Ensnared (Knights of Brethren #3)(6)

But he did none of those things. Instead, he bent in and captured the woman’s mouth in another kiss. Another ardent kiss. One so ardent he forgot—or didn’t care—I was there.

Still too stunned to move, I gaped several moments more before reality grabbed and shook me awake. If he expected me to run away sobbing and heartbroken, he didn’t know me well enough. I marched toward him and stopped when I was directly in front of him.

The woman, a noblewoman I’d seen around the castle from time to time, was the first to pull away, scowling at me. I used the interlude to slap Gunnar on the cheek. Then without a word, I spun and stalked away without looking back.

I hadn’t seen him since.

While I’d learned the kiss at the hot spring hadn’t meant anything to him, it had been my first and only. And I despised myself for thinking about it, thinking about him.

“’Tis fresh on my mind because he’s here,” I murmured. I just needed to endure the next few days or weeks. Then once Gunnar was gone, I wouldn’t have to see him for another five years, ten if I was lucky.

I pushed back under the water, giving myself over to the comforting heat, trying to reassure my soul that all would be well. As I came up for another breath of air, the cold temperature greeted me. Wafts of steam rose all over the pond, keeping my skin and hair from freezing.

“And the reason I haven’t invited Frans here is because he wouldn’t consider it chaste.” My whispered statement sounded false the moment I spoke it aloud. “I love spending time with him. I really do.”

“You love spending time with Frans?” The question came from behind me. Gunnar. And his tone was laced with humor. “I find that difficult to imagine.”

I stiffened but didn’t turn. Had he noticed me in the gathering at the cliff when he’d ridden up? And had he sent one of his squires to follow me? Were those the footsteps I’d heard a short while ago?

Whatever the case, I’d ignore Gunnar. He didn’t deserve an answer from me. In fact, he didn’t deserve to even talk to me. I needed to simply get up and walk away.

I started to rise, glanced down at my shift, then sank lower into the water to cover myself. No. I wouldn’t be able to get up and walk away with any dignity in a wet shift. I was stuck waiting until he left.

“Frans isn’t the man you need.” Gunnar spoke with a confidence that only made my muscles tense.

“Why are you here?” I let my irritation edge each word. “Go away.”





Chapter

3





Gunnar


Mikaela had every right to hate me.

I was a scoundrel, blackguard, knave, ruffian, weasel, glutton, idiot, fool . . . if there was any other derogatory term I’d missed, I was that as well.

Sitting in the hot spring, her spine was as rigid as a brick wall. “I have no wish to speak with a miscreant.”

Miscreant. Of course. One more name to add to my lengthy list of faults—a list I took responsibility for in the fullest.

I sat back on my boot heels, unable to tear my gaze from her.

Her hair was loose and longer than I remembered, hanging almost to her waist. Even wet, it was a luxurious brown the color of the fox fur that trimmed my cloak. And though I couldn’t see her eyes, they rivaled her hair in richness, except the brown was an ever-changing hue, sometimes light and playful and at others deep and dark.

I imagined right now the color resembled a dangerous rocky valley—one I had no right to cross, but one I wanted to bridge, nonetheless.

“Frans will never make you happy.” The words were out before I could stop them. And why should I stop them? All it had taken was a few discreet inquiries by my squire, and I’d learned Mikaela wasn’t yet married, not even betrothed, but that she and Frans had been making plans for a future together.

“Frans already makes me happy.” Her tone was as sassy as always, one of the many qualities that had drawn me to her the last summer I’d been home.

“Frans is much too serious and steady for you.”

“And who crowned you the expert matchmaker?”

“I did.”

“You need to lose your crown. Better yet, lose your head.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. This was what I’d missed. Her sharp wit, her unbridled tongue, her ability to speak her mind. Even when we were playmates as children, she’d regarded me as an ordinary and normal friend, never deferring to me or bowing to my wishes.

I’d grown too accustomed to women telling me what they thought I wanted to hear. And Mikaela’s refusal to impress me was like a refreshing spring breeze blowing through the clutter in my heart and mind.

She’d always drawn me like no other. Even though I’d tried to resist for her sake.

If only Torvald and I had discovered the sacred chalice by now, then I wouldn’t be here putting her at risk.

But no amount of searching for the relic last autumn and winter throughout the abbeys and Stavekirches of the Richlande Lowlands had produced any leads. This spring we’d broadened our investigation to the Moors of Many Lakes, working our way steadily north.

Even though I’d vowed I would never return, I’d had no choice but to direct my steed toward home when Maxim and Princess Elinor, the wisest advisors in the land, uncovered clues that pointed to the chalice’s location in the vicinity of Romsdal.