Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“H-Hello,” I stammer.
He walks over to me, his strides long and graceful, and I blink when he gets close.
He towers several inches over my own five foot ten, and he’s absolutely beautiful in the Cornish light—like a film star just landed in Cornwall, ready for his close-up.
His hair is long, reaching down his back in red-blond waves the colour of a sunset in an Impressionist painting.
Some of the thick waves are plaited around his face, giving him the appearance of a Viking.
This effect is reinforced by his lean, muscled body, broad shoulders, and long legs.
His skin is tanned all over, and tattoos flow over his body, down his arms, and over his shoulders.
He reaches for a piece of fabric on the rocks, his movements graceful for such a big man.
The cloth is cream coloured with red symbols painted on it, and I watch as he winds it around his narrow hips.
I can’t help but sneak a glance at his cock before it’s covered.
It’s long and wide, and I catch an intriguing glimpse of gold at the head.
“I do beg your pardon.”
I jump as I realise he’s talking to me. “Eh?” I reply, which is not the most sterling of conversational repartee.
His lip twitches, and he gestures down his body. The sarong covers him now, more’s the pity. “I said I would beg your pardon for appearing so indecently in front of you.”
His voice is lovely—deep and low, with an accent that softens the vowels, blurring them slightly.
“You should never apologise for your nakedness,” I say fervently. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.” His lip twitches, and I grin at him.
“How heartening to have such affirmation.”
“I live to please.” He chuckles. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. It’s not nearly the strangest thing that’s happened to me today.”
His eyes are gold. I’ve never seen eyes that colour. It’s so vivid—like looking into the centre of a flame. “Really?”
I nod. “Oh yes. I’ve never been to Cornwall before, and then I had a weird dream last night, which turned out to be about this very beach in exact details I shouldn’t know about.” I’m babbling and I never do that, but I’m just so relieved to see someone and tell them about this weird morning.
His eyes widen. “Mayhap you have seen a picture. It is a very famous beach and rightly so.”
“Which is a perfectly reasonable assumption, but I ended up coming here after I started out for home when my boyfriend dumped me. I went to the Minack without really meaning to, and when I saw this beach, I left a perfectly lovely meal to come and look at the place. I’m not sure why, as I’ve seen many beaches in my time.
Then my stupid hire car conked out.” I pause for a much-needed breath.
He stares at me. “You have not eaten?”
“After that recitation, that’s the only thing you want to ask me?”
He shrugs, grace in the movement of his broad shoulders. “Food is important.”
“So is a psychiatric intervention.”
I watch, awed as he laughs. The sound is rich and so full of life and warmth that I take a step towards him before I can help myself. He stops laughing, but his eyes are creased very attractively. He has a nice face. It looks like he laughs long and often. I like that.
“Food is important in life.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Not really. It’s necessary to refuel, but that’s it. I’ve never really understood the obsession.”
His eyebrows rise. “But preparing food is a way that we express ourselves.”
“In what way?”
“It is a way of saying whatever we may wish without using our words.” He gestures as he talks, his face lively, his eyes sparkling.
“I cook for someone as a means of expressing my thanks for their company, as a well-wish for their safety on a long journey home, as a good morning, a good evening, or to break our fast after a long, hard night.”
My mouth goes dry at the thought of what a night with him would entail, but I make myself shrug. “Sometimes it’s just cheaper on your grocery bill to say the words.”
He gives a great booming laugh, and my mouth ticks upward. It’s such a contagious, merry sound. “Mayhap you are right.” He wrinkles his nose. “But I sincerely hope you are not.” He gestures up the beach. “Come, I shall cook for you.”
“What?”
“You have not eaten, and you are too thin.” He hesitates. “I would beg your pardon. I gather that is not an acceptable thing to observe in these times.”
What an odd way of putting it. “Well, it’s not really done, but don’t worry about it. I know I’m thin.”
“Nevertheless, I beg your pardon.”
His words are serious, and I repress a smile. “Granted.”
His own smile emerging again like the sun from behind a cloud is my reward. “Excellent. So, shall we go?”
“Go? Go where?”
“To my dwelling. I shall prepare your luncheon.”
His way of speaking is a little odd—slightly old-fashioned. Maybe it’s because English isn’t his first language. I had a friend at uni who learnt most of his language from BBC historical dramas. On his posh days, he ended up sounding like Mr Darcy. Maybe this man has done the same thing.
I realise he’s waiting for a reply and hesitate. “I shouldn’t,” I finally say with a great deal of regret. “I don’t know you at all. It would be a bit stupid to wander off with you.”
I half expect him to be offended and strangely dread the moment when he’ll leave me be. This is the most interesting meeting I’ve had in my life.
However, he just looks at me curiously, his eyes interested and so engaged that they make me blink.
No man whom I’ve just met looks at me like this—like I’m fascinating.
They’re usually just intent on getting to the part where they can bend me over the nearest surface.
Not that I’m complaining, but this is novel.
“Mayhap you are right,” he decides. “We should get to know one another.” He lowers himself gracefully to sit on a low rock and gestures for me to do the same.
I hesitate for a second and then sit down a lot less gracefully than he does.
The rock is warm beneath my bum and smooth as if worn down by the sea and the passage of time.
He shifts, moving his body a little closer, and I can feel the warmth emanating from him. He smells of salt and bare skin. I look up, and his face is startlingly close to mine. So close I can see the freckles on his nose. They’re surprisingly charming on such a strong male face.
“I am Sigurd Arvesen,” he says, his voice hoarse.
The sound of his name fills me with sudden warmth, and it takes me a moment to remember to speak. “Oh, are you from Scandinavia? Your accent is beautiful.”
He’s watching my mouth move, and the heat is unmistakable in his eyes. Then he smiles. His teeth are white and straight, but his incisors are a little long, making his grin crooked and all the more attractive. “Thank you. I am from Norveg.”
“Norway?” I say tentatively.
He nods. “Yes, I came from the Nororlond—the northern lands.”
“Have you been in England long?”
His eyes twinkle with merriment, as if at a secret joke. “You could say that,” he says gravely. “Many years have passed since I came to this land and met the Englar.”
“Oh, are you an exchange student?”
I have the sudden impression that he’s laughing at me, but it doesn’t rile me up the way that cruel humour would do. It seems like a joke he would love to share with me if only he could. It’s inviting and merry.
“I have been a student of the Englar for many years, and yet still you surprise me. Mayhap that is why I have stayed.”
Silence falls, and I feel a smile dawn on my face, wide and flirty. “Well, it is very nice to meet you, Sigurd. My name is Cary Sutton.”
“Cary,” he says, his accent making the name sound exotic. “That is a nice name.”
“Thank you. It was entirely my mother’s fault. She was addicted to The Princess Bride.”
He laughs, and I stare at him, intrigued. His face is so mobile, vivid with expressions. I could sit and stare at him for ages and not grow bored. The thought is concerning enough that I jump to my feet. He looks at me, startled.
“Well, I must be off,” I say briskly.
He blinks. “Pardon?”
I gesture back up the beach. “I have to go. I need to call the car hire company and arrange for a different car. My other one broke down in the car park. Then I have to go home.”
He gets to his feet. He towers over me, but the grace of his movements makes it so I don’t feel small and threatened. “I would wish you did not go,” he says almost wistfully.
His eyes are very pretty, and I find myself swaying forward, yearning to touch him and make him keep talking to me. It’s such an alien feeling that I force myself to step away. “Well, it has been very nice to meet you. Merry Christmas to you.”
“Nadelik Lowen,” he says gravely.
“Sorry?”
“Ah, it is Cornish for Merry Christmas.”
“It sounds better like that.”
He seems to hesitate and then looks beyond me. I turn in that direction and blink. For a second, I think I see a man lying on the rocks. His hair is black, and he has a tail with scales that glisten in the light.
I rub my eyes. “What the hell?”
“What is it?” Sigurd asks.
I gesture at the rocks. “A man.” But on second glance, there’s only a seal lying there. Even as I watch, it seems to nod at us and then slides into the water. I’m hallucinating again. Maybe I need to make a doctor’s appointment when I get home.
“Sorry,” I say, flushing. “The light is playing tricks on my eyes.”
Laughter travels on the breeze, but it’s probably only the wind sighing around the rocks.
Sigurd stares at me, his eyes alight with some strange expression.
The wind gives a funny gust, blowing my hair back and making me stagger.
The surf sounds suddenly louder, and when I turn to the sea, a huge wave begins to break, cresting just beyond the beach.
Before I can scurry away, it smashes against the rocks and covers me in ice-cold water.
“Shit,” I shout, staggering as the wave retreats, sucking at my feet and unbalancing me.