“I saved ye while ye were dyin’, I didnae kiss ye.” He leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. “There’s a difference. Though if ye’d prefer tae go back in the water and try yer luck again, I can arrange that.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again like a fish gasping on a dock. Finally, her gaze dropped to her own body, wrapped in his fur, then back to his face. Her eyes widened. “Och... did ye?—”
“I did what needed daein’.” Erik cut her off before she could finish that particular question. “Naethin’ more. Ye have me word.”
“The word of aViking.” Her voice dripped with skepticism even as her fingers clutched the fur tighter. “How reassurin’.”
He held her gaze steadily. “Take it or leave it, lass. But ‘tis all ye’re gettin’ from me.”
For a long moment, she simply studied him. Taking his measure, he realized. Deciding whether to believe him or throw another blow.
Brave. Foolish. But brave.
Finally, she spoke, her voice still rough but steadier. “Who are ye?”
“Erik.” He watched her carefully, waiting for recognition to dawn. “Erik Thorsen. Laird of Skye.”
The color drained from her face again, though this time not from cold. “The Wolf.”
“Some call me that, aye.”
“Ye’re...” Her fingers tightened on the fur, her knuckles going white. “Ye’re the man I’m meant tae marry.”
“I am.” He paused, then added quietly, “And someone just tried tae kill ye. Or capture. I’m nae yet certain which.”
That snapped her attention back to the present. “The attack… Henry… the guards…” Her voice cracked. “Are they?—”
“Most of yer escort is dead.” Erik saw no point in softening the truth. She’d find out soon enough, and she struck him as the sort who’d prefer honesty to gentle lies. “A handful survived. Me men are tendin’ tae them now.”
Grief flashed across her features, there and gone in a heartbeat before she locked it away behind walls he recognized all too well. He’d built similar ones himself.
She’s stronger than she looks. Good. She’ll need tae be.
“And the attackers?” she asked.
“Dead or captured. They wore nay colors, carried nay banners. But we’ll learn who sent them.” His jaw tightened. “I promise ye that.”
She looked at him for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. Not trust, not yet. But perhaps the beginning of it. Then she seemed to remember her state of undress and pulled the fur higher, her cheeks flushing again. “I need clothes.”
“Aye, ye dae.” Erik stood, moving to his chest, his own shirt still clinging to him with seawater, his hair dripping onto the cabin floor. He ignored the cold seeping into his bones—he’d been colder, and for longer. “Yers are soaked through. They’ll need tae dry before ye can wear them again.”
“Then what am I supposed tae?—”
He pulled out one of his shirts—simple linen, worn soft from years of use—and tossed it to her. It landed on the bed beside her, impossibly large compared to her slender frame.
She stared at it like it might bite. “That’s yers.”
“Aye.”
“I cannae wear yer shirt.”
“Ye can, or ye can walk above deck in naught but that fur.” He allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Her eyes went wide with outrage. “Ye… ye absolute—” She snatched up the shirt, clutching it to her chest. “Turn around!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m nae dressin’ with ye watchin’, ye big ox!”
