Claricia eyed them both with obvious trepidation. “I dinnae suppose there’s a wagon?”
“Nay. We ride.”
“Onseparatehorses?”
“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’mangry.”
“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 afortress.”
“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 dismountedfirst, 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.
