He turns to Sage. “Perhaps you have better sense than my imbecile wife here. What is going on?”
“Lady Gwyneth is feeling unwell, my lord. I am simply helping her. Digestive troubles.” Her eyes dart to me apologetically, and I hope she knows I appreciate her attempt to cover for me.
“It isn’t the first time you’ve beenunwell.” He grinds out the last word as though it disgusts him. I try not to whimper from his grip still on my arm. “Of course, I had to be stuck with damaged goods.” He releases me with a shove, and as if my legs have turned to pudding, I drop to the floor with a small cry.
Gruffud marches out of the kitchen, leaving the door to swing behind him as I get to my knees and rub my throbbing tailbone. Sage’s eyes brim with tears as she hurries to help me to my feet again. “Let me help you back to bed, Lady Gwyneth,” she says. “Though, I can imagine you aren’t in a rush.”
To my surprise, wet laughter rushes from me. “I wouldn’t mind sitting at the table for a moment to gather my bearings, thank you.”
With Sage’s silence to keep me company, I sit at the table until the pain ebbs and my senses begin to numb as though I’ve consumed too much fermented drink. Sage helps me to bed as I drift and stagger, depositing me beside a snoring Gruffud. I whisper my thanks, and before she’s even out of the room, I drift off.
Chapter 12
Since my arrival in Uldarvik,the month has gone by in chaotic, choppy segments. I find myself in places I don’t remember walking to—somehow bathed and groomed, somehow fed. When I’m fully aware of everything happening around me, my appetite is usually absent.
A warm hand on my arm pulls me back to the present. Through squinted eyes, I make out Odgar. His smile is hesitant, worried. How can I blame him when I don’t even know where I am.
Gathering my surroundings, I find that I’m seated at a table in the main room of the Great Hall. Sunlight streams in through multiple windows onto one of the two long wooden tables running parallel to each other, extended benches on either side of them. At the front of the room is a dais with a massive throne-like chair. On the other side is a crackling firepit and half a dozen casks of ale that I’ve secretly gotten into more than I care to admit. Black steel candelabras line the center of each table, and rustic chandeliers hang from the beams in the ceiling, molten wax dripping from them like stalactites.
Briony sits across from me, a deerskin map spread out atop the wooden surface. Briefly, her icy blue eyes flick up and sheoffers me a tentative smile before returning her attention to the map.
“Carys,” Odgar’s voice makes me jump so hard that my arse leaves the wooden bench. Pins and needles travel from my feet, up my legs and thighs. How long have I been sitting here? When did I even get here? My heart flails in my chest, my throat too tight all of a sudden.
“Carys?”
“Hmm?” I tear my focus away from Briony, who seems to be deliberately averting her gaze.
“This is my sister, Valdis,” Odgar says. It takes me a moment to notice the tall woman standing right beside him. She’s garbed in a dress of blue wool, with a series of leather belts looped around her waist. A leather pouch and a bulbous bottle are fastened against the accentuated curve of her hip.
Her sapphire eyes regard me as I glimpse the large, purplish-red patch against the fair skin on the right side of her face. Strands of her blond hair have escaped from an intricate labyrinth of braids to fall in loose waves. She props a fist on her hip, a leather satchel clutched in her fingers.
Fluent Uldaran tumbles from her lips before she seems to come to her senses. “Nice to meet you,” she says.
This is theprincessof Uldarvik. I scramble to stand, but Valdis’s brows draw together, her lips tugging down in a way that makes the purplish patch on her face pull. “You don’t have to get up. No fancy rules here, Princess.” Her voice has a low, sensuous quality to it—authoritative and confident, yet I’d bet my arse that she could calm a wild bear with one spoken word.
“Then you can call me Carys,” I say.
Odgar shifts on his feet, and I spot the bow in his hand and the quiver of arrows peeking over his shoulder on the opposite side from his battle-axe.
“Were you … out hunting?” I ask.
The concern on his face is poorly masked by an attempted smile. “No, but I thoughtwecould go hunting together.”
I look at him as though he’s lost his mind while a vision of me lying on the hard floor resurfaces in my mind.
Me … lying on the floor? I blink, my hand shaking as it drifts up to my sweaty neck. I clutch the suffocating neckline of this ridiculous wool dress, tugging it away from my skin.
“I’ve seen your skills with a bow and arrow,” Odgar says, speaking far louder than necessary.
I glare at him.
“How good are you at shooting a moving target?” His voice is an acceptable volume now. “The fresh air may do you well. Keep you present.”
His grip on the bow looks so hard, I fear it’ll snap in half. But his brows are cinched together, and his eyes are filled with worry.
Overflowing auroch horns of fermented drink fill my mind. Cheers. Dizzying kisses from … not Odgar. I even remember the taste of a woman’s lips—honeyed mead and apples. Gods. I hope kisses were as far as things got.
What have I done?
