‘‘What can I tell you? I was born in Gullandria and Osrik Thorson is my father. Scheming comes as naturally to me as… tying people up does to you.’’ She drank and set the empty glass down.
He said, thoughtfully, ‘‘It takes study and practice to master the secrets in a strong length of rope.’’
She looked at him sideways. ‘‘Now, why did that sound like some kind of veiled threat?’’
He drank from his water glass. ‘‘I am your servant. Never would I threaten you.’’ He set the glass down and pushed back his chair. ‘‘I bid you good night.’’
It took her a moment to absorb what he’d just told her. He’d already grabbed that black duffel of his from where he’d left it in the corner and strode to the door of one of the bedrooms before she stopped him.
‘‘Hauk.’’
He turned, put his fist to his chest and dipped his head. ‘‘At your service.’’
‘‘What are you doing?’’
‘‘Going to bed.’’
‘‘But I’m… not ready for bed yet. I want a long bath first.’’
‘‘By all means, have your bath. Watch the television from your bed as you enjoy doing. This is America. There’s a television in every room.’’
She didn’t like what she thought might be happening here. ‘‘Then we are, uh, sleeping in separate rooms tonight?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
She had an awful, sinking feeling. All her glorious and naughty plans to seduce him were destined to come to nothing, after all. Disappointment had her dishing out a mean-spirited taunt. ‘‘You do serve me. I could command you to sleep at the foot of my bed.’’
‘‘Yes. But that would be needlessly cruel and you are not that kind of woman.’’
Her throat felt tight. She swallowed. ‘‘Hauk?’’
‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘You would rather take a chance that I might run away than sleep in the same room with me tonight?’’
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
She felt ashamed. ‘‘I won’t run away—wherever you sleep.’’
There was a long moment where neither of them spoke. Rain beat against the wide window that looked out on the lights of Boston and the harbor beyond. Lightning jumped and flashed across the black sky. Elli felt that something very precious, a onetime chance that would never come again, was slipping away.
‘‘All right,’’ she said at last. ‘‘Good night, then.’’
He turned and went through the door to the bedroom, closing it quietly behind him.
Hauk tossed his duffel on the bed and strode to the bathroom, pulling off his clothes as he went. He turned on the shower and stepped into the stall with the water running cold.
It wasn’t cold enough. It could never be cold enough. The ice-crusted Sherynborn—the river that ran through the Vildelund at home—in dead of winter wouldn’t be cold enough.
He stayed in there for a long time. It didn’t help, not in any measurable way. It didn’t cure him of the yearning that was eating him alive. But the beating of the cool water on his skin provided something of a distraction, at least.
When he got out, he toweled dry and then he spent an hour on the dragon dials, a series of strenuous exercises consisting of slow, controlled movements combined with precise use of the breath. He’d learned the dials at his mother’s knee. There were, after all, some benefits to being born the bastard of a well-trained and highly skilled woman warrior. Fighting women took great pains to develop control and flexibility in order to make up for their lesser physical strength. A woman warrior sometime in the 17th century had created the discipline of the dials.
All his life, the dials had served him well. They brought him physical exhaustion and mental clarity, always.
But not tonight. Nothing seemed to help him tonight.
He showered again—quickly this time—to wash off the sweat. Then he stood in the middle of the bedroom and stared at the shut door to the central living area and tried not to think how easy it would be to pull it open, to stride across the space between his room and hers.
A knock and she would answer. She would open her arms to him. She had made that so very, very clear.
Somehow, he kept his hand from reaching for the door. He climbed naked into the bed with thoughts that were scattered. Wild.
He stared toward the window opposite the foot of the bed. He’d left the blinds open. The rain beat against the single wide pane, streaming down in glittering trails, like veils of liquid jewels. When the lightning speared through the sky, the room would flash as bright as day. He tried to concentrate on that, on the beauty of the storm.
But he was not successful. Images of the woman kept haunting him. He arrived, constantly, at the point of thinking her name.
He’d already deliberately disobeyed his king, left her to her own devices for this entire night. She might turn and run. He’d have to track her down, or it would not go well for him.
But she’d said she wouldn’t run. And in his heart, he believed her.
The chance she might flee was not the true problem here. His climbing from this bed and going to her—that was the problem.
His own mind, usually a model of order and discipline, betrayed him now. It mattered not what orders he gave it, it would continue straying to forbidden thoughts of what it might be like, for just one night, to call her his love.
He lay there and he stared into the darkness. He listened to the storm raging outside and he tried not to see her face, not to think her forbidden name.
And in the end, it was as if all his efforts to deny her had only conjured her to come to him.
There was a soft knock at the door.
It fell to him to call out, Go away.
But he said nothing. He lay there. Waiting.
Slowly, the door opened and there she was in her big pink shirt.
He sat up. And he said the word he’d vowed to himself that he would never say—her name, unadorned.
‘‘Elli.’’
Chapter Eleven
Elli.
It was the first time, ever, that he’d called her by her given name alone. Her chest felt too small, suddenly, to hold her hungry heart.
The light from the room behind her spilled in across the bed. The blankets covered him to the waist.
