“Perfect.” He took another bite, his gaze never leaving hers.
He set the tray down on the nearest surface, then turned back to her with deliberate slowness. Before she could process hisintent, he’d reached up to brush his thumb across her cheek—gentle, almost reverent. “Ye’ve got honey… here.”
The simple touch lit a fire beneath her skin. She stood frozen as he held up his thumb, showing her the golden smear, then, brought it to his own mouth.
Heat flooded through her, pooling low in her belly as she watched him taste the honey from her skin. His eyes held hers the entire time, a challenge and a promise wrapped in one devastating look.
“Erik…” she breathed, not sure if it was a protest or an invitation.
“Ye called me by me name...” His voice dropped to a rumble that vibrated through her bones.
Had she? She hadn’t even realized. “I?—”
“Dae it again.” He moved closer, crowding her against the table until she could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell him. “Say me name.”
“Erik.” It came out breathless, surrendering.
“Aye.” Satisfaction curved his mouth. “Like that. Exactly like that.”
Behind them, someone cleared their throat loudly. Claricia jumped, her face flaming as she remembered they had an audience. Liv was studiously examining the contents of a cooking pot, but her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Mhari had turned away entirely, though Claricia could see the grin she was trying to hide.
Erik didn’t seem remotely embarrassed. He stepped back slowly, and picked up the tray of honey cakes again. “I’m takin’ these.”
“They’re yers,” Claricia managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
“Aye.” His gaze swept over her once more, lingering on her flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. “And so are ye. Dinnae forget it.”
Then he was gone, striding from the kitchen with his prize, leaving Claricia standing there with her heart racing and her thoughts in complete disarray.
Mhari was the first to break the silence. “Well,” she said, amusement rich in her voice. “I’d say yer honey cakes were a success.”
Liv turned back, her pale eyes dancing. “Aye, I dinnae think I’ve ever seen him look at anyone like that.”
“Like what?” Claricia demanded, though part of her didn’t want to know the answer.
“Like he’d forgotten how tae breathe.” Liv’s smile was knowing, almost pitying. “Ye’re in big trouble, Claricia. Both of ye.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Come on,” Liv said, linking their arms together with easy affection. “I’ll walk with ye. There’s somethin’ I want tae show ye.”
By the time she left the kitchens, the afternoon sun was sinking toward the western hills, painting the sky in shades of amber and blood. Autumn light slanted through the narrow windows, turning the stone corridors gold. Somewhere deeper in the castle, she could hear the distant sounds of men’s voices raised in challenge, the clash of steel on steel.
“Where are we goin’?” Claricia asked as the sounds of fighting grew louder.
“Ye’ll see.” Liv’s smile was cryptic.
They emerged onto a covered walkway overlooking the training yard, and Claricia’s breath caught in her throat.
The space below was alive with controlled violence. A dozen warriors moved through combat drills in the fading light, their movements fluid and deadly despite the blunted practice weapons. Sweat gleamed on bare arms and torsos. Breath misted in the cooling air. The clash of steel rang out like church bells calling the faithful to prayer, except this was a different kind of devotion—the worship of strength, skill, survival.
Aksel stood at the edge of the yard, his voice carrying across the space as he bellowed corrections and insults in equal measure. “Ye call that a block, Finn? Me grandmother moves faster, and she’s been in Valhalla these last ten years!”
But Claricia barely heard him. Because in the center of it all, stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat in the amber light, was Erik.
She stopped breathing.
She’d seen men train before—had grown up watching her father’s warriors practice in the yard at Kintail, their movements predictable and practiced. But she’d never seen anyone move the way Erik Thorsen moved. Never seen violence transformed into something so devastatingly graceful it bordered on art.
