My mind blanked and a too-hot haze covered every inch of my skin. I had expectations and hopes and something like desire blooming inside me, but as hastily as he had kissed me, he retreated.
This time when I struggled for breath it was out of frustration.
“Sir?”
I swallowed down a new wave of embarrassment and followed Arrick’s gaze to one of his men. Arrick looked as discomfited as I felt and I reveled in the red flush covering his neck. “Yes, Dravon?”
“The meal is ready,” Dravon answered stonily. His eyes darted to mine briefly before returning to Arrick’s. “If you are.”
“I am.” Arrick cleared his throat and straightened his tunic, even though it wasn’t askew. “I’m ready. Feed the people. Don’t wait for me.”
Dravon nodded, “As you wish.”
Arrick didn’t hesitate. He held out his arm, indicating that I should take it. “Shall we eat?”
My mind flashed back to my past life, the one before chaos and grief and pain. I hadn’t taken a boy’s arm in years. Since I was a child.
I hadn’t been the recipient of manners this courtly since… I reached up to touch the gemstones dangling around my neck, the sense that I was missing something stirring inside me once more.
“What are you doing?” I asked him, wondering why he stood there like a chicken with his arm cocked at the elbow, frozen in mid flap.
“I’m supposed to do this,” he sighed. He played with the finery draped over his shoulders. “My father told me.”
“Well your father doesn’t know everything,” I argued. “You look like a lost chicken.”
He growled at me, but then his blue eyes lit with victory. “There,” he pointed at my father as he mirrored the gesture to my mother. She linked her arm in his and he led her off toward the dining room. “See?”
I glanced down at the shimmering gold of my gown. It would stand out against the stately blue of his tunic. But I liked that.
Trying my best to mimic my mother, I slipped my arm through his and nibbled on my bottom lip in an effort to keep from smiling.
He stared at me with wonder, his bright eyes dancing with confusion. “That feels…”
“Strange?” I whispered, hating that my stomach seemed to plunge to my toes.
He shook his head. “No, Tessa. That feels nice.”
“Tess?” Arrick asked, still holding his arm out to me much like the little boy in my memory.
“Thank you.” I linked my arm with his and ignored the bubble of warmth fizzing through me and that buzz of something sharper, something I was not yet ready to discover.
Dinner was an extravagant affair compared to even the hearty meals of the rebel army. The Cavolian women cooked with spices I had never tasted before. The bold flavors burned my tongue and boiled in my blood, but everything was delicious.
The stew contained root vegetables and hunks of wild elken. They served flat bread with a dusting of spices followed by a sweet mead that washed everything down.
By the time supper was finished, I felt dazed, warm, and full.
I tried to help the women clear the dishes and wash out the soup caldron, but they shooed me away in a language I didn’t understand. Finding Oliver propped against sacks of potatoes near the fire, I slid down next to him and smiled at the flames so different from the ones we encountered yesterday.
“I have never tasted mead this sweet before,” Oliver declared loudly.
I grinned at his wild eyes and ruddy cheeks. “Did you have your fill of it?”
He held up a wineskin, sloshing some of the honey colored liquid onto his lap. “Never!”
Reaching for the skin, I laughed when he held it out of reach with his long arms. “Woman,” he slurred. “You may be royalty, but that does not give you the right to my mead.”
“Oliver!” I abandoned my quest for his drink in order to make sure we were out of hearing distance from anyone else.
