I shifted the knife closer to him. And still he ignored it. Instead, he studied my face—what was visible of it above my veil. “So, will you tell me your real name?”
I slid the knife to the drawstring of his tunic at his collarbone. “I shall question you, my lord. Not the other way around.”
“Then begin the inquiry.”
If he’d had his arms free, I suspected he would have crossed them behind his head. He was too calm. Didn’t he believe I was capable of harming him if I so chose?
I thrust the irritation aside. All my life I’d had to be careful about letting my feelings rule me—whether jealousy or pride or anxiety. I’d watched those emotions control my mother, taking over and turning her into a cruel and vindictive woman at times. I didn’t want to become like her. Ever. But was I fated to resemble her regardless of my desire to be different?
In fact, this taunting him with a knife was too similar to my mother’s tactics. I needed to pull back and do what I’d come to do—tend his wounds. Yet as I started to lift my knife away, his eyes seemed to mock me, as if to say I didn’t have the wherewithal to carry through on torturing him.
I hadn’t planned to torture him—had just wanted to scare him a little. But at his challenge, I paused. Then with a flick of my wrist, I cut away the drawstrings on his tunic.
The light in his eyes remained, daring me to do more.
He needn’t dare me. I’d do so willingly. Careful to connect just with the fabric and not his skin, I slid my knife down, slicing it wide open and revealing a lighter, thinner tunic underneath. The material was of fine silken quality, belonging to nobility and not a pauper. Nevertheless, he must shed it along with the top garment to give me access to his wounds.
I wrenched upward and rent the material so the ripping echoed in the chamber. Behind me, Gregor’s chains rattled as he strained against them. I made another quick slice, cutting first one sleeve loose at the shoulder and then the other. Finally, using the tip of the knife, I tugged the bloodstained linen away.
His tunics in tatters around him, Mikkel still hadn’t moved, still reclined against the wall, as if he made an everyday occurrence of sitting in dungeons, facing women wielding knives.
With his arms and chest now bare, his wounds were visible, but blood covered much of his skin and would need to be washed away before I could examine the extent of his injuries.
I stood and returned to the ladder. “I am ready for the last item,” I called up to Tommy.
A moment later, he lowered a blackened pot with steam rising up from the water within. As I knelt beside Mikkel and opened the satchel, I avoided his gaze. He’d likely figured out by now that I hadn’t come to torture him.
I dipped a rag into the pot, wrung out the excess water, and then gently laid the cloth against his arm upon one of the gashes.
He sucked in a breath and his body jerked against the chains.
I removed the cloth and then dug through my supplies until I found the flask I’d placed there. As I pulled it out and uncorked it, Mikkel shook his head. “No, I don’t need anything.”
“’Tis but a concoction of wine and theriac and will take the edge off your pain.”
“I shall endure the pain without it.”
“As I shall need to suture several of your gashes, I insist you drink a little.” I lifted the flask to his mouth.
He pressed his lips together and jutted his chin, his light-blue eyes flashing with a determination that was gallant and yet foolhardy.
“Come now.” I touched it to his lips again. “Surely with your keen observation skills, you realize that if I wanted you to suffer, I would have refrained from coming to your aid at the outset of the gauntlet.”
He shifted his head away from the medicine. “With my keen observation skills, I see that you would do whatever Irontooth asks, even if you must slice me open further.”
I sat back on my heels, my ire rising once more. “I am my own person and do not bow to Irontooth’s every whim.”
“’Tis clear enough you allow him to think for you.”
“’Tis clear you’ve forgotten I stood up to Irontooth and gained you an extra week of life.”
“So that you might glean private insights into my life to relay to Irontooth.”
My irritated retort died upon my lips. Was Mikkel correct in saying I did whatever Irontooth asked, even allowing him to think for me? I’d assumed I’d merely given him my allegiance after he’d taken me in and offered me protection. Somewhere along the way, had I lost sight of who I was? What if I’d never known myself to begin with? After all, I’d lived in the shadows of my mother’s demands, answering her call whenever she commanded me.
“Irontooth only wishes to protect me and all the others in our camp.” Certainly I hadn’t exchanged one dictator for another. Irontooth was nothing like my mother. He cared about me more in the short time I’d known him than my mother had my entire life.
“So you admit you would like me to drink the theriac to loosen my tongue and enable you to report back to Irontooth all he wishes to know about me?”
“I had not thought of that. But ’tis a brilliant plan.” I lifted the flask again. Perhaps such a strategy would be easier than winning his affection.
He twisted away from me.
I chased his lips, but he angled farther out of reach, giving me full view of his profile and the awful bruises on his cheek.
I released an exasperated sigh. “You are a stubborn man.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“’Twas not a compliment.” If he refused to dull the pain, then so be it. I’d let him suffer through my ministrations. I picked up the rag and pressed it to the burn mark.
He hissed through his teeth before he clamped his mouth closed and shut his eyes.
I lightened the pressure. “Daft is a better word—a word you cannot misconstrue for a compliment.”
He didn’t respond this time, likely in too much pain to think of a retort. As I resumed washing the wounds, I attempted to be careful, but with each touch, he stiffened until his body and limbs were as rigid as the cave walls. Before suturing the first cut in his arm, I offered the medicine again, but he pressed his lips into a hard, straight line.
“Daft,” I whispered again. But even as I slipped the needle through his flesh, my admiration for him swelled. He might be foolish, but he exuded a strength unlike any man I’d ever known.
Maybe I’d been amiss to think I could sway him into revealing the truth about his being on the island. What if he didn’t tell me anything by the week’s end? And what would I do if Irontooth insisted on killing him?
I pushed away the thought. I had seven days to earn Mikkel’s trust. Surely I could accomplish the feat if I set my mind to it.
Chapter
5
Mikkel
Fire raced up and down my arms as if someone were roasting me alive. I jerked to free myself, but I was trapped in the flames. I lurched again, and this time cold shackles dug into my flesh, waking me from one nightmare and plunging me into another as the memories of my capture came back to me.
“How do you fare, Your Highness?” a voice whispered through the thick darkness.
“Gregor.” I fought off the pain in order to think clearly. “You’re delusional to call me by so great a title.”