Christine Rimmer - Dark, Devastating & Delicious! - The Marriage Medallion / Between Duty and Desire / Driven to Distraction

As she debated how to begin, he watched her. She found his hooded gaze unnerving. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Like what, precisely?”

She wished she hadn’t asked. “Never mind.”

He stood and came closer, until he loomed over her, his deep-set eyes lost in the shadows beneath the shelf of his brow. She stared up at those shadowed eyes and wished he hadn’t come so near. She felt like a total wimp, lying there in somebody else’s nightgown, weak and shaky and flat on her back.

She sat up—fast enough that her head spun and pain sliced through her shoulder. “Listen.”

“Yes?”

His shoulder-length ash-brown hair had a slight curl to it. He wore it loose, though it seemed it had been tied back—in the fjord and that time he stood over her when she was so sick. Now it looked just-combed, smooth and shiny. He smelled of the outdoors, fresh and piney and cool. She didn’t want to think about what she smelled like. She clutched the furs close to her breast, as if they might protect her from his probing eyes. “Look. I just wanted to talk to you about… well, I mean, my brother…” She waited. Maybe he’d give it up, tell her the truth that everyone kept denying. Maybe he would see in her eyes how badly she needed confirmation that Valbrand lived.

Maybe he would realize that she could be trusted.

But it wasn’t happening. He said nothing. She let out a low groan of frustration. “Can we skip the lies and evasions, please? Will you just let me speak with my brother?”

His mouth softened. He lifted his head a fraction, and the lamplight melted the shadows that hid his eyes.

Kind. His eyes were kind. They gleamed with sympathy. She hated that—his sympathy. It made her doubt what she knew in her heart. And it made her soften toward him. She didn’t need softening. She was weak enough already.

He spoke so gently, each word uttered with great care. “You must accept that your brother is dead.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Brit clutched the furs tighter and wished she didn’t feel so tired. She wanted to keep after him, to break him down, to get him to admit what they both knew was true. But how?

Her mind felt thick and slow. Weariness dragged at her. All he had to do was stay kind and steady—and keep on with the denials. Eventually she would have to give up and go back to sleep.

She spoke softly, pleadingly, though it galled her to do it. “I saw him. In the fjord, with you, I’m sure of it, though then he was wearing a mask—but here, when I was sick, I saw his face. Please stop lying. Please stop implying that I was too sick and confused to know what I saw. Please admit—”

“I cannot admit what never happened.” His deep, rich voice was weighted with just the right measure of regret. He seemed so sincere. She could almost begin to believe he spoke the truth. And to doubt what her eyes had seen…

“He was here. I know it.”

Gently, so regretfully, he shook his head.

She swallowed. Her mouth was so dry.

And this was a subject better pursued when she was stronger. “I wonder. Would you mind getting me some water?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

He went to the sink. While he pumped the water she tried to come up with some new approach, some brilliant line of questioning that would make him open up to her. She drew a complete blank.

And he was back with a full cup. “Do you need help?”

“Thanks. I can manage.” She held out her hand, pleased to see that it hardly shook at all. He passed her the cup. She drank long and deep, sighing when she finished.

He was watching, the slightest of smiles tipping the corners of his mouth. “Good?”

“Wonderful.”

“More?”

“I would appreciate it.” She held out the cup. Their fingers brushed as he took it from her. It seemed, for some reason, a far too intimate contact. He went to the sink again and she watched him go. He wore heavy tan trousers, mountain boots and an oatmeal-colored thermal shirt. He had a great butt. He also carried himself proudly—like the king everyone thought he might someday be now they all believed that Valbrand was gone.

In Gullandria, succession was never assured. All male jarl, or nobles, were princes. Any prince might put himself forward as a candidate for king when the current king could no longer rule and the jarl gathered in the Grand Assembly for the election ceremony known as the kingmaking.

Since childhood, Eric had been groomed, not for the throne, but to one day take his father’s place as grand counselor. It had been Valbrand, everyone felt certain, who would win the throne. King Osrik was a respected and effective ruler. The country had prospered during his reign. And the people loved Valbrand. That made him the logical next choice.

But then Valbrand went to sea and didn’t come back. And Osrik and Medwyn turned their sights to Eric as the one to claim the crown when the time came. The two had schemed shamelessly. Eric, they decided, should marry one of Osrik’s estranged daughters….

The potential king in question had reached the sink. He stood with his back to her, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, regal even from the rear, pumping water into her cup.

Brit allowed herself a wide grin.

Her father and Medwyn’s schemes kept backfiring. Elli had fallen in love with the man they’d sent to kidnap her. And on Elli’s wedding night, Liv had dallied with the notorious Prince Finn Danelaw. She’d become pregnant as a result. And Eric? After months spent in search of the truth about Valbrand’s supposed death, Eric had come here, to the Vildelund. He’d resisted his father’s repeated requests that he return to the palace and begin preparing for his future as king.

Yes, Brit knew that her father and Medwyn considered her next in line to be Eric’s bride. But she’d made it clear to them that romance wasn’t on her agenda. She was after the truth about Valbrand. Period.

King Osrik and Medwyn had said they accepted that. And if they didn’t, so what? Her father and his grand counselor could plot and plan to their heart’s content. She had a goal. Marrying Eric Greyfell wasn’t it.

“Brit?”

She blinked. Eric was standing right over her, holding the full cup. “Oh, uh, sorry. Just woolgathering.” He wore an expectant look. Maybe he didn’t get her meaning. “Woolgathering is an expression. It means—”

“Purposeless thinking.” Those deep-set eyes gleamed. “Aimless reverie. The word is derived from the actual process of woolgathering, which entails wandering the countryside, gathering up bits of wool from bushes that karavik—sheep—have brushed up against.”

“Very good.”

“And where, exactly, did your woolgathering take you?”

She took the cup again and sipped. She was stalling. She really didn’t feel up to going into it—especially since it would only lead to the part about how their fathers hoped they’d hook up. “It’s not important.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you.”

“Then we’re even, aren’t we?” She drank the last and handed back the empty cup. “You know what? I’m really tired. I appreciate your coming and talking to me.” She stretched out and pulled up the furs. “You don’t have to stay until your aunt gets back. I’ll be fine, I promise.” She snuggled down deeper and shut her eyes. Sleep came almost instantly.

Eric stood over Valbrand’s youngest sister and watched her face soften as she drifted into the land of dreams. She had great courage. She’d sought him out in the wild land of his birth, alone but for a single guide to show her the way. She’d lived through the crash that had killed her guide, emerging unaided from the wreckage of her plane, armed and ready to face whatever waited outside. She possessed spirit and stamina—few survived a hit from a renegade’s poisoned arrow. And he liked her fine, quick mind.