The kitchen fell silent. Liv’s knife paused mid-chop. Mhari’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
“Teach ye?” the cook repeated slowly.
“Aye.” Claricia felt her cheeks warming again but pushed on. “I ken it’s nae… proper, perhaps, fer the lady of the castle tae be bakin’, but I’ve always liked workin’ with me hands, and if I’m tae live here, I should…” She trailed off, not quite sure how to articulate the tangle of motivations driving her request.
She wanted to understand him. Wanted to offer something that wasn’t born of duty or the king’s command. Wanted to see if there was truly warmth beneath all those sharp edges, as Liv had claimed.
Mhari studied her for a long moment, then something in her weathered face softened. “Well,” she said gruffly, “I suppose there’s nay harm in it. Come here, lass, and I’ll show ye the way of it.”
An hour hours later, Claricia stood before the hearth with flour dusting her sleeves and honey somehow smeared across one cheek, staring down at the tray of slightly lopsided but undeniably golden honey cakes she’d just pulled from the fire.
“Nae bad fer a first attempt,” Mhari declared, inspecting them with a critical eye. “Though the glaze could be smoother.”
“They’re perfect,” Liv said loyally, reaching for one.
“Dinnae ye dare!” Mhari swatted her hand away. “Those are fer yer cousin.”
“Which means I’ll never get tae taste them,” Liv grumbled, but she was grinning. “He’ll eat the lot and pretend he hasnae.”
The kitchen door swung open with enough force to make all three women jump. Erik filled the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the corridor beyond, his expression thunderous as his gaze swept the room before landing on her.
“There ye are.” His voice was rough, accusatory. “I’ve been searchin’ everywhere fer ye.”
Claricia lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by his tone. “I’ve been here, as anyone could have told ye.”
“Aye, well, when me wife vanishes without a word?—”
“I’m nae a child who needs permission tae move about me own home,” she shot back, the words emerging sharper than intended. Behind her, she heard Mhari’s barely suppressed snort of amusement. “And I’m nae yer wife yet.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. His gaze traveled from her flour-dusted hair to the smudge of honey on her cheek, to her rolled-up sleeves, and something shifted in his expression—surprise chasing away the anger.
“Have ye been…bakin’?”
The question held such genuine bewilderment that Claricia nearly laughed. “Aye. Is that so hard tae believe?”
“Ye’re a lady.” He said it as though that explained everything, his tone caught somewhere between confusion and something that might have been admiration. “Ladies dinnae?—”
“This one daes.” She reached for the tray before her courage failed her, lifting it with hands that trembled only slightly. “I… made these. Fer ye.”
The silence that fell was different from before—heavier, charged with something she couldn’t name. Erik stared at the honey cakes as though they might bite him, his expression carefully blank in the way she was learning meant he was feeling too much and didn’t know how to show it.
“Ye. Made these,” he repeated flatly. “Fer me.”
“Dinnae sound so suspicious. If I wanted tae kill ye it wouldnae be by feedin’ ye poisoned sweets.”
“I never thought—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair in a gesture she recognized as frustration. When he looked at her again, something in his gray eyes made her breath catch.
“Never mind. If ye dinnae want them?—”
“Aye, I want them.” The words came fast, almost desperate. Erik took the tray from her hands, his fingers brushing hers in the transfer—a fleeting touch that once again sent heat racing up her arms. He lifted one cake, examining it with the same intensity he might bring to inspecting a battle plan, then bit into it.
Claricia held her breath.
Erik’s eyes closed. A low sound emerged from his throat—something between a groan and a sigh that made every inch of her skin prickle with awareness. When his eyes opened again, they were darker than before, burning with something that had nothing to do with honey cakes and everything to do with the woman who’d made them.
“Claricia.” Her name on his lips was rough velvet. “These are…”
“Terrible?”
