“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 canride, 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. Thesea 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.
