“I need tae see tae the trainin’,” he said abruptly, as if he could read the confusion in her expression and wanted no part of it. “Rest. We dine again taenight with the jarls.”
He left before she could respond, his boots echoing down the corridor with that same purposeful stride.
Claricia stood alone in the empty hallway, her mind spinning with contradictions. She should hate him. Shedidhate him.
Didn’t she?
Claricia found her gaze drifting, as if pulled by some unseen magnetic force.
And there he was. Erik, stripped to the waist despite the autumn chill, his body all corded muscle and warrior’s grace as he faced off against Aksel with practice swords. Sweat gleamed on his skin, catching the afternoon light. Every movement was precise, controlled, deadly.
Beautiful, in a way that stole her breath.
Och, ye’re in trouble, lass.So much trouble.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“If ye’re want tae win over that bull-headed jarl of ours, ye’d best start with his stomach, me lady. ‘Tis the shortest road tae a Viking’s heart.”
Claricia looked up from the worn wooden table where she’d been reviewing the castle’s stores, finding Mhari’s weathered face creased with knowing amusement. The kitchen was warm despite the autumn chill, filled with the scent of baking bread and herbs drying from the rafters.
“I’m nae tryin’ tae win anyone’s heart,” she said, setting the herbs aside with more force than necessary. “Least of all that big brute’s.”
The cook let out a bark of laughter that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. She wiped her hands on her apron, her dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ye can lie tae yerself all ye like, lass, but dinnae try it with me. I’ve been feedin’ that stubborn man since he was a lad of fifteen, raisin’ his wee cousin and tryin’ tae hold this castle together with spit and fury.”
Claricia felt heat creep up her neck. She’d come to the kitchen seeking distraction—anything to escape the confusing tangle of emotions that had plagued her since the ride with Erik.
Though perhaps ‘plagued’ isnae quite the right word anymore.
Earlier that morning, she’d been walking the corridor near the Great Hall when voices had drifted through a partially open door. She’d heard Erik’s voice, unmistakable in its rough timber, but… softer than she’d ever heard it.
“Come here, wee one. Let me see.”
Claricia had frozen, her curiosity warring with propriety. She shouldn’t have eavesdropped. But a gentleness in his tone she hadn’t known he possessed drew her closer.
Through the gap in the door, she’d seen Erik kneeling on the stone floor, his massive frame folded down to the level of a small girl—no more than six or seven, with tangled dark hair and tears streaming down her face. One of the servant’s daughters, Claricia had guessed. The child clutched her hand to her chest, whimpering.
“Let me see,” Erik repeated, patient as a saint. “I cannae help if ye dinnae show me what’s wrong.”
The girl had slowly extended her hand, revealing an angry red burn across her palm. Claricia’s own hand had twitched in sympathy.
“Och, ye’re a brave wee dove, arenae ye.” Erik’s voice held nothing but kindness. “Did the hearth bite ye?”
A tiny nod, more tears spilling over.
“Ach, well, hearths can be vicious beasts. But I’ll tell ye a secret.” He’d pulled a strip of clean linen from his belt and begun wrapping the child’s hand with movements so careful, so practiced, that Claricia’s breath had caught. “The trick is tae be fiercer than they are. D’ye think ye can dae that?”
Another nod, this one steadier.
“Good lass. Now, I want ye tae go find Mhari in the kitchen and tell her the Wolf said ye’re tae have two honey cakes fer yer bravery. Can ye remember that?”
“Can I really havetwo, me jarl?” The girl’s voice had been small, awed.
“Aye. One fer the burn, and one fer nae screamin’ loud enough tae wake the dead. Ye’re a wee Valkyrie, ye are.”
The child had giggled and thrown her good arm around Erik’s neck in a fierce hug that had made the fearsome Wolf of Skye go perfectly still. Then, slowly, carefully, he’d wrapped one arm around her small frame and held her like she was made of glass.
“Off with ye now,” he’d said, his voice rougher than before. “Before I change me mind about those cakes.”
