A toasty brown bun, its crust split open and a dollop of butter melting inside its steamy white fluffiness, appeared in his palm, filling the air with the warm, yeasty, mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread.
She swallowed hard, about to drown in her own drool, but refused to take it. It had to be some sort of trick.
“Dinna be stubborn, lass.” He clicked his tongue like an affectionate parent as he inched the offering closer. “There is nothing to fear. ’Tis one of Cook’s best well-fired rolls. She bakes them fresh daily.”
Lyla's stomach rumbled again. Even louder than before. “What’s the catch?”
He snorted like a disgruntled bull, but didn’t back away. “I dinna wish ye to suffer with hunger. Where is the trap in that?”
“I’m not ungrateful.” She scooped the tempting knot of bread out of his hand, trying to take it without brushing against his skin. An unnerving electricity tingled through her each time they made physical contact, and she’d given up on trying to convince herself it was nothing more than static. She tore into the bun’s soft butteriness and shoved a bite into her mouth. “Thank you,” she said around the steaming hot mouthful of deliciousness. A delighted groan escaped her before she could stop it, so she just went with it. “This is so good. Bread fresh from the oven is my weakness.”
His scowl softened. A knowing smugness made him even more irresistible—if that was possible.
She blinked the disturbing feeling away and concentrated on the roll, licking the butter drippings from her fingers and wiping her chin on a corner of the blanket. “Thank you,” she repeated after swallowing the last bite. “I hadn’t eaten today.”
He gave her a regal nod, making it quite easy to see him as the ruler he claimed he was. “I will always take care of ye, my lady. Always.” Then he rose from kneeling. Before stepping away from her, he tenderly trailed his fingertips along the curve of her cheek. “We could know so much happiness here.” Then he flinched and gave her such a pained look, she couldn’t helpbut wonder what had hurt him. “Many lives depend on that happiness as well.”
“Many lives depend on what happiness?” He’d already overloaded her with unbelievable information. What else did he have to tell her? This had to be a dream. Or maybe she’d been hurt when that cave collapsed, and this was some sort of coma-induced hallucination. “Whose lives? Whose happiness?”
“Our happiness and the lives of those of the Thirteenth Realm.” He turned away with surprising abruptness and picked up her glass. “Ye need more ale. Or would ye now prefer something stronger?”
“I don’t think I need anything stronger, thank you. In fact, water would probably be better than ale.” While she found herself trusting him, she wasn’t all that certain she trusted herself. He was so powerfully tempting, and so sure to be a bad decision she would later regret. “By the way, do you have any idea when I might get my robe back?” A physical wall of clothing would be really helpful right now, much more helpful than a blanket, even if it was something as intimate as a spa robe.
“Albionna has a wardrobe waiting for ye in my dressing room where she waits to help ye with yer evening bath.” He handed her the same goblet as before, but this time it held the sweetest spring water she’d ever tasted.
Who was this Albionna and how had the womanreadiedher a wardrobe? Lyla took another sip of water and wondered if she was fighting this battle the wrong way. Maybe a stronger drink would help her sort out the craziness of this rabbit hole. After all, nothing else made sense. Why would sobriety? She finished the water and held out the glass. “A whisky chaser would be nice, please.”
He barely tilted his head to one side. “Achaser?”
“A whisky to chase the water I just drank.”
His face lit up with understanding. “Aye, lass. A whisky it is.” He took her glass and returned to the liquor cabinet. Even though he’d probably stood with his back to her before, this was the first time she noticed the unusual tattoo that covered his right shoulder and swept around his right side. Lightning-filled clouds with an almost three-dimensional effect of light and dark played along the lines of his massive warrior’s frame. The intricate storm swept across half his body, and at its center was the silhouette of a mighty dragon with its wings spread in flight.
“Nice ink,” she said without thinking. From the look he gave her, she had confused him again. Why did they have so much trouble communicating? They both spoke English. “Your tattoo?” She patted her right shoulder and almost dropped the blanket. “The picture on your back. Do they not call them ink or tattoos here?”
He twitched his right shoulder. “I bear the mark of the ruler. Only the chief bears such markings. It is placed upon us by our soul’s brethren when we assume the responsibility of leadership.”
Now she was the one confused. “Your soul’s brethren?”
“Aye.” A sudden leeriness shouted from him. He squared his shoulders as if bracing himself for her reaction. “Our soul’s brethren are kindred to us. Our spiritual twin. We are connected by our ethereal selves rather than by our physical selves and by blood.”
“I see.” No, she didn’t really see, but what else could she say? And deep down, something told her he wouldn’t tell her any more than he already had. Besides, there was still the matter of getting dressed and this person who felt the need to bathe her. “Uhm…I appreciate Albionna’s willingness to help, but I know how to bathe myself. In fact, I just took one this morning. I’m sure I’ll be fine if I could just have something to throw on besides a blanket.”
“Ye are my mate. The lady of Kindred Fortress. Ye shall be served and dressed as ye deserve.”
The more information she got, the less she understood. “Could I just have some clothes, please?” Dressed, she stood a better chance of surviving when she escaped, because escape she would. She was not staying here for fourteen days and nights.
He locked eyes with her, pinning her with his gaze. “Ye will not leave here, Lyla. Not until I have had my fortnight to convince ye this is where ye belong.”
Was she that easy to read? Or, with all the other strangeness of this place, was he able to read her mind? “I don’t belong here,” she said with the firmness she used whenever teaching music, dealing with lawyers, or negotiating contracts with Jana.
“Ye dinna ken that. Not yet.” He handed her the whisky and nodded at the glass. “My best vintage. Go slow with it, aye? ’Tis aptly named Dragon’s Breath.”
Easily taking in the drink’s potency with a hesitant whiff of its fumes, she risked a tiny sip, held it on her tongue for a flesh-searing half second, then debated whether to swallow the lava or spit it back in the cup. “Hot,” she gasped while struggling to breathe through the burn trailing down her throat and pooling in her stomach.
Magnus covered her mouth with his and gently pulled her to his chest, wrapping his arms around her. The fiery trail of the whisky disappeared, turning as mild and sweet as warmed honey and settling in her as cozily as summer wine. Then a different heat, a deliciously aching heat, made her forget about the whisky.
Before she realized it, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself tighter into his embrace.
