Chapter 4 #2
Aksel bowed with surprising grace for such a large man. “Me lady. We didn’t have the chance fer pleasantries earlier—what with the blood and all.” his mouth quirked “I am Aksel Rolfsson, second-in-command and unfortunate voice of reason tae this stubborn fool.”
Despite everything, Claricia’s lips twitched. “Then ye have me sympathy, Master Rolfsson.”
“We dinnae stand on ceremony here.” His pale eyes warmed with something that might have been approval. “And I suspect ye’ll need an ally in the days ahead. Feel free tae call on me.”
“Careful offerin’ this one kindness, Aksel,” Erik said, the warning pitched low enough that only Aksel should have caught it. “She’s the type that smiles at ye while she’s figurin’ out where tae stick the knife.”
“I can hear ye.” Claricia’s voice cut across the space between them, sweet as honey laced with venom. “And fer yer information, I dinnae need kindness tae be dangerous.” Her eyes met his, unflinching. “I just need men foolish enough tae underestimate me.”
Aksel’s laugh boomed across the dock. “Och, she’ll dae nicely, Erik. Very nicely indeed!”
Erik chose to ignore that, turning his attention to the horses. A massive black stallion stomped and snorted, while beside it stood a more sedate mare with a white blaze on her forehead.
Claricia eyed them both with obvious trepidation. “I dinnae suppose there’s a wagon?”
“Nay. We ride.”
“On separate horses?”
“On mine.” He moved toward the stallion, who settled immediately under his hand. “The path tae the castle is rough. Ye dinnae ken the way, and I’ll nae risk ye takin’ a fall.”
“I’m a perfectly capable rider—”
He turned to face her fully. “This is Skye, lass. The terrain is rough, the path narrow, and the cliffs unforgiving. Ye’ll ride with me.”
Her chin lifted in that stubborn way he was beginning to recognize. “Nay.”
“Then ye’ll walk.” He swung himself onto the stallion’s back with easy grace, looking down at her from his new height. “’Tis only three miles. Ye should make it before dark, if ye’re lucky.”
“Ye absolute—”
He gathered the reins, his expression carefully neutral even though something in him enjoyed watching her sputter with outrage. “Dinnae waste yer breath, I’ve been called worse things than anything ye can come up with. Now dae ye walk, or dae ye ride?”
She glared at him with enough venom to fell a smaller man. Then, with visible reluctance, she approached the horse.
Her hand was small in his, her skin still cold from the sea.
Erik pulled her up with effortless strength, settling her in front of him and trying very hard not to notice how perfectly she fit against his chest. How her weight nestled into the cradle of his thighs as she sat rigidly, her spine so straight it had to hurt.
“Relax,” he murmured against her ear, and felt her shiver. “Ye’ll fall if ye hold yerself like that.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re terrified.”
“I’m angry.”
“Ye’re both.” He clicked his tongue, and the stallion started forward at an easy walk. His arm came around her waist, holding her secure. “But I’ve got ye, lass. I willnae let ye fall.”
The path wound upward through rolling moors dotted with heather and gorse.
Sheep scattered at their approach, their bleating protests following them up the hillside.
In the distance, the castle loomed—a fortress of dark stone that had withstood centuries of storms and sieges, built by Norse hands from the bones of the earth itself.
Erik watched Claricia’s face as they approached, trying to gauge her reaction. Her expression remained carefully neutral. “What dae ye think?” he asked, unable to help himself.
“I think,” she said slowly, “that it looks like a prison.”
“’Tis a fortress.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Aye. One keeps enemies out. The other keeps ruffians in.” He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear.
Then she turned away, leaving him staring at the back of her head and wondering what in the name of Thor’s hammer he’d gotten himself into.
They rode through the gates into a courtyard alive with activity.
Servants rushed to and fro, preparing for the arrival of their laird and his unexpected bride.
Erik dismounted first, then reached up to lift Claricia down, his hands spanning her waist as he lowered her to the ground.
She stumbled slightly, still unsteady from the sea, and his hands tightened, holding her upright.
“I’ve got ye,” he said again, softer this time.
“Ye keep sayin’ that.”
“Because it’s true.”
For a heartbeat, they stood there in the center of his courtyard, her hands on his forearms for balance, his hands on her waist, faces close enough that he could feel her breath against his skin.
Around them, the world seemed to fade—servants, warriors, the very stones of the castle itself—until there was nothing but the two of them and the impossible tangle of duty and desire knotting tighter with every passing moment.
Then she stepped back, breaking the spell, and Erik’s hands fell to his sides.
“Tormund!” His voice came out rougher than intended, carrying across the courtyard. A broad-shouldered man with a graying beard hurried forward, bowing low. “Take Lady Claricia tae the chambers we’ve prepared. See that she has everythin’ she needs—clothes, food, hot water fer bathin’.”
“Aye, me jarl.”
“Me cousin will see tae her comfort.”
Claricia’s eyes widened. “Yer cousin?”
“Aye. Liv will help ye settle in. She’s—” He paused, searching for words. “She’s capable. And kind. Ye’ll like her.”
“I doubt that,” Claricia muttered, but Erik caught the flicker of relief in her expression.
“Go on then,” he said, gentler now. “Rest. We’ll speak again at supper.”
She looked like she wanted to argue, but exhaustion had carved shadows under her eyes and painted her skin too pale. With visible reluctance, she followed Tormund toward the keep, glancing back once before disappearing through the doorway.
Erik watched until she was gone, then turned to find Aksel studying him with an expression that made him want to hit something.
“Dinnae,” Erik warned.
“Dinnae what?”
“Whatever ye’re thinkin’. Just… dinnae.”
Aksel’s mouth curved in that infuriating way that meant he was absolutely going to say it anyway. “She’s gotten under yer skin already.”
“She’s me betrothed. Of course she’s—”
“Nae. This is different.” Aksel’s expression grew serious. “I’ve kent ye twenty years, Erik. I’ve seen ye with women—hasty tumbles in dark corners, naethin’ more. But the way ye look at her…” He shook his head. “The way ye look at her is dangerous.”
“She hates me.”
“She’s nay fool. Give her time.”
“Time.” Erik laughed, the sound bitter. “We have two days before we wed. Then what? We play at bein’ husband and wife while she counts the minutes until she can escape back tae her faither’s hall?”
“Or,” Aksel said quietly, “ye could try givin’ her a reason tae stay.”
Erik turned away, unable to meet his friend’s eyes. Because that was the thing that terrified him most. Not that Claricia would hate him forever. But that somehow, against all odds and common sense, he might convince her not to.
And then he’d have something to lose again.
“Send word tae Harald and the others,” he said instead, his voice hard with command. “Tell them their presence is requested at supper taenight. We’ll dine in the Great Hall.”
“All of them?”
“Aye. Let them meet the bride.” He started toward the keep, then paused. “And Aksel? Make sure the prisoner is secured in the north wing. I want guards posted at all times.”
“Ye think he’ll talk?”
“I think someone wanted me bride dead or captured.” Erik’s hands clenched into fists. “And I’m goin’ tae find out who. Whatever it takes.”
He left Aksel in the courtyard and climbed the steps to his castle, the weight of the coming days pressing down on his shoulders like armor. Two days until the wedding. Two days to turn a woman who despised him into a wife.
Two days to convince himself this marriage wasn’t already doomed.
The door swung shut behind him with the finality of a prison gate closing.
Or maybe, the first uncertain step toward somethin’ else entirely.