“It is a way of saying whatever we may wish without using our words.” He gestures as he talks, his face lively, his eyes sparkling. “I cook for someone as a means of expressing my thanks for their company, as a well-wish for their safety on a long journey home, as a good morning, a good evening, or to break our fast after a long, hard night.”
My mouth goes dry at the thought of what a night with him would entail, but I make myself shrug. “Sometimes it’s just cheaper on your grocery bill to say the words.”
He gives a great booming laugh, and my mouth ticks upward. It’s such a contagious, merry sound. “Mayhap you are right.” He wrinkles his nose. “But I sincerely hope you are not.” He gestures up the beach. “Come, I shall cook for you.”
“What?”
“You have not eaten, and you are too thin.” He hesitates. “I would beg your pardon. I gather that is not an acceptable thing to observe in these times.”
What an odd way of putting it. “Well, it’s not really done, but don’t worry about it. I know I’m thin.”
“Nevertheless, I beg your pardon.”
His words are serious, and I repress a smile. “Granted.”
His own smile emerging again like the sun from behind a cloud is my reward. “Excellent. So, shall we go?”
“Go? Go where?”
“To my dwelling. I shall prepare your luncheon.”
His way of speaking is a little odd—slightly old-fashioned. Maybe it’s because English isn’t his first language. I had a friend at uni who learnt most of his language from BBC historical dramas. On his posh days, he ended up sounding like Mr Darcy. Maybe this man has done the same thing.
I realise he’s waiting for a reply and hesitate. “I shouldn’t,” I finally say with a great deal of regret. “I don’t know you at all. It would be a bit stupid to wander off with you.”
I half expect him to be offended and strangely dread the moment when he’ll leave me be. This is the most interesting meeting I’ve had in my life.
However, he just looks at me curiously, his eyes interested and so engaged that they make me blink. No man whom I’ve just met looks at me like this—like I’m fascinating. They’re usually just intent on getting to the part where they can bend me over the nearest surface. Not that I’m complaining, but this is novel.
“Mayhap you are right,” he decides. “We should get to know one another.” He lowers himself gracefully to sit on a low rock and gestures for me to do the same. I hesitate for a second and then sit down a lot less gracefully than he does. The rock is warm beneath my bum and smooth as if worn down by the sea and the passage of time.
He shifts, moving his body a little closer, and I can feel the warmth emanating from him. He smells of salt and bare skin. I look up, and his face is startlingly close to mine. So close I can see the freckles on his nose. They’re surprisingly charming on such a strong male face.
“I am Sigurd Arvesen,” he says, his voice hoarse.
The sound of his name fills me with sudden warmth, and it takes me a moment to remember to speak. “Oh, are you from Scandinavia? Your accent is beautiful.”
He’s watching my mouth move, and the heat is unmistakable in his eyes. Then he smiles. His teeth are white and straight, but his incisors are a little long, making his grin crooked and all the more attractive. “Thank you. I am from Norveg.”
“Norway?” I say tentatively.
He nods. “Yes, I came from the Nororlond—the northern lands.”
“Have you been in England long?”
His eyes twinkle with merriment, as if at a secret joke. “You could say that,” he says gravely. “Many years have passed since I came to this land and met the Englar.”
“Oh, are you an exchange student?”
I have the sudden impression that he’s laughing at me, but it doesn’t rile me up the way that cruel humour would do. It seems like a joke he would love to share with me if only he could. It’s inviting and merry.
“I have been a student of the Englar for many years, and yet still you surprise me. Mayhap that is why I have stayed.”
Silence falls, and I feel a smile dawn on my face, wide and flirty. “Well, it is very nice to meet you, Sigurd. My name is Cary Sutton.”
“Cary,” he says, his accent making the name sound exotic. “That is a nice name.”
“Thank you. It was entirely my mother’s fault. She was addicted toThe Princess Bride.”
