“Aye, little bird?”
“What we just did…” She felt heat rise to her cheeks despite everything. “That was… I mean, I never imagined…”
His chest rumbled with quiet laughter. “That good, was I?”
She swatted his arm. “Ye’re impossible.”
“And ye’re still here.” He caught her hand, brought it to his lips. “Stillmine.”
“Aye.” The admission came easier than she expected. “I suppose I am.”
He kissed her, swallowing whatever else she might have said. When he pulled back, his eyes held a warmth that made her chest ache.
They dressed slowly, stealing touches and kisses between laces and buckles. When Erik helped her onto his horse for the ride back, he held her against him like something precious, irreplaceable.
“We’ll face whatever comes next together,” he promised. “As husband and wife. As partners.”
“Aslovers?” she added, feeling bold.
His grin was pure sin. “Aye, little bird. Always as lovers.”
They rode through the keep’s gates together, and for the first time since arriving on Skye, Claricia felt excited for the many years still to come in her marriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MacRae Camp, An Isolated Cove, WesternSshore of Skye
“He’ll nae come.”
Duncan MacRae didn’t turn from where he stood at the edge of the camp, staring across the dark water toward Kintail’s distant shores. Behind him, his second-in-command Gregor shifted weight from foot to foot—nervous energy that grated on Duncan’s already frayed nerves like rusted steel on stone.
“The man’s desperate enough tae believe anythin’ I tell him.” Duncan said, voice flat as beaten iron.
“And if he brings the savage horde?”
“He willnae.” Duncan’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. “He thinks we’re savin’ his daughter, nae stealin’ her.”
The camp sprawled behind them in the shadows—thirty men, maybe forty, hidden in the rocky cove where the cliffs blocked them from prying eyes. Tents clustered like fungi in the damp earth, cookfires banked low enough to avoid drawing attention. They’d been there three days already, waiting. Planning. And Duncan’s patience was wearing thinner than a beggar’s cloak.
Three cursed days,three days of hidin’ like rats from that Norse bastard.
“Me laird.” Gregor’s voice cut through his brooding. “Someone’s comin’ across the water.”
Duncan’s heart kicked against his ribs. He squinted through the darkness, making out the silhouette of a small boat rowing toward their hidden shore. One man. Alone.
The fool actually listened.
“Get the men ready,” Duncan ordered, already striding toward the makeshift dock they’d constructed from driftwood and desperation.
By the time Finnian Mackenzie’s boat scraped against stone, Duncan had schooled his features into something resembling concern. He extended a hand to help the older man ashore, noting the exhaustion etched into every line of Finnian’s weathered face.
“Laird Mackenzie.” Duncan’s voice dripped false warmth. “I’m glad ye came. I ken the risk ye’re takin’.”
Finnian’s grip was firm despite the tremor Duncan felt in those calloused fingers. “Tell me ye’ve found a way inside that cursed castle.”
“Aye.” Duncan gestured toward his tent—the largest in camp, positioned to project authority he barely held anymore. “Come. We’ll speak where ears cannae carry tales.”
Inside the tent, a single lantern cast wavering shadows across maps and battle plans Duncan had spent weeks perfecting. Finnian’s gaze swept over them, and something like hope flickered in those tired blue eyes.
