As she returned to the basket and retrieved a second crock, she caught me watching her. “You did not suppose I would let you go hungry, did you?”
“Alas, I confess, it crossed my mind.”
“I am not so heartless as that.”
“If you’re not heartless, then you will unshackle my hands so I might eat like a man and not an animal.”
“I would never allow you to eat like an animal, my lord.” Her voice was low, and her stunning green eyes captured and held mine as she walked over and knelt next to me. She situated herself, her knees brushing against me. And then she lifted the bowl to my lips, never once averting her eyes. Instead, the green turned dark and seemed to beckon me.
My heart began to thud an unsteady rhythm. When the bowl tipped higher and our connection was lost, I sipped but didn’t taste anything. I could only ponder how pretty and expressive her eyes were.
When I finished drinking the last of the soup, she set the bowl on the cave floor and then lifted her hand. Her fingers hovered above my mouth for an eternal second before she dabbed at the corner with her thumb. “You have a drop of soup . . .”
At her touch, something warm streamed into my veins, reminding me of drinking hot glogg on a snowy winter day. The sensation was new, even pleasurable, and something I could welcome.
She retracted her hand, as if stroking my mouth wasn’t something she’d planned. And she ducked her head almost shyly before she reached back into the basket and took out another item. A wedge of cheese.
“Would you like more to eat, my lord?”
Was she planning to feed me every meal all week long? How would I endure such sweet torture? And yet how could I say no?
In answer to her question, I opened my mouth.
She broke off a piece of cheese and set it inside, careful not to touch my mouth again. As I chewed, she tore off another portion. “Why is a young man like you yet unmarried? Surely you have had many women vying after you.”
“I have been waiting for my father to choose my bride.”
“And he has yet to find someone suitable?”
“He’s considering several options.”
Her brows arched. “Several?”
I smiled. “Is that so surprising, my lady, that several women might be interested in me?”
“Of course not. You are a handsome and brave man.”
Her words sent warmth through my middle again, especially when she dropped her gaze, as if her admission embarrassed her.
I swallowed the cheese, and when she offered another piece, she was again careful not to let her fingers brush my mouth. “Will you get a say in your bride? Or must you accept whomever your father chooses?”
The Lagting and my father were in the process of arranging brides for my brothers and me. They would assign us our marriage partners based on the outcome of the Testing, and we would have no input into the matter. Whoever was awarded the honor of becoming the next king would likely wed the eldest daughter of the King of the Danes—at least that was my speculation. The union would be advantageous for Scania. And the two who weren’t chosen as king would marry other princesses.
But I could say none of this. “’Tis of no consequence to me who is chosen for my bride. I trust my father and shall marry the woman he selects for me.”
“Then you need not love her?”
“Love? Of course not. My emotions are not important in so great a matter. Surely as a noblewoman you understand that.”
She fidgeted with a piece of cheese. “I should like to think even if love is not present initially that it would grow.”
“Love can always grow. ’Tis a choice we make to respect and cherish someone.”
“Then you disregard feelings of attraction altogether?”
Heretofore, I’d never met a woman who snared my attention for long—at least long enough that I’d felt any sort of attraction worth pursuing. What would have been the point? “Perhaps after I am married I may enjoy the luxury of fostering love and attraction. But at the start, any sort of arrangement would be purely practical.”
“You are such a romantic, my lord.” Her voice gently scolded me even as she slanted a look my way that fanned warmth through my veins once more. What was it about this woman that made me react in so strange a manner?
“What about you?” I needed to change the subject. “Do you have hope for love?”
She hesitated, staring at the remaining cheese in her hands.
At once, I wished I could take the question back. Of course she didn’t have any hope of love, not with her blemishes. “Forgive me for asking. You likely had to give up much when you came to live here.”
“My mother never mentioned any marriage plans for me. Perhaps she never intended for me to have a future.”
Her mother? “Then your father is gone?”
She nodded, her eyes filling with shadows. “He died three years ago from a heart attack.” As she settled next to me and finished feeding me the cheese, I could see from the tense way she held herself that her grief was raw and her love still deep.
We talked of our fathers for some time, reminiscing and sharing fond memories. Finally, the guard above called down to her, and she stood and began to repack the baskets. I didn’t want her to go. Strangely enough, the more I talked with her, the more I wanted to keep conversing.
When she started up the ladder, I was tempted to call her back and ply her with more questions. Not because I wanted to use her in escaping, but because I genuinely was interested in knowing more about her.
No matter what physical imperfections she might have, she was an intriguing woman. And once the door above closed and darkness descended, I already anticipated her next visit.
Chapter
6
Pearl
Over the next week, I spent hours upon hours down in the dungeon with Mikkel tending his wounds, changing bandages, refreshing poultices, and conversing about a wide variety of topics including politics, philosophy, history, and even religion.
Not only was he well educated, but he reflected deeply on matters and had a wealth of wisdom to add to almost any subject. I’d never had such thorough and thoughtful discussions with anyone before, and I enjoyed my time with him, even making additional excuses for why I needed to descend into the dungeon.
Whenever Irontooth or Felicity questioned the appropriateness of my spending so much time with our prisoner, I reminded them Gregor sat a dozen feet away chaperoning us. And, of course, Tommy or one of the other outcasts guarded the entrance and likely heard our conversations as well.
Besides, Irontooth had given me just a week in which to learn Mikkel’s purpose on the island, and I endeavored to make the most of every minute to befriend him and gain his trust. Yet, for all my attempts to elicit more information about his deeper motives, he always held back.
Of course, I withheld from him as well, although the better I knew him, the more I wanted to confide in him. On some level, I sensed he would do me no harm. But at the same time, I’d learned I had to be careful whom I trusted. After all, if my own mother could betray me, anyone could.
On the sixth night of captivity, Irontooth commanded workers to prepare a pyre of wood in readiness for burning Mikkel and Gregor. I halted beside Irontooth in front of the growing stacks, trying not to show my dismay. “I thought we were feeding our prisoners to Loch Ness.”