“I was tryin’ tae save a boy’s life, I didnaejump.Dinnae make it sound like I went fer a swim, Harald!”
He didn't release his hold on Enya, even as Eirik gestured urgently toward a low cot covered in clean linen. Harald stood there, his knuckles white and bloodless where they gripped the back of Enya’s legs and her shivering waist.
"Check her. Now," Harald barked.
Eirik peered over his spectacles, his weathered face tightening. "Put her down, me jarl. I cannae examine her if ye're crushin' her."
"I’m fine," Enya muttered into the sodden wool of Harald’s tunic.
The salt was still stinging her throat like a thousand needles, making her voice a dry, pathetic rasp, but her stubbornness remained the only thing the water hadn't managed to wash away.
"I’ve just... always preferred me water wi’ a bit o' salt and a dash o' violence," she wheezed, reaching for a joke because the alternative was weeping. "Tell the laird tae stop squeezin' me. I’m nae a prize trout he's just hauled from the loch."
Harald’s grip only tightened but he didn't look at Enya. He kept his burning, bloodshot gaze fixed on the healer, his jaw so tight it looked as though it might crack. But there was a ghost of a smile, Enya was sure.
"She’s white as a ghost and shakin' like a leaf in a gale, Eirik," Harald growled, his voice thick with a raw, jagged edge. "Look at her eyes. Check her."
Eirik sighed, reaching out to press two bony fingers against Enya’s neck. He lingered there, feeling the beat of her pulse.
Enya felt the healer’s touch, but her focus remained on Harald—on the way his chest heaved and the way he refused to meet her eyes. She could feel his terror as if it was her own, and it hurt worse than the cold.
Eirik moved his palm to her forehead, his touch clinical and brief. "She’s cold as the grave, aye, but her heart is as stubborn as yers, me jarl. It’s strong."
He stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron with a slow, deliberate motion. "She needs the heat driven back intae her bones. A hot bath and a bed with enough furs tae suffocate a bear. The rest is just... shock. And perhaps a lesson in maritime safety."
Enya closed her eyes, a single, hot tear escaping and carving a path through the salt-crust on her cheek. She felt like a burden—a lying, drowning weight that he was forced to carry.
"I’m takin' her tae our chambers," Harald announced.
He didn't wait for Eirik to offer a tonic or a blanket. He turned on his heel and carried her back out into the drafty corridor, his pace never faltering as he ascended the winding stone stairs.
He barked orders at a wide-eyed maid who nearly tripped over her own feet to clear a path. "Hot water! Every kettle in the kitchens! Fill the tub in me quarters and bring towels. Move!"
When they reached their chamber, the room felt cavernous and mocking. The fire had burned down to a low, orange glow, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced across the walls.
Harald finally set her down near the hearth, but he didn't let go of her arms. He held her upright with his hands clamped on her shoulders, his gaze scanning her face with a frantic, angry intensity, as if he expected her to vanish the moment he released her.
Enya stood there, her legs feeling like two stalks of sodden straw. She was dripping onto the fine, hand-woven rugs, the seawater pooling around her boots. She felt the weight of her hair—heavy, salt-crusted, and freezing—pulling at her scalp.
“What happened? Why were the bells ringin’?” she mustered.
“A fire in a village. I have sent me men.”
The maid arrived then, scurrying in with buckets of steaming water. The sound of the tub filling was the only noise in the room for several minutes.
When the maid finally scurried out, Harald closed the door and bolted it.
"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to a stool near the tub.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Enya obeyed, her legs too weak to argue. Her skin prickled with a mixture of cold and a deep, agonizing embarrassment. She had betrayed this man, and yet there he was, tending to her. It would have been easier if he had just locked her in a cell; at least then she wouldn’t have had to face the devastating proximity of his body.
Harald moved toward her. His movements were still sharp with lingering anger, but as he reached for the ties of her shift, his fingers slowed. He began to undress her, his large hands working the sodden fabric with a terrifying, controlled focus.
He was so close she could smell the sea on him—the salt, the cold, and the underlying scent of cedar and iron. Enya kept her eyes fixed on the pulse thrumming in his throat, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
As his knuckles brushed against the sensitive skin of her collarbone, the rhythm changed. It wasn't just guilt anymore. A low, traitorous thrum began to stir in her lower belly, a sudden heat that defied the icy chill of her limbs.
