To None But Me

May I?

He felt Brigid's eyes on him as he trimmed his beard, cursing as foam dripped onto his shirt again. He'd take the damn thing off, if he wasn't so afraid of her seeing his brands. He'd eaten and washed in silence as she watched, eyes holding much caution within them. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, her dark hair wavy and even more shiny after she'd washed it. She was the most alluring woman he'd had the pleasure of seeing, and he felt himself stiffen every time his thoughts wandered to her.

The problem, though, was how best to approach this situation.

Satisfied with the cleanliness of his face and short-trimmed beard, he patted himself dry and stood, searching his trunk once more for nothing in particular.

"Where in Ireland do you hail from?" he asked to the pile of clothes. He heard her small intake of breath, smirking at her timidity. It took a moment, but she answered, much to his surprise.

"Galway," she said, voice wavering. He straightened and turned, nodding as he considered.

"Never been myself, but I've sailed with many Irishmen," he offered, gauging her reaction. She sat, austere and stoic as stone. He eased onto the chair once more, small whittling knife and chunk of wood in his hand. It was the least threatening thing he could think to do while he attempted conversation with his new bride. She still eyed him like a doe in the forest, ready to flee the moment she sensed danger.

"Erin go Bragh," he said, throwing a smirk her way. Her face blanched.

"Did I say it wrong?" he asked, nervous under that deep blue gaze. She shook her head, seated on the edge of the bed with her hands in her lap. He chuckled.

"They used to say that more and more the drunker they got," he said, reminiscing. "Good men, the lot of them."

Brigid turned away, cheeks reddening. So, there was the trail to follow.

"How did you end up in Paris?" he continued, wood shavings littering the floor by his feet. The ship groaned around them as the tide rolled in. The captain had set their departure for tomorrow at dawn.

After a moment of no answer, Erik glanced up. Brigid sat, spine stiff and face turned to the small window. He paused his work, forearms resting on his knees, the candles offering a decent amount of orange light in the space, but no warmth. He didn't need to know every answer, but he needed something, somewhere to begin. Perhaps, if he offered himself to her, shared a bit of his life, she would be more willing to reciprocate.

"I left home at fifteen, traveling to Iceland to stay with my uncle. After that, I roamed much of the world, but in Paris I apprenticed as a blacksmith..." he trailed off, watching the small knife shimmer and glint as he worked. Brigid shifted on the bed, and he took it as a good sign—an indication she was listening. He glanced at her, catching those enchanting eyes before she could look away.

He saw a rather fleeting curiosity mingled with attraction. He knew by now how to read women, how to gauge their reactions to him, and though Brigid was giving him certain positive signs, she was also giving him very contrasting ones. It stumped him for the first time in his life, but he felt ready for the challenge.

"My husband died," she said, voice low and monotonous. Erik sat up, shock gripping him. Her eyes found his, a smug look crossing her features. So, not a virgin, then, but he wasn't deterred in the slightest. He offered her a sad smile. His tactic had worked, in some minor way.

"I am sorry to hear that," he said, watching as she now glared. He laughed inwardly. She'd been hoping that her lack of maidenhead would deter him. In truth, that detail meant little to him. Leaning onto his knees once more, he whittled away, the shape of a wing taking form beneath the sharp blade.