He smiled, a rare thing of utter beauty. She always felt like his smiles were a special gift just for her. “How much longer?”
“I don’t know. It should be at least another two months. But even with twins…she shouldn’t be this big yet.”
“Are you terribly worried?”
“I’m worried.” She rested her head against his. “I’m definitely worried.”
“You’re already doing the best that you can for her. She can’t ask for more than that. None of us can.”
“I know.”
“She won’t be at dinner tonight. Did anyone tell you?”
“No.” She instantly became concerned. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. Fearghus said she just wanted to lie in tonight. It sounds like few will be down in the Great Hall.”
“All right.”
“So I thought you and I could have dinner up here. Have our own lie in.”
She turned her face toward his, let the feel of his kiss move through her.
“Were you going to wear that dress tonight at dinner?”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized he’d stopped kissing her. She hated when he stopped kissing her.
“This? Uh…I was just trying it on. I wasn’t going to wear it.”
“Let me see.” He pulled away from her. “Go on. I want to see.”
Feeling uncomfortable, she stood and slowly turned to face him. She should never wear red. Her mother had specifically told her she should never wear red. What had she been thinking?
“Back up a bit so I can see the whole dress.”
She took several steps back. “Well?”
“Nice gown. You look amazing in red.”
“I do?”
“Aye.” His gaze swept her from head to foot and back again. “You do.”
Morfyd felt her confidence grow under that gaze. Blossom. “Thank you.”
He stretched out on the bed and let out a wonderfully contented sigh, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s a tragic shame you won’t be wearing it for long, though.”
Walking toward him, her fingers already sliding the sleeves of the dress off her shoulders, she said, “Aye, Brastias. A tragic shame.”
Gwenvael shook his hair out of that stupid braid and began to pace his room.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself, “don’t send Gwenvael. He’ll just muck it up. Useless, worthless Gwenvael.”
From one of his three brothers, Morfyd’s comment could and would have been dismissed. But from either Morfyd or his younger sister, Keita, it hurt. Deeply. For them to think he didn’t take any of this seriously hurt. Annwyl meant the world to him, and he wouldn’t risk her or the twins. So why did his family not see it? Was it because he refused to face every challenge as some grim test to the death? Should he constantly glower at every living thing like Fearghus? Or show nothing but constant disdain like Briec? Or perhaps be constantly wide-eyed and openly earnest like Éibhear? Could his kin only then take him seriously? How, after all these years, could they still not see?
And he refused to hear any longer that it was his “whoring” as his father loved to call it. None of his kin had been monks, though Morfyd was the closest to that ideal than any of the others.
Yet when it was all said and done, it was only Annwyl, a human he hadn’t even known five years, much less two centuries or more, who seemed to understand his worth. Only she had any true faith in him.
Because of that, she would be the reason he would not fail.
A knock pulled him from his rather depressing thoughts—and the gods knew he hated being maudlin—and he walked across the room to open the thick, sturdy wooden door. When he thought about it, most things in the north seemed made of wood and sturdy. Even the people.
Gwenvael blinked down at the servant girl standing in the hallway.
“Aye?” When she frowned, he said, “Yes?”
“I…uh…” She looked him over and shivered a bit before she boldly walked into his room. “Is there something I can help you with, love?”
“I’m a gift,” she said, already pulling off her dress. “A gift for you, my lord.”
Her gaze devoured him. She wanted his cock, but he wasn’t exactly surprised by that.
“Are you now? A gift from whom?”
“The Reinholdt, of course.”
“I see.” Gwenvael walked across the room and leaned his back against the wall by the window, his arms crossed over his chest. “And what kind of gift are you?”
Her dress fell to the floor, and she stood before him confident and beautifully naked.
His body stirred, but that wasn’t surprising either. It had been awhile. Nearly a whole week! And yet—
Gwenvael abruptly pivoted toward the window and watched as Dagmar Reinholdt slipped out of the shadows beside one of the stables, walking away from the fortress gates. She was dressed warmly in a wool cape and gloves, a satchel over her shoulder.
Now where is she going?
He had to admit, he found the Lady Dagmar quite diverting. At dinner she seemed confused by what he was up to, but intrigued—and thoroughly entertained. The image of a cat with hidden claws always seemed to come to mind when he saw her. Especially when he watched those cold, grey eyes look around the room, taking everything in, processing, and sorting what she saw.
So what was a demure Only Daughter to a Northland warlord doing wandering about in the evening?
He had to know!
“My lord?”
Gwenvael scowled at the girl, and she stepped back. To be honest, he’d forgotten she was in the room.
He smoothed over the scowl with a perfectly acceptable smile. The kind he kept for elderly ladies and detestable small children. “Sorry, love. Can’t tonight.”
“What?”
He picked up her dress, pushed it into her arms, and as gently as possible shoved her toward the door.
“I do, however, really appreciate you stopping by. Very nice of you.” He opened the door and pushed her out into the hall. “Tell Lord Sigmar thanks and, uh…nice tits.”
Then he closed the door and locked it. He stripped off his clothes and walked to the window, throwing it open. By the time he slipped outside
