Chapter XIII Delay
XIII Delay
“Get up, little diamond. Open your pretty eyes. Come on, it’s almost time for breakfast, and I can’t let you sleep any longer.”
I force my eyes to open with a groan of pain.
My mouth is dry, and my head feels a size too small, squeezed tight and achy.
Khay smiles at me, caressing my cheek. I moan from discomfort and lift myself, blinking around at the pretty room bathed in golden candlelight.
When Khay pushes a cup of cold tea into my hands, I realize with horror he didn’t actually caress my face just now.
No, he wiped drool from the corner of my mouth.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask after downing the entire cup of tea in four large gulps.
Khay pours me more with a small chuckle. “I’d guess you’re having your first hangover, my lady. The wine you drank last night was too strong for you, and you had a lot. Don’t worry. It should clear up before evening.”
“Before evening?” I repeat, slowly moving my head from side to side. The pounding in my skull grows louder and more vicious. “Oh, no. Please, I never want to drink wine again.”
For some reason, Khay laughs, the usually pleasant sound horrid and abrasive. I wince, and he pats the top of my head with affection.
“Yes, there’s no doubt now. You’re hungover. Drink some more tea, and let’s get you dressed. At breakfast, try to eat something greasy, like sausages and bread with lots of butter. That should soak up the alcohol.”
I make a face, not hungry at all, and roll out of bed with Khay’s help. He dresses me quickly with no lingering touches, and we’re out the door in fifteen minutes. Khay carries my new hat with a small brim, and a pair of riding gloves that were included with the dress.
Breakfast is a quiet affair. Magnar welcomes me with a nod, his eyes watchful and bright as he takes me in. I mumble a greeting and down more tea, trying to alleviate the unquenchable thirst burning my throat. Khay sits on my other side and grabs a plate of sausages, serving me.
I sigh as I stare at the pile of food. Eating seems like such a chore today.
“I can feed you,” he says with a small laugh. “Just say the word.”
“She can feed herself,” Magnar snaps. “Caliane is capable and strong. Don’t be a mother hen, Khay.”
I slowly look up at my husband, trying to digest his ridiculous words.
Whatever gave him the impression I’m capable?
I have no idea, and I blink at him with disbelief until he bops my nose with his finger.
My eyes almost cross as I take in his sharp, black claw.
It’s the first time I see it up close, and it’s terrifying.
“Eat, darling. You’ll ride with me today.”
“Great,” I mutter, convinced no one will hear me. “More poking.”
When Khay snickers into his plate, I realize I wasn’t as quiet as I intended. Magnar grunts, his hand finding my thigh under the table. He pats it comfortingly, and I sigh, wishing I didn’t feel so wretched.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “It’s no excuse, but I’m not feeling my best today.”
He squeezes my thigh. “No need to apologize, darling. You did nothing wrong.”
I glance at him doubtfully, but he doesn’t say anything else, pouring me more tea. I choke down as much food as I can, and shockingly, I do feel better with a few sausages in my stomach.
Vardi sees us off in the courtyard just as the sun peeks over the horizon. When it’s my turn for goodbyes, I try to curtsy, but he holds my hands and bows over them instead. I remember with shame I’m supposed to be a queen. Queens don’t curtsy.
“I’ve allowed myself to add a bottle of my personal hair essence to your bag, my queen,” he says with a smile. “Khay knows how to apply it. Hopefully, it will give you the effect you wish for. Happy travels!”
I thank him dumbly, not having a clue what he meant. When Khay passes, I grab his sleeve.
“What hair essence was Vardi talking about?”
Khay gives me a tight smile. “Oh, I think you complimented his hair last night. Don’t worry about it, my diamond. It was a long night.”
Was it? I frown, following Magnar to his horse.
I remember the introductions, and then eating, and then…
waking up this morning. It must have been the wine, I realize, as panic slowly claws up my spine.
What else did I say? Complimenting a man’s hair is one of the most foolish things a woman can do. What else did I mess up?
When Magnar comes over and gives me a kind smile, I search his face desperately for signs of scorn or hate. Did I shame him somehow? I must have. I can’t behave properly for the life of me, always getting something wrong.
“Everything all right?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing into a frown.
“I’m sorry!” I explode, fear choking me up. “I imagine I was out of line yesterday. I must have embarrassed you. I apologize, and I promise never to drink a drop of wine again. I will do better.”
A shadow passes over his face, dark and menacing, and I take a step back. Magnar heaves a deep breath, purses his lips, and takes my hand, leaning in until I can look into his eyes without craning my neck. His expression is serious.
“You did nothing wrong,” he says, his voice calm and controlled. “In fact, Vardi and Kirita were delighted by your company. It was a pleasure to sit by your side last night. I’ll admit, I expected you to be aloof, but you were kind and pleasant. I am proud of you for handling it so well.”
He reaches toward my face, his hand soft, and I flinch back with a gasp of dismay.
“You grew up so nicely, my prize. Daddy’s proud of you.”
Magnar frowns, his hand dropping away, and I release a shaky breath as I berate myself in my head. He’s my husband, isn’t he? He has a right to touch me how he pleases.
“I was going to stroke your cheek,” Magnar says, surprisingly calm. “Do you not like it?”
Gods, I don’t know what to say. It’s not that I don’t like it, and even if I didn’t, I can’t tell him that.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, cringing as the words leave my lips. I’ve apologized so many times today. Apologies never fix things, and too many lead to punishments.
“Don’t,” he says, still calm. “You did nothing wrong.”
I want to tell him it’s not true, that everything I do is wrong, but I bite my tongue.
No one likes a woman who feels sorry for herself, and all I need to do is try harder.
I don’t know why it’s so difficult today.
Normally, I have a very good handle on myself, not allowing sad and frightening thoughts into my head for long.
Everyone likes the Cheerful Princess, so that’s who I try to be.
Maybe I’m just cranky because of the hangover, or the hardships of travel. I think briefly about yesterday’s bath and how loose and open it made me feel to be touched with so much reverence. Tears burn the back of my throat, and I pull away from Magnar, gasping for breath.
Something broke yesterday. I am broken now.
Ahead, the horn blares. I press my fists to my eyes, determined not to be any more of a nuisance. I just need to get a hold on myself and undo whatever witchery Khay did to me last night. And I’ll be fine. Like always.
“Come here, darling.”
Nimble fingers undo the ribbons of my hat and take it off. I’m surrounded by a pair of strong, masculine arms, my face pressing to the warm leather of Magnar’s vest. He strokes the back of my head, breathing deeply.
“Delay thirty minutes,” he says to someone else, and I want to protest, promising I’m fine to ride, but he shushes me. “It’s my decision and my responsibility. Come inside with me. We’ll sit a while.”
I hide my face in his side as he leads me into a small parlor, where he settles on a couch, quickly undoing the leather straps holding his vest together. When it’s undone, his torso covered only by a dark blue shirt, he pulls me into his lap.
My skin crawls, all those afternoons with my father crowding my memory.
But this is different. My father always had me in his lap at his desk, insisting I keep my back straight and studious.
Magnar sprawls comfortably, cradling me with ease until I relax.
We’re lounging together, not sitting, and that makes it bearable.
With my father, it was always a charade. He pretended to teach me while his hands roamed, and if I spoiled the pretense, addressing his touch, he was cross.
“What do you mean? I’m teaching you politics. Pay attention, my prize.”
Magnar doesn’t pretend this is anything other than what it is—him holding his wife, a woman he has a right to.
“Do you want to cry?” he asks gently, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
My father never tolerated anything but pleased smiles, even when his hands crawled up my breasts. Being invited to cry ridiculously makes the pressure of unshed tears lessen.
“I’m afraid if I start, I’ll never be able to stop,” I confess. “And princesses don’t cry.”
Magnar huffs with amusement, bringing me closer until I’m curled against his chest. It seems familiar, being held like this. An ache blooms in my heart, a sorrow I can’t name.
“You’re no longer a princess but a queen,” he murmurs. “And you can cry when it’s just me or your knights. No one can stay strong all the time, so let go with us. There’s no shame in it, my lovely prize.”
I sigh, gripping the front of his shirt. The fabric is soft, warmed by his skin, and it smells like him, of man and cloves. I don’t mind when he calls me his prize, maybe because his tone of voice is different than my father’s used to be.
Or maybe because being Magnar’s prize means something different, only, I’m not sure what.
“Thank you,” I breathe, but no tears fall. I still feel comforted, like some of the weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I try to smile. “I’ll take that under advisement when we have more time. And when you’re not busy, of course.”
“Darling, I’m always busy,” he says with a gentle scoff. “But I need you to know you are important to me. Important enough to drop whatever I’m doing when you need me. Do you understand, Caliane?”