The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(68)
“It is a good thing northern princesses prefer men with short hair,” a woman says. “Otherwise, I don’t think she would agree to marry you. You are a disgrace!”
Laughter spills out of a partially open door, along with the maddening scent of bacon. It is my overwhelming desire for food that gives me the courage to push the door open and step inside—barefoot, with rumpled and slept-in clothes, and unbrushed hair.
The kitchen is huge—more of a great hall, really—with a wide hearth, iron stove, and water pump for the food preparation, and a table big enough to seat Enzio, Golmarr, Golmarr’s father, his eight brothers, and their wives. Those who don’t have room at the table—mainly children—are sitting on benches pushed up against the wall, and everyone is eating.
Golmarr’s eyes are on the door, like he’s been watching for me, so the moment I step inside, he stops laughing and stands. “Speaking of knife-wielding, hair-chopping, skirt-hacking northern princesses,” he says, “it is my pleasure to formally introduce you, once again, to Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara.”
My eyes grow round with horror, and I shake my head and point to my slept-in clothing. I am most definitely not attired properly to be presented to his entire family. But Golmarr simply smiles.
At my hesitation, King Marrkul hastily stands from the head of the table and motions to his chair, which is beside Golmarr’s. “Please, have a seat and fill your belly, Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says.
Holding my limp skirt in my hands, I curtsy to him and search for the proper response to give to the ruler of a neighboring kingdom. “Thank you, sir, but I cannot take your chair. You are the king!”
He waves his hand dismissively. “Nonsense. A king I might be, but shortly I will be your father as well. And I treasure my daughters-in-law.”
A small smile cracks through my reserve. “Thank you,” I say, and walk across the cool wood floor to the chair at the head of the table.
One of the women, dressed in brown leather pants and a green tunic, hurries over to the stove with a clean plate. A moment later she places it before me, and I recognize her. It is Jayah, the wife of Ingvar. She has loaded fried potatoes, bacon, and eggs so high, I cannot see the glazed plate beneath.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods. “There’s more if you finish that.”
A hand finds mine beneath the table—warm fingers against my cold ones. “Good morning,” Golmarr says. He is clean and shaven. His clothes are fresh, and his hair is brushed. The mere sight of him makes my heart beat a little faster, and I tighten my fingers on his.
I start eating, with my free hand in Golmarr’s, and listen as he tells of more of our adventures, embellishing them and making them funny in the retelling, like when he came running over to save me from the burly mercenary when we were fighting in the Satari wagon camp. Only, before he could impress me with his fighting skills and perform his knightly duty by killing the fiend, the vile man started to totter forward and back like a chopped tree, falling dead with his nose on the toes of my red leather shoes. “She had already saved herself,” he adds, shrugging.
Golmarr’s family burst into laughter, but I can barely muster up a weak smile. The memory is still too fresh for me to see the humor in it.
“Have you kissed her yet?” one of the older children asks—a boy with raven-black hair and the long, gangly legs and arms that are an indicator of an upcoming growth spurt.
Golmarr’s eyebrows shoot up and he looks at me. “I didn’t have to. She kissed me,” he says. “And in front of the entire camp of Satari forest dwellers, no less!”
I gasp and glare at Golmarr. “The only reason I kissed you in front of them is because you told me if I didn’t, they might try to kill us.” I turn and look at his amused brothers and sisters-in-law. “I figured if I could be sacrificed to a fire-breathing dragon and live, my chances at surviving the kiss of a horse lord were probably pretty good.”
His family starts laughing so hard the table shakes. When they quiet down, Golmarr adds, “I am starting to think the stories we hear about the reserved and refined northern princesses of Faodara are tales made to hide their true colors.”
Yerengul, sitting directly across the table from me, lifts his hand, and the room grows quiet. “Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says, “you wouldn’t happen to have any single sisters, would you? Because I am in need of a wife who can give the teasing as well as she takes it, and if she’s beautiful and knows how to fight, all the better.”
The laughter is back. Golmarr presses a quick kiss to my cheek, and I eat as he continues telling his family of our adventures.
I spend the rest of the morning soaking in a tub and scrubbing my hair and body by myself for the first time in my life. When I am clean, I dress in a short-sleeve black tunic and light blue skirt embroidered with black vines—clothes left for me by Golmarr. The skirt is sewn with a hem so wide, I already know that if I sit astride a horse while wearing it, there will be enough fabric to span the horse’s back while still covering my legs down to my ankles.
I fasten a narrow black belt around my waist and put on a pair of gray embossed-leather boots. Pulling my hair over my shoulder, I brush it and then braid it.
When I step from the bathing room into the hall, Golmarr is waiting for me. He looks me over and frowns. “Tell me this is real,” he says, stepping in front of me.