Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Care tae share what’s got ye pacin’ like a caged beast, cousin?”
Erik stopped mid-stride and turned to find Liv leaning against the doorframe of his chamber, arms crossed and one eyebrow arched in that particular way she had—half-exasperated, half-amused—that always reminded him too much of her mother.
Dawn light spilled through the narrow window behind her, turning her pale hair to molten gold.
“I’m nae pacin’,” he muttered.
“Are ye inspectin’ the floorboards then?” She moved into the room with the easy grace of someone who’d never needed permission to enter his space. “Ye’ve been stompin’ about since before dawn. I could hear ye from the corridor. The entire keep probably could.”
Erik rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble that scraped against his palm. He hadn’t slept—not really. Every time he’d closed his eyes, he’d seen green eyes and clever smiles that made something dangerous bloom warm in his chest.
“Take her tae see yer domain today,” Liv said quietly, her expression softening into something that might have been understanding. “Show her what she’s agreein’ tae when she becomes Lady of Skye. Let her see that there’s more here than just raids and blood.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. “The king’s decree daesnae care what she wants.”
“Nay.” Liv touched his arm, gentle. “But ye dae. I see it in the way ye watch her.”
Before he could form a response that didn’t sound like weakness, she was gone, leaving him alone with thoughts that felt far too dangerous for the morning light.
“Och fer the love of—” The door to Claricia’s chamber swung open with enough force to rattle the iron hinges. “If ye’re goin’ tae make a habit of stormin’ intae me chamber before dawn, ye can at least have the decency tae bring breakfast!”
Erik Thorsen filled the doorway like a storm given human form, already dressed for riding in worn leather and dark wool that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders.
His hair was tied back with a leather cord, and in the pale morning light, she could see every hard angle of his face, every line carved by years of battle and command.
“Or wait until I’m dressed!” Claricia finished, her hands flying to clutch the half-laced bodice of her borrowed gown. The blue wool gaped at her chest, revealing far more skin than any unmarried woman should show a man.
Erik’s gaze swept over her in one assessing glance—quick, thorough, utterly unapologetic—before settling on her face with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Ye’re dressed enough.”
“I’m half-dressed!” Heat flooded her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or fury, she couldn’t quite tell. “Have ye nay concept of propriety?”
“Nae particularly.” He stepped fully into the room without invitation, closing the door behind him with deliberate calm, the soft click of the latch somehow more threatening than violence.
“And tomorrow, ye’ll be me wife. I’ll be seein’ considerably more of ye than a half-laced bodice, little bird. ”
Claricia’s fingers tightened on the fabric, torn between the urge to throw something at his arrogant head and the traitorous awareness of how her body responded to his proximity. He radiated heat like a forge, and the small chamber suddenly felt airless.
“That’s still hours from now, ye arse!” she lifted her chin in defiance even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “Until then, ye can bloody well knock and wait like any civilized man.”
“Ach, but ye forget,” Erik’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but something sharper. “I’m a savage Viking.”
He moved closer, and she could smell leather and salt air and something woodsy that made her want to lean in and breathe deeper. “Though I’ll have ye ken I ken how tae behave.”
“How very refined of ye.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.
His gaze dropped again—deliberately this time, slowly enough that she felt it like a physical touch—to where her hands clutched the gaping fabric. “D’ye need assistance with those laces?”
The offer, delivered in that low, rough voice, sent liquid heat pooling low in her belly. For one breathless moment, she imagined it—his hands on her, his fingers working the intricate fastenings with surprising deftness, his breath warm against her neck as he stood behind her...
Absolutely nae.
“I can manage on me own, thank ye very much.” She turned her back to him, fingers fumbling with renewed desperation at the stubborn ties. “And ye can wait outside like a proper gentleman.”
“I’m nae a gentleman either, Claricia.” Something in his voice made her shiver despite herself. “The sooner ye accept that, the easier this’ll be fer the both of us.”
“What’ll be easier? Ye orderin’ me about like I’m one of yer warriors?” She yanked at a particularly stubborn knot, cursing under her breath when it only tightened further.
Footsteps behind her. Close. Too close.
“Here.” His voice came from directly over her shoulder now, and she froze. “Ye’re makin’ it worse.”
“I dinnae need—”
“Ye’re about tae snap it entirely.” His hands settled on her shoulders—firm, warm, impossibly gentle for such a feared warrior. “Stay still.”
Claricia’s breath caught as his fingers moved to the tangled laces at her back.
She should have protested. Should have ordered him away.
Should have done anything except stand there like a statue while the Wolf of Skye dressed her with the kind of focused attention that made her skin prickle with awareness.
“There.” He stepped back before she could form a coherent thought.
She turned slowly, expecting to see triumph or mockery in his expression. Instead, she found something that looked almost like restraint. As if touching her had cost him something.
“Why are ye here?” The question came out softer than she’d intended.
“Tae take ye ridin’. Show ye the lands.” He moved toward the door, putting proper distance between them. “Ye should ken what ye’re agreein’ tae.”
“Fer the hundredth time, I’m nae—”
“Agreein’ tae anythin’, aye, I heard ye.” But there was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice now. “Still, ye’re here. Ye’re stayin’. And whether ye like it or nae, tomorrow, ye’ll be Lady of the Clan. Might as well see what that means.”
Claricia wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him exactly what he could do with his presumptions and his arrogance and his complete disregard for proper behavior.
But curiosity won.
“Fine.” She grabbed her cloak from the peg by the door.
His eyes glinted with something that might have been approval. “Time tae prove ye can actually ride.”
“Och, I can ride, Jarl Thorsen.” She swept past him with all the dignity she could muster. “Question is whether ye can keep up.”
His low chuckle followed her into the corridor, rich and warm and entirely too pleased.
The stables smelled of hay and horses and leather—familiar scents that eased some of the tension from Claricia’s shoulders.
A massive black stallion occupied the first stall, all muscle and barely restrained power.
But beside it stood a smaller mare, gray as morning mist with intelligent dark eyes that watched Claricia’s approach with calm interest.
“This is Stjarna. Star, in yer tongue. She’s sure-footed and gentle-tempered. Ye’ll ride her.”
Claricia blinked, surprised. “Ye’re nae forcin’ me tae ride with ye?”
“Did ye want tae?” His eyebrow arched, and that hint of amusement was back. “I can arrange that, if ye’d prefer tae be pressed against me fer the next few hours.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I’ll take the horse, thank ye very much.”
“Pity.” But he was already moving to saddle Stjarna with practiced efficiency. “I was beginnin’ tae enjoy havin’ ye close.”
He’s playin’ with ye. Testin’ tae see how far he can push before ye break.
They rode out through the castle gates as the sun climbed higher, painting Skye in shades of gold and amber.
The landscape was nothing like the rolling glens of Kintail.
Here, everything felt sharper, wilder, carved by wind and water into something both beautiful and brutal.
Heather-covered moors stretched toward jagged cliffs where the sea crashed against black rocks, sending spray high into the air.
Mountains rose in the distance like the bones of ancient giants, their peaks still dusted with early snow.
“’Tis… different.”
“Harsh,” Erik supplied, guiding his stallion alongside her mare with easy confidence. “That’s what most Highlanders say. Harsh and unforgivin’ and nae fit fer civilized folk.”
“I didnae say that.”
“But ye’re thinkin’ it.” He glanced at her, and in the morning light, his features seemed less intimidating.
Almost handsome, if she allowed herself to notice such things.
“Skye isnae gentle, lass. But ‘tis honest. What ye see is what ye get—nay hidden valleys or soft places tae hide when the storms come. Ye either weather them, or ye break.”
They rode in silence for a while, following a path that wound along the clifftops. Claricia kept her mare well back from the edge, refusing to look down at the churning water far below. The sea had already tried to kill her once. She wasn’t eager to give it another chance.
“There.” Erik pointed toward a small loch nestled in a valley between two hills. “We’ll stop there.”
The loch’s surface mirrored the sky like polished glass, so still and perfect it looked painted. Wildflowers dotted the banks in defiant splashes of purple and gold, and a stand of ancient pines provided shade from the climbing sun.
It would have been beautiful, if it hadn’t been water.
Claricia’s hands tightened on the reins as they approached, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs in that familiar, shameful way.
Just a loch, just water. ‘Tis nae going tae reach out and drag ye in.
But her body remembered the cold. The darkness. The way her lungs had burned as water filled them.