Page 23 of The Cornish Princess
A smile tugged at his lips. “Nothing compares,” he said.
Gwendolyn found herself batting her lashes—a ridiculous gesture she had never truly understood until now. “Smoked,” she explained, as he lifted a brow.
“Your hair?” he asked, and Gwendolyn laughed softly.
“Nay, Highness. The cheese!”
His tone shifted now, his voice low and serious. “You must bring some home with you when you come.”
Home.
He lifted another olive to his lips and Gwendolyn watched him eat it, scraping the dark meat from the pit with his straight, white teeth. She blinked, confused, her heart hammering with such vigor. “My hair?”
“Nay,” he said with a chuckle. “The cheese.”
“Oh,” Gwendolyn said, blushing, embarrassed again.Of course.What a silly girl she must seem.“Alas,” she said, “no one in Trevena has this recipe. It comes to us by the northern tribes, although I’m quite certain we can have some exported.”
“Imported,” he corrected, gesturing about the hall with a finger before reaching for her hand and threading his fingers through hers. “Very soon, this will no longer be your home. Any exports we will be fortunate enough to negotiate will be imports for my beautiful queen.”
Beautiful?
Disarmed by the compliment, Gwendolyn hadn’t the heart to rebuke him, because, well… actually… they were meant to rulebothkingdoms, not merely Loegria.
Cornwall wouldalwaysbe Gwendolyn’s home, foremost in her heart.
And yet, he sounded so utterly sincere, and when he flattened her palm against his chest in just such a way, over the beat of his heart, it left her without a voice to protest. The look on his face was so hopeful, so heartfelt, and his lips parted to reveal another blinding, white smile that stole Gwendolyn’s breath. All she could do was smile in return.
“So then,” he asked. “Of which northern tribe do we speak? The land beyond the north winds? Else Prydein?”
“Neither,” said Gwendolyn, eager to regale him with knowledge he might not already have gathered. “From what I am told, they come from the North Seas. Their dragon prows are made to plow through—”
“Ice,” he said with a half-smile. “I was only jesting. We have met the Ostmen—barbarians, garbed in whatever pelts they can find, dogs, if needs must.”
“Oh,” said Gwendolyn, embarrassed again, and to cover her chagrin, she engaged him with a related question. “So, did you meet… these… Ostmen in Loegria?”
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Ériu. After my last sojourn, we took a ship home, captained by a helmsman from Hyperborea.”
“Hyperborea,” she repeated with genuine interest, and he dipped his chin meaningfully. Gwendolyn had never heard of this place, but she didn’t wish to be disagreeable.
“At least to me, he seemed no different from any of the barbarian hordes I’ve met—be they Franks, Suebi, or from the Vandal Kingdom. Every single one has a bent to shout too much, and run about bare-arsed, despite the bitter cold.”
Gwendolyn blinked.
Bare-arsed?
Unwittingly, her thoughts returned to Málik, but not because she considered his bare arse, only wondering how much of hers he’d spied.
Sadly, Gwendolyn had never heard of the Vandal Kingdom either, so she said, “Oh. Yes, I see.” He was quite knowledgeable, and she suddenly found her meager education quite inadequate. Thereafter, she let him talk and sat back to enjoy the evening, pleased enough that it was going so well. At the instant, everyone conversed contentedly as they filled their bellies with the finest of delicacies. Only Málik, supping at one of the lower tables, seemed bored and disengaged, although at least he didn’t appear to be cross.
Rather, his face was again without expression, only now and again flicking glances at the dais to make certain of his undesirable charge—Gwendolyn, naturally.
When she inadvertently caught his gaze, she chafed under his scrutiny, and turned away, though not before wondering if he was alone by choice.
Seated amidst two lords and their ladies, he eschewed conversation as readily as he had his seat at the higher table. Gwendolyn wondered if he knew anyone outside the Elite Guard, and how her father came to employ him. She knew he hadn’t been in residence long—certainly not long enough for Gwendolyn to learn much about him. Everything she knew, she knew from Bryn. Though admittedly, she sometimes watched him from the balustrade when he and Bryn sparred; she had learned a lot about him simply through his choices.
He wasn’t merciful, neither was he lenient. Rather, he was unyielding, tireless, and shrewd. And yet, despite that he was as arrogant a creature as Gwendolyn had ever encountered, there was something intrinsically magical in his movements.
Indeed, for Málik Danann, even a walk down the hall seemed more like a choreographed dance. In like form, the removal of his sword from its sheath was done with grace, and he wielded that weapon with effortless precision.
