Page 44 of Prize for the King
“Yes, there’s no doubt now. You’re hungover. Drink some more tea,and let’s get you dressed. At breakfast, try to eat something greasy, like sausages and bread with lots of butter. That should soak up the alcohol.”
I make a face, not hungry at all, and roll out of bed with Khay’s help. He dresses me quickly with no lingering touches, and we’re out the door in fifteen minutes. Khay carries my new hat with a small brim, and a pair of riding gloves that were included with the dress.
Breakfast is a quiet affair. Magnar welcomes me with a nod, his eyes watchful and bright as he takes me in. I mumble a greeting and down more tea, trying to alleviate the unquenchable thirst burning my throat. Khay sits on my other side and grabs a plate of sausages, serving me.
I sigh as I stare at the pile of food. Eating seems like such a chore today.
“I can feed you,” he says with a small laugh. “Just say the word.”
“She can feed herself,” Magnar snaps. “Caliane is capable and strong. Don’t be a mother hen, Khay.”
I slowly look up at my husband, trying to digest his ridiculous words. Whatever gave him the impression I’m capable? I have no idea, and I blink at him with disbelief until he bops my nose with his finger. My eyes almost cross as I take in his sharp, black claw. It’s the first time I see it up close, and it’s terrifying.
“Eat, darling. You’ll ride with me today.”
“Great,” I mutter, convinced no one will hear me. “More poking.”
When Khay snickers into his plate, I realize I wasn’t as quiet as I intended. Magnar grunts, his hand finding my thigh under the table. He pats it comfortingly, and I sigh, wishing I didn’t feel so wretched.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “It’s no excuse, but I’m not feeling my best today.”
He squeezes my thigh. “No need to apologize, darling. Youdid nothing wrong.”
I glance at him doubtfully, but he doesn’t say anything else, pouring me more tea. I choke down as much food as I can, and shockingly, I do feel better with a few sausages in my stomach.
Vardi sees us off in the courtyard just as the sun peeks over the horizon. When it’s my turn for goodbyes, I try to curtsy, but he holds my hands and bows over them instead. I remember with shame I’m supposed to be a queen. Queens don’t curtsy.
“I’ve allowed myself to add a bottle of my personal hair essence to your bag, my queen,” he says with a smile. “Khay knows how to apply it. Hopefully, it will give you the effect you wish for. Happy travels!”
I thank him dumbly, not having a clue what he meant. When Khay passes, I grab his sleeve.
“What hair essence was Vardi talking about?”
Khay gives me a tight smile. “Oh, I think you complimented his hair last night. Don’t worry about it, my diamond. It was a long night.”
Was it?I frown, following Magnar to his horse. I remember the introductions, and then eating, and then… waking up this morning. It must have been the wine, I realize, as panic slowly claws up my spine. What else did I say? Complimenting a man’s hair is one of the most foolish things a woman can do. What else did I mess up?
When Magnar comes over and gives me a kind smile, I search his face desperately for signs of scorn or hate. Did I shame him somehow? I must have. I can’t behave properly for the life of me, always getting something wrong.
“Everything all right?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing into a frown.
“I’m sorry!” I explode, fear choking me up. “I imagine I was out of line yesterday. I must have embarrassed you. I apologize, and I promise never to drink a drop of wine again. I will do better.”
A shadow passes over his face, dark and menacing, and I take a step back. Magnar heaves a deep breath, purses his lips, and takesmy hand, leaning in until I can look into his eyes without craning my neck. His expression is serious.
“You did nothing wrong,” he says, his voice calm and controlled. “In fact, Vardi and Kirita were delighted by your company. It was a pleasure to sit by your side last night. I’ll admit, I expected you to be aloof, but you were kind and pleasant. I am proud of you for handling it so well.”
He reaches toward my face, his hand soft, and I flinch back with a gasp of dismay.
“You grew up so nicely, my prize. Daddy’s proud of you.”
Magnar frowns, his hand dropping away, and I release a shaky breath as I berate myself in my head. He’s my husband, isn’t he? He has a right to touch me how he pleases.
“I was going to stroke your cheek,” Magnar says, surprisingly calm. “Do you not like it?”
Gods, I don’t know what to say. It’s not that I don’t like it, and even if I didn’t, I can’t tell him that.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, cringing as the words leave my lips. I’ve apologized so many times today. Apologies never fix things, and too many lead to punishments.
