Ensnared (Knights of Brethren #3)(22)
“I already know how that story ends.” I managed to walk calmly away.
The ropes holding up the mattress squeaked as Gunnar flopped onto the bed beside the girls. He grunted playfully, and they giggled, enjoying every second of his attention. If only their own father loved them and wanted to be with them. But Bernhard had never visited the girls in the nursery, not once in their short lives. Sofia came occasionally, but even then, she didn’t stay long and was usually distracted.
“Eat, Nanna,” I admonished as I lowered myself to the bench across from her and took another bite of my custard.
She stared down at her dish, untouched.
Gunnar had started his story, his voice as animated as I’d remembered. I chanced a glance toward the bed to the sight of his nieces curled against him, one under each arm. His broad shoulders were relaxed, his head back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, as comfortable as if he’d been telling stories to little girls his whole life.
My insides twisted with a strange need I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge before, but that had been there regardless—the need to have my own babies. I wanted them to have a father just like Gunnar who didn’t shy away from showing them attention, who cherished the women in his life.
Would Frans be that kind of father?
The question popped into my thoughts unbidden. Yes, Frans would be a good husband and father. Of that I had no doubt. But I could never picture him crawling into bed with our children, snuggling with them, and telling them stories.
Not that Frans needed to do that. . . .
I focused on my custard, savoring another bite. Frans was as different from Gunnar as pottage was from custard. While pottage might be bland at times, it was sturdy and filling and a hearty meal. Custard might be sweet, but it wouldn’t provide sustenance for a lifetime, was instead a special treat, here today and gone tomorrow.
All the more reason why I needed to keep my attention upon Frans and work on loving him, so that I could speak the words to him honestly and gain the bride price money by the time Gunnar was ready to leave Romsdal.
Nanna finally slipped her spoon into the custard and lifted a small bite into her mouth. Was she worried someone would catch us eating food that wasn’t ours? As she ate it and swallowed, I offered what I hoped was an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry. Gunnar will keep us safe.”
She nodded but didn’t smile in return. “I hope you’re right, Mikaela-girl. I hope you’re right.”
I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect night, sitting next to the warmth of the fire, eating custard, and listening to Gunnar spin a tale about an enchanting huldra, a daring and brave woman who helped the knight escape from a troll who’d locked him away as his prisoner.
As the tale came to an end, Gunnar tickled and teased the girls, and I wasn’t able to stop smiling as I watched them together. Their girly voices mingled with Gunnar’s deep one. Their delicate faces were wreathed with delight below his tender one, their light blond heads contrasting with his dark hair. The sight left me nearly breathless with more of the strange need.
When Nanna squeezed my arm and asked me to go to the kitchen to retrieve a cup of warm mead to ease the aching in her chest, I left reluctantly. And even though I hurried, by the time I returned, Gunnar was gone, along with all traces of the custard.
Chapter
9
Gunnar
Torvald finished reading the missive then let it fall to the floor while burying his face in his hands.
“Well?” I crossed to him and propped my foot on the bench beside him. At the early morning hour, neither of us had finished dressing and wore naught but our tunics and leggings.
Our chambers were next door to each other, and when a messenger had arrived breathless and disheveled from riding all night to deliver a letter to Torvald, I’d barged into his room. Only bad news came with such great haste, and I wanted to be present for my friend as the blow felled him.
My muscles tensed at the waiting. I wasn’t by nature a patient man, but I forced myself to let Torvald tell me when he was ready.
The light of dawn making its way through the open window touched upon his bent head, highlighting his dejection. The air was cold, but in the months of traveling together, I’d learned Torvald preferred the cold and liked to slumber with his window open as oft as possible.
“’Tis news from home.” His voice was so low I could hardly hear him.
“Your father?” Torvald rarely shared personal information about his family, but I knew enough. His father was frail and growing ever weaker, and a rift existed in the father-son relationship although I wasn’t sure why. “Is he worse?”
Torvald released a sigh that was laden with immense sorrow. “’Tis a sickness of mind.”
My thoughts spun back to the condition of King Ulrik last autumn when his mental faculties had deteriorated. The king had acted irrationally, impulsively, and put himself and the kingdom in danger. Was Torvald’s father making rash decisions now too?
“He has called me home.” Torvald spoke as if he’d been issued a death sentence.
I wanted to blurt out that Torvald need only write back and tell his father he was too busy, that he was on an important mission for the king. But again, I waited, wanting to support Torvald in whatever decision he made without putting undue pressure upon him.