Page 50 of The Cornish Princess
Really, she might be forced to tolerate this creature by her father’s mandate, but this didn’t give him leave to treat her like a misbehaving child. Nor was her schedule subject to his whims.
Rather he answered toher, and despite this, she had seen hide nor hair of him these past two days. She hadn’t intended to inquire overhiswhereabouts, even despite that he hadn’t slept once in her antechamber—and why was no one asking him wherehewas during Bryok’s murder? Gwendolyn last saw Málik during theAwenydd’sprayer, and not again for two days thereafter. He might easily have slipped away after Gwendolyn was abed, and she wondered, meanly, if he was the one who’d mauled poor Bryok to death.
Certainly he could do so with those teeth.
“I should argue thatyouare the one who is late,” she countered. “Where have you been?”
Unsheathing a small dirk from the back of his belt, unconcerned over her inquiry, Málik picked at a bit of dirt beneath his fingernails. “Did you miss me, Princess?”
“The way one misses a rash!”
He laughed in response but re-sheathed his blade. “If you must know, I escorted theAwenyddhome.”
Gwendolyn arched a brow. Well, it was thoughtful of him, for theAwenyddwas ancient, and despite that there were few brigands about these parts, she was ill-equipped to defend herself against any. However, no one ever bothered to tell Gwendolyn, so she said, unsheathing her practice sword, “And you are now her keeper, too?”
“Keeper?” asked Málik with a lifted brow. “This is how you see me?”
And then suddenly, his lips tilted at one corner as his gaze settled on Gwendolyn’s practice sword. “Art still playing with toys, I see.”
Narrowing her eyes, Gwendolyn brandished the sword she’d been using to spar with since she was young, only now regretting her choice, because she saw the telltale twinkle in his ice-blue eyes. She’d chosen this sword because she’d recalled the way he’d swatted the flat of his blade against Bryn’s arm and didn’t relish the thought of more bruises. She’d hoped he would use a practice sword as well. He did not, alas. With one hand, he unsheathed the bastard sword from the scabbard at his back, and brandished it between them, displaying the sharp, gleaming edge. Thereafter, he made a point of turning the blade to reveal the dull edge, and said, “Don’t worry, Princess. I will endeavor to remind myself that you’d rather play with your nursemaid.”
Nursemaid?Gwendolyn constrained herself from snarling at him. Still, her lip curled menacingly. How in the name of the Mother Goddess, had this man risen to such rank with his biting tongue? Did her father not realize how disrespectful he was?
Somehow, he infuriated Gwendolyn beyond reason. It was all she could do not to fly at him and tug out every strand of his lovely silver mane—even loathing that she considered anything about him to be lovely.
Her face burning hot, she could scarcely look at him, but she forced herself to do so—too late. He advanced upon her swiftly, and then, just as he had with Bryn, he popped the flat of his blade against her arm.Hard.
“Oomph!” she cried, and nearly dropped the practice sword as her hand flew to her abused arm. If her sword had been any heavier, she might have twisted her wrist.
Without remorse, he tilted his head, smirking, even as he drew back his sword arm, poised to strike again. His smile broke into a wide grin. This time, open-mouthed, bearing those shining white teeth—teeth that were not entirely even, yet inexplicably perfect. “Unlike your poppet,” he suggested, using her father’s word for Bryn, “I willnevercoddle you.”
Blood and bones.Why must she bear this—why would her father burden her with this man? “Poppet?” she countered, tilting him a narrow-eyed glance, only this time, imagining herself flaying him head to foot. “And by poppet, do you mean one who is dutiful and loyal? Becauseheis.” Loyalty in a Shadow was paramount.
Doubtless her parents kept secrets from one another, even as they kept separate quarters, but neither would dare keep secrets from their Shadows, even were it possible. Nothing escaped their Shadows, not even the most private ministrations, a certainty that unsettled Gwendolyn immensely—thatheshould be privy to her most vulnerable moments was unthinkable.
“Nay, Princess. By poppet, I mean Bryn,” he said, grinning still, and Gwendolyn couldn’t bear it—or him. There was that about his expression that promised, as it would be with swordplay, she would never best him with words—not today, perhaps never.
And still she vowed to try. “On your toes!” she demanded.
Alas, if it was theSidhe’s intent to unsettle her so her performance would suffer, his aim was well and duly satisfied. Not having practiced in more than a fortnight, and with Bryn, who was far, far more lenient, she presented herself poorly, missing every opportunity to best the damnable elf.
Gwendolyn loathed so much that he could reduce her to such hatefulness—that she would revile him for the very thing she most admired—hisfaeblood. Gwendolyn was never hateful, except apparently withhim—this tall blur of hands and feet.
Next to Málik, she found herself ungainly, ungraceful, and entirely unpleasant. To be sure, she could feel her own fury rise like a poison into the back of her throat. And, just for an instant—only an instant—she wished it had been him they’d discovered behind the smelting house. Though suddenly, having envisioned him lying lifeless and mauled before her father’s throne, she felt inexplicably ill.
The sickness manifested itself physically, with a rush of bile that erupted from her lips without grace or forewarning. One minute, she advanced upon her tormentor, sword in hand, and the next she dropped it to cover her mouth, only after spewing the morning’s victuals over Málik’s tunic. A little stunned perhaps, he sidestepped the rejected meal, somehow avoiding the worst of it, but then he, too, cast away his sword, rushing forward to catch Gwendolyn before she could disgrace herself further by planting her face in the dirt.
Dizzied and sick to her belly, the world spun as Málik swept her into his arms, then settled her down on the ground. Much to Gwendolyn’s dismay, she found her head resting on one of his thighs, and one long, muscled arm cradled beneath her to support her back.
Worse, a small crowd of onlookers had formed, everyone waiting for Gwendolyn to rise.
Málik was staring as well, but the concern in his eyes did not match the flippant tone of his voice. “If you did not wish to practice, Princess, you might better have served us both simply by saying so.” His lips remained curved ever so slightly. “I have not feigned illness like this since I was a boy, untried.”
Gods. It wasn’t feigned! But though Gwendolyn hadn’t any explanation for the sudden malady, she resented the overwhelming desire to exonerate herself from his accusation.
She would not, however. Her gaze narrowed on the spot of retch on his tunic, drawing his attention there as well, filling her with chagrin. “I am fine,” she said, lifting her head and rising from his lap. “Not that you asked.”
“What did you eat this morn?”
