Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“D’ye really need a fortress between us, little bird?”
Claricia looked up from where she’d just positioned the final pillow—a particularly substantial one she’d commandeered from the wardrobe—to find Erik standing at the foot of the bed.
Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. That look on his face that always made her want to either hit him or kiss him, and she still hadn’t worked out which impulse was stronger.
“’Tis nae a fortress,” she said, straightening with as much dignity as someone kneeling on a bed surrounded by pillows could manage, “but a reasonable boundary.”
“Reasonable.” His mouth twitched. “Lass, ye’ve used every pillow in this chamber. Plus the ones from the next. And I saw ye eyein’ those chair cushions.”
Her face went hot. “Well. Better safe than—”
“Than what? Me overcomin’ me exhaustion, scalin’ yer impressive defenses, and ravishin’ ye?
” He sounded more amused than offended. “I spent last night in a chair that was designed fer someone half me size, then rode fer hours scoutin’ the coastline.
I’m sore. I’m tired. And I’m nae in the habit of forcin’ meself on women thus neither on ye if ye’re unwillin’, wife or nae. ”
The blunt honesty in his voice caught her off guard. So did the edge of hurt beneath it, quickly hidden but there nonetheless.
“I ken that,” she said quietly, surprising herself. “Ye’ve been… very understanding about it. I just—”
Erik didn’t push. He just moved to his side of the bed—carefully avoiding her pillow wall—and sat with another groan that made guilt twist in her chest. When he reached for the hem of his tunic, Claricia immediately turned her back, staring determinedly at the far wall.
She heard fabric rustle. Heard him moving around. Heard the bed frame creak as he stretched out on top of the furs with a sigh that sounded like relief and pain mixed together.
“Ye can look now,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion. “I’m decent.”
Claricia risked a glance over her shoulder. He’d changed into a loose sleep shirt, though it hung open at the throat in a way that really wasn’t helping her scattered thoughts. His eyes were already half-closed, exhaustion written in every line of his face.
He looks... nae like the Wolf of Skye at all.
She settled onto her side of the bed, hyperaware of his presence despite all the pillows Another small groan escaped him as he tried to find a comfortable position, and the sound made her chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to guilt.
“Sound like the floor might have been more comfortable fer ye last night,” she said quietly, surprising herself.
“And have Aksel mock me fer the rest of me natural days? I’d rather face a dragon.” He cracked one eye open to look at her. “This is better. Even with yer wall of fluff between us.”
Despite everything, Claricia felt her lips twitch. She could hear him—his breath slow and steady, already evening out toward sleep.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… charged. Heavy with everything unsaid.
“Erik?”
“Mmm?”
“About the books. And the paints ye had brought.” She picked at the edge of the fur, not looking at him. “Thank ye. Ye didnae have tae dae that.”
The pause that followed felt weighted, significant. “Ye’re me wife. I’ll provide fer ye.”
It was the way he said it—matter-of-fact, like it was the simplest truth in the world—that made her throat tight. No grand speeches. No expectation of gratitude or submission. Just quiet certainty that she was his responsibility and he’d meet it without question or complaint.
Why daes that make me want tae cry?
“Still,” she whispered. “Thank ye.”
The bed shifted as he turned toward her—toward the pillow wall, really, since that’s all either of them could see. “What were ye paintin’? I saw ye covered it.”
Claricia’s eyes flew open. “How d’ye—”
“The cloth over the easel wasnae there this mornin’. And ye had paint on yer fingers at breakfast.”
“’Tis naethin’,” she said quickly. “Just practicin’.”
“Practicin’ what?”
“None of yer concern.”
“’Tis in me chamber, little bird. That makes it me concern.”
“Our chamber,” she corrected before she could stop herself. “And it’s still none of yer business.”
She could practically hear him smile. “Stubborn lass.”
“Brutish oaf.”
“Get some sleep, little bird,” Erik murmured, his voice roughened by encroaching exhaustion. “We’ve both had a long day.”
Claricia lay there in the darkness, listening to his breathing gradually slow and deepen again. Despite the pillow fortress between them, she could feel the warmth of him. Could sense his presence filling the space even in silence.
This is dangerous. More dangerous than any escaped prisoner.
Because at least she knew how to fight that.
She had no idea how to fight the way her heart beat faster when he said her name. Or the warmth that bloomed in her chest when he looked at her like she mattered. Or the terrifying truth that part of her—a growing, traitorous part—wanted to tear down the pillow wall and—
Sleep. Just sleep, ye daft woman!
But sleep was a long time coming. And when it finally claimed her, she dreamed of gray-blue eyes and strong hands and a voice calling her ‘little bird’ like it was the most precious name in the world.
Warmth.
That was the first thing Claricia became aware of—solid, encompassing warmth that surrounded her like a cocoon. She made a small sound of contentment and pressed closer to the source, her body seeking more heat before her mind could catch up with what she was doing.
The warmth shifted. Moved. Made a low rumbling sound that vibrated through her entire body in the most delicious way.
Her eyes flew open.
Gray-blue eyes stared back at her from approximately three inches away.
Erik’s eyes. Erik’s face. Erik’s very large, very solid, very warm body wrapped around hers like she was something precious he was protecting from the world.
For one frozen heartbeat, they simply stared at each other.
Claricia catalogued every point of contact—his arm heavy across her waist, his leg tangled with hers, his chest pressed against her.
The pillow wall lay scattered across the bed and floor like casualties of war neither of them remembered fighting.
When did this happen? Och… he smells good.
“Um,” Erik said, his voice rough with sleep and about an octave lower than usual. “Mornin’.”
Suddenly, Claricia became hyper aware of his one leg draped over hers, and panic hit her like a lightning strike.
“Get off!” Claricia tried to scramble backward. Her knee came up. Connected with something that made Erik’s eyes go very, very wide.
“Get off, get off, get—och… Erik? What’s wrong?”
The sound Erik made wasn’t quite human. Somewhere between a wheeze and a groan and the death rattle of a man who’d just taken a cannonball to a very sensitive area.
Then—almost in slow motion—he toppled sideways off the bed and hit the floor with a crash that rattled the windows.
“Och, nay. Erik? ERIK!” Claricia scrambled to the edge of the bed and peered over, horror flooding through her veins. “Are ye—”
He was curled on his side on the floor, both hands clutched between his legs, his face contorted in what could only be described as exquisite agony. His mouth opened. No sound came out. Just a strangled wheeze that made her want to simultaneously apologize and flee the country.
“I’m so sorry!” She slid off the bed and dropped to her knees beside him, hands fluttering uselessly. “I didnae mean tae… I panicked and ye were so close and I just—should I fetch the healer? I can fetch the healer!”
“Dinnae,” he managed, voice strained and several octaves higher than normal, “fetch anyone. Just… give me… a minute.”
“Are ye sure? Because ye look like ye’re dyin’ and if ye’re dyin’ someone needs tae—”
“Nae dyin’.” Each word seemed to cost him. “Just… wishin’ I was.”
“That’s nae helpin’!” She wrung her hands, guilt and mortification warring for dominance in her chest. “Och, fer the love of… just tell me what tae dae, ye daft oaf!”
“Stop… screechin’.” He cracked one eye open to look at her. “Please.”
Claricia pressed her lips together, watching anxiously as he gradually—very gradually—uncurled himself. His face was still flushed, and his breathing came in careful, measured draws like he was testing to make sure everything still worked properly.
After what felt like an eternity, he pushed himself up to sitting with a wince that made her flinch in sympathy.
“I truly am sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I didnae mean tae kick ye… there… I was just startled because we were tangled taegether and me wall was gone and I—”
“Claricia.” He held up one hand, still breathing carefully. “’Tis fine. I’m fine. Mostly.” He tested moving his legs, winced again. “Though I may need a moment before I can walk properly. Or faither children someday.”
“That’s nae funny!”
“It’s nae meant tae be funny.” But his mouth twitched despite the obvious discomfort. “’Tis meant tae be honest, little bird. As things should be between husband and wife.” He looked at the scattered pillows, then at her, then back at the pillows. “So much fer yer fortress.”
“This isnae the time fer—”
“Apparently we both decided the pillow wall was more trouble than it was worth. In our sleep.” Something shifted in his expression.
Heat flooded her face. Because he was right. Somehow, in the night, they’d both migrated toward each other. Sought each other out. And she’d been comfortable there, wrapped in his warmth, until consciousness had ruined everything with panic and poorly aimed knees.
“I should go,” she said quickly, starting to stand.
“Where?” He caught her wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop her. “’Tis yer chamber too, remember?”
“But ye need—”
“Tae sit here fer a few more minutes.” He tugged her back down, and she sat awkwardly beside him on the floor. “Ye can keep me company. Make sure I dinnae pass out from the pain or somethin’.”
“Are ye truly—”