some weapons hanging from iron hooks.
He shouldered through the narrow doorway and laid her on the furs covering his bed.
Then he began stripping away her clothing with hands that had killed three men not ten minutes before.
The heavy wool traveling dress came off first, sodden and impossibly heavy. Then the layers beneath—underskirts, a chemise that clung to her skin, stockings that peeled away like a second skin. He tried not to look, tried to give her some dignity even in that, but his eyes betrayed him.
Gods above…
She was beautiful. Slender but strong, with curves that spoke of noble breeding and better health. Her pale skin was splattered with freckles and a small scar ran across her ribs that looked old. He forced his gaze away, reaching for the heavy fur blanket folded at the foot of his bed.
Work, ye fool… dinnae focus on… any of that.
He wrapped her in the fur, then grabbed a length of coarse cloth from his chest. His old mentor had taught him this—rub warmth back into cold flesh, force the blood to move, drag the body back from death’s door through sheer, stubborn will.
Erik worked her arms first, rubbing hard enough to leave her skin pink beneath his palms. Her shoulders.
Her collarbone, careful to keep the fur covering her modesty even as his hands chafed life back into her.
Down to her feet, her calves, anywhere the cloth could reach without crossing lines he refused to cross.
Nothing. No response. Her chest remained still as stone.
Come on, woman. Fight. I’ve seen ye fight—ye near took that man’s head off with a piece of wood.
He pressed his fingers to her throat, searching for a pulse. There—faint as a whisper, slow as winter coming. But there.
Erik hesitated only a heartbeat before making his decision.
The old ways. The Andi—the breath, the soul, whatever name the Christians wanted to give it. His people believed that drowning stole the breath from the body, that it fled through the mouth and nose and left only an empty shell behind. To return it, one had to share one’s own.
He bent over her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other tilting her chin up. Her lips were cold as ice against his palm. He exhaled slowly, breathing warm air into her mouth, willing his warmth into her lungs, his life into her death.
Take it. Live, damn ye…
Once. Twice. A third time, their lips nearly touching as he breathed for her. Then, she convulsed.
Water erupted from her mouth as she coughed—violent, wracking spasms that shook her entire body.
Erik turned her onto her side, supporting her as she choked and gasped, bringing up what felt like half the Inner Minch onto his furs.
Her eyes flew open, wild and unfocused, the blue-green of a stormy sea.
She saw him… or more specifically, she saw that she was naked except for a fur blanket, pressed close enough to a strange man to feel his breath on her face, his hands on her body.
Her palm cracked across his face with surprising force.
The slap echoed in the small cabin like a gunshot. Erik’s head snapped to the side, more from surprise than pain, though his cheek stung fierce enough. For a heartbeat, he just stared at her, his hand rising instinctively to catch her wrist as she drew back for another blow.
He caught it. Held it. Then immediately released her, raising both hands in a gesture of peace.
“Easy,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “Ye’re safe.”
“Safe?” Her voice was raw, scraped bloody from seawater and coughing. She clutched the fur to her chest with one hand, her eyes darting around the cabin like a trapped animal seeking escape. “Safe? Ye… ye undressed me! Ye—”
Gods, even half-drowned and furious, she’s ravashin’.
“Aye, I did.” Erik kept his voice level, matter-of-fact. “Ye were drownin’. The cold would’ve killed ye faster than the water if I’d left ye in those clothes.”
“So ye just…” She sputtered, her face flushing from pale to pink to nearly crimson. “Ye cannae just… ye’re nae—”
“I saved yer life.” He let a hint of steel creep into his tone. Not anger, just fact delivered with the weight of truth. “So before ye strike me again, perhaps a ‘thank ye’ might be a better move.”
She stared at him, her chest heaving with each breath, water still dripping from her hair onto the furs. He could see her mind working behind those blue-green eyes—fear giving way to confusion, confusion to reluctant understanding, understanding to something that might have been embarrassment.
“I...” She swallowed hard, wincing. “Ye saved me?”
“Aye.”
“From the water?”
“Aye.”
A beat of silence. Then her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How?”
Erik’s jaw tightened. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask. “The old ways. We breathe warmth intae the drowned. Returns the Andi—the breath of life.”
Her face went through several interesting colors. “Ye… breathed intae me?”
“Aye.”
“Intae me… mouth?”
“Where else would I breathe, woman? Yer ear?” Despite himself, his lips twitched. “Though with the way ye were sputterin’, I wasnae sure it would make much difference.”
Her eyes went wide with outrage and—was that a flush? “Ye… ye kissed me while I was unconscious!”
“I saved ye while ye were dyin’, I didnae kiss ye.” He leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. “There’s a difference. Though if ye’d prefer tae go back in the water and try yer luck again, I can arrange that.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again like a fish gasping on a dock. Finally, her gaze dropped to her own body, wrapped in his fur, then back to his face. Her eyes widened. “Och... did ye—”
“I did what needed daein’.” Erik cut her off before she could finish that particular question. “Naethin’ more. Ye have me word.”
“The word of a Viking.” Her voice dripped with skepticism even as her fingers clutched the fur tighter. “How reassurin’.”
He held her gaze steadily. “Take it or leave it, lass. But ‘tis all ye’re gettin’ from me.”
For a long moment, she simply studied him. Taking his measure, he realized. Deciding whether to believe him or throw another blow.
Brave. Foolish. But brave.
Finally, she spoke, her voice still rough but steadier. “Who are ye?”
“Erik.” He watched her carefully, waiting for recognition to dawn. “Erik Thorsen. Laird of Skye.”
The color drained from her face again, though this time not from cold. “The Wolf.”
“Some call me that, aye.”
“Ye’re...” Her fingers tightened on the fur, her knuckles going white. “Ye’re the man I’m meant tae marry.”
“I am.” He paused, then added quietly, “And someone just tried tae kill ye. Or capture. I’m nae yet certain which.”
That snapped her attention back to the present. “The attack… Henry… the guards…” Her voice cracked. “Are they—”
“Most of yer escort is dead.” Erik saw no point in softening the truth. She’d find out soon enough, and she struck him as the sort who’d prefer honesty to gentle lies. “A handful survived. Me men are tendin’ tae them now.”
Grief flashed across her features, there and gone in a heartbeat before she locked it away behind walls he recognized all too well. He’d built similar ones himself.
She’s stronger than she looks. Good. She’ll need tae be.
“And the attackers?” she asked.
“Dead or captured. They wore nay colors, carried nay banners. But we’ll learn who sent them.” His jaw tightened. “I promise ye that.”
She looked at him for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Not trust, not yet. But perhaps the beginning of it. Then she seemed to remember her state of undress and pulled the fur higher, her cheeks flushing again. “I need clothes.”
“Aye, ye dae.” Erik stood, moving to his chest, his own shirt still clinging to him with seawater, his hair dripping onto the cabin floor. He ignored the cold seeping into his bones—he’d been colder, and for longer. “Yers are soaked through. They’ll need tae dry before ye can wear them again.”
“Then what am I supposed tae—”
He pulled out one of his shirts—simple linen, worn soft from years of use—and tossed it to her. It landed on the bed beside her, impossibly large compared to her slender frame.
She stared at it like it might bite. “That’s yers.”
“Aye.”
“I cannae wear yer shirt.”
“Ye can, or ye can walk above deck in naught but that fur.” He allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Her eyes went wide with outrage. “Ye… ye absolute—” She snatched up the shirt, clutching it to her chest. “Turn around!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m nae dressin’ with ye watchin’, ye big ox!”