Chapter 3 #2
Erik almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he turned his back, crossing his arms over his chest as he faced the cabin door. Behind him, he heard the rustle of fabric, a muffled curse as she apparently struggled with the shirt’s size, the soft thump of the fur hitting the bed.
“Ye saved me life,” she said quietly, and he heard something in her voice he couldn’t quite name. “Why?”
“Because ye were drownin’. And I couldnae let ye die.”
Silence. Then, “Ye can turn around now.”
She stood beside his bed, drowning in his shirt.
The linen hung to her knees, the sleeves falling past her hands until she’d had to roll them up to her elbows.
Her legs were bare, her feet small and pale against the dark wood of the cabin floor.
Her hair hung in damp tangles around her face, and there was a smudge of what might have been blood on her cheek.
She looked like a half-drowned kitten trying very hard to seem like a lioness.
Mine, something primal whispered in his chest.
“Satisfied?” she asked, lifting her chin in defiance.
“Ye look ridiculous,” he said honestly.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Yers, fer fallin’ intae the sea.”
Her mouth dropped open. “I was thrown—”
“Ye climbed ontae the rail.”
“I was tryin’ tae escape!”
“By jumpin’ intae water ye can barely swim in?”
“I…” She faltered, and he saw the admission in her eyes before she said it. “I cannae swim.”
“I noticed.” Erik moved closer, watching her tense but holding her ground. “Which makes yer decision even more foolish.”
“What would ye have had me do? Stand there and let them take me?”
“Ye could have trusted that help was comin’.”
“I didnae ken ye were help!” Her voice rose, sharp with emotion. “Fer all I kent, ye were worse than the bastards who attacked us!”
“And now?” He stood before her, close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat, to smell the sea salt still clinging to her skin. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “Dae ye still think I’m worse?”
She met his gaze, and for a heartbeat, the cabin felt too small, the air too thick.
He was intensely aware of her—of the way his shirt hung on her frame, of the water still dripping from her hair, of the fact that she wore nothing beneath that thin linen.
Of the way her breath hitched when he took that last half-step closer.
“I think,” she said slowly, her voice dropping to something almost dangerous, “that ye’re the man whose raids killed me braither Logan three years past.” Her voice didn’t waver, didn’t break, but he saw the pain flash through her eyes like lightning.
“And yer wee act of bravery changes naethin’ between us.
I’ll marry ye because the king commands it.
But dinnae mistake duty fer forgiveness. ”
The words hit like blows, each one calculated and aimed. But Erik kept his expression neutral. He’d expected this. Had steeled himself for it. What he hadn’t expected was the sharp twist in his chest at hearing it said aloud.
“Fair enough,” he said quietly. “I’ll nae ask fer what ye cannae give.”
She blinked, clearly not expecting that response. Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe confusion. “That’s it? Nay defense? Nay explanation?”
“Would ye hear it if I gave one?”
“Nay.”
“Then why would I waste me breath?” He turned toward the door, needing distance before he did something foolish.
Like telling her that war was war, and her brother had died fighting honorably.
Like explaining that he’d given the order to retreat the moment he saw how young the lad was, but it had already been too late.
Like admitting that he’d seen Logan fall and that the image still woke him some nights.
Before either of them could speak again, footsteps thundered above deck, followed by Aksel’s voice calling down: “Me jarl! We’re approachin’ Skye!”
Erik’s hand was on the door frame, but he paused, glancing back at her.
She stood there in his shirt, looking small and fierce and utterly out of place in his rough cabin.
Water still dripped from her hair onto the dark wood floor.
Her bare feet looked impossibly delicate against the scarred planks.
And despite everything—despite the hatred in her eyes, despite the ghost of her brother standing between them, despite the fact that this marriage was a political chain around both their necks—he felt something shift in his chest.
This is goin’ tae be a disaster.
“Ye should rest,” he said, his voice rougher than intended. “We’ll be at harbor soon, and then ye’ll see yer new home.”
“Me prison, ye mean.”
“Call it what ye like.” He held her gaze for one more moment, memorizing the defiant tilt of her chin, the storm in her eyes. “But make nay mistake, lass. Once we reach Skye, ye’ll be under me protection. And I protect what’s mine.”
“I’m nae yers.”
“Nae yet.” The words came out before he could stop them, carrying a weight he hadn’t intended.
“But ye will be. In two days, before God and the crown, ye’ll speak vows that bind ye tae me.
And when ye dae…” He paused, something fierce and possessive rising in his chest. “When ye dae, there’ll be nae power in Scotland or beyond that can take ye from me. ”
Then he was gone, climbing back up to the deck and leaving her alone in his cabin, wrapped in his shirt, with the taste of the sea still bitter on her tongue and the memory of his breath in her lungs.