He places his hands on my shoulders and turns me so I’m facing him. I relax when I see the openness of his face. There’s no anger there at all, just a kind steadiness.
“You do not need to apologise to me, Cary Sutton. The blame lies on me. I forgot the mirror was out. I shall put it away. But you may safely handle any of the other possessions in my hall.”
“Hall?”
He checks. “House. Sorry. My language is not so good sometimes.”
“You speak English wonderfully.” I grin. “It’s much better than my Norwegian.”
His face clears, and he smiles, but it’s a funny smile, almost wistful. “Come. You shall sit in my kitchen and eat my food. It has been a long time since I had company such as yours.”
“You should really try getting out more.”
He laughs, and it’s such a wonderful sound—loud, robust, and filled with a genuine amusement that makes me feel proud to have caused it. I immediately want to make him do it again and again.
I follow him down the corridors and into a kitchen. As with the rest of his home, it’s luxurious. The oak cupboards look like they’re handmade, and the counters are marble.
Fairy lights have been strung over the tops of the cupboards, and they twinkle merrily. He guides me to a barstool at a huge breakfast bar. “Now you shall seat yourself and be comfortable.”
“Something smells nice,” I say, and my stomach rumbles. It’s loud in the quiet room, and I flush. “Sorry,” I mumble.
He laughs. “Ah, I believe I shall not have to possess much skill preparing food. Anything would satisfy that beast in your belly.”
I snort and watch as he sets a white earthenware mug in front of me. It contains an amber-coloured liquid, and steam wafts over the surface. “What’s this?” I ask.
“’Tis wassail—a warm cider. It is always drunk at Jol. It will put hair on your chest.”
I laugh. “Something my waxer doesnotlike to hear.”
His eyes kindle. “Ah, I like hair on a man.”
“Well, you’re bound to be disappointed in me, then. I’m less hairy than a hippo.”
He roars with laughter, and it’s so infectious that I join him. Then he nods at the drink. “It will warm you until I can.”
I give a mock groan. “Has that line ever worked?”
He winks. “You would be surprised, Cary Sutton.”
“What is Jol?” I take a sip of the cider and moan in pleasure. It’s warm and perfectly spiced.
I look up to find him watching me. His gaze is fastened on my lips, and as I lick them, his eyes flare bright and hot. Then he blinks, and the expression is back to his brand of flirty friendliness. He’s very charming. I know I could have him, but I’m equally sure that if I choose not to, he’ll be a gentleman.
“’Tis the old Norse word for the feasts and celebration of the winter solstice.”
“Pardon?”
His eyes twinkle. “Ah, you asked what Jol is.”
“It sounds like yule.”
He smiles. “That is where it came from. Your English church wrapped the old pagan customs around it like ivy around the yew tree. Intertwined and indistinguishable. The perfect handbook for conquerors.”
He fiddles with his phone and soon Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” plays on a speaker. Then he turns to the hob, where pans are steaming and sizzling. I take another sip of the drink, looking around the kitchen with interest. It’s evident that he enjoys cooking. The room is filled with every gadget you could want, and a wide pot of herbs is flourishing on the windowsill. It’s completely unlike my own kitchen, where herbs lie down and accept their death as soon as they’re planted. I’ve hopefully bought them in little packets, only to find them weeks later in liquid form tucked behind the beer in the fridge.
A bowl is set in front of me, and I stop my nosy perusal of the room to look down. “Stew?”
He nods. “Finnbiff with mashed potatoes and lingonberry jam. I tend to reach for the dishes of my homeland when I’m not concentrating.”
