“If you need anything—”
“A bath. Please.” Gwenvael sat down on the end of the bed. The day had caught up with him and he was tired.
“Well, there’s a lake.” She walked to the window, looked out. “And I believe it might rain tonight if you want to stand outside.”
Gwenvael dropped his head into his hands.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“By all that’s holy, tell me you have a tub!”
When she didn’t answer, he looked up to find her hand over her mouth and her shoulders shaking as she laughed at him.
“Woman, don’t make me cry again. Because this time I promise you mucus.”
She laughed a little more freely now. “Reason’s defender, please no more of the crying.”
Gwenvael rubbed his tired eyes, yawned. “Reason’s defender? I haven’t heard that expression since the time of Aoibhell.”
“You’ve heard of Aoibhell? So you have read a book.”
“I’ve read at least two, but I actually knew her.”
“You knew Aoibhell the Learned? The philosopher?” She stepped closer. “You?”
“Don’t you mean Aoibhell the Heretic?” Arms behind him, palms flat against the bed, Gwenvael stretched his legs out in front of him. She was close enough that if he wanted to, he could run his foot up the inside of her leg. Well … He did want to, but he feared what might be waiting inside her skirt to snap his toes off. “Do you really not have a tub?”
“I have a tub. And heretic was an unfair title. So what was she like?”
“Like?” He shrugged. “She was nice enough. But she debated about absolutely everything. Do you really not believe in the gods?”
Dagmar kept her hands loosely clasped in front of her. To all outward appearances she seemed the perfect royal spinster daughter. Demure, well spoken, knowledgeable of etiquette, and just smart enough to hold conversation with those around her. But he already knew better. Only the brilliant and the brave followed Aoibhell’s teachings. To openly dispute others’ beliefs in the gods was risking a lot.
“There is nothing in Aoibhell’s teachings to suggest gods do not exist. But like her, I don’t worship them.”
Gwenvael smiled, remembering the passionate discussion he’d had with Aoibhell the Learned about the gods and her belief that reason and logic were all that was necessary to successfully and happily get through life. And it wasn’t that Gwenvael had disagreed with her at the time, but he could tell she liked to argue.
“Don’t you worry you’ll need a god one day?”
“No. They can’t be relied upon. One is better off standing on her feet, relying on herself rather than falling on her knees praying to gods who will not listen.”
He chuckled. “She would have liked you.”“Would she?”
“She liked thinkers. ‘Those who think beyond their day-to-day cage,’ she’d say.”
“You really have met her. I’ve only read that phrase in some letters of hers a friend gave to me. Never in her books. Were you there when she passed?”
“No.” He winced at the memory. “We stopped speaking when she caught me in bed with one of her daughters. She was so mad. Came after me with a pitchfork.”
Her demure pose ended when her hands rested haughtily on her hips. “You defiled her daughter?”
“I didn’t defile anyone. Her daughter was a young widow. I was merely helping her back into life.”
“How altruistic of you.”
He grinned. “I thought so.” Gwenvael dropped his arms out at his sides and fell back on the bed. “Tub! Or I start stomping my feet and crying.”
“Please do. My father looked moments from throwing you out anyway.”
“He did, didn’t he?”
“A good crying fit should toss him right over the edge.”
“That would be a shame now, wouldn’t it?”
“Would it?”
“It would. Annwyl’s a powerful queen. An alliance with her would be wise.”
“You can broker an alliance for the queen?” she asked carefully.
“Of course.”
“So the Blood Queen sends you as an emissary and you think it’s a good idea to laugh at the Only Daughter of The Reinholdt in front of his sons and troops?”
Gwenvael flinched. She got a direct hit with that one.
He forced himself to sit back up. “All right. I’ll admit that was not my best moment. I know this. But you need to understand that for the entire long trip here I kept hearing about The Beast. The Beast, The Beast, The Beast! The scary, frightening Beast. The size of a bear with the cunning battle skills and fangs of a jungle cat. And then you walk out. And you’re … you’re …”
“Plain, boring, and fangless?”
“I was going to say dainty.”
“ ‘Dainty’? Me?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Compared to the women I know, you’re as dainty as an air fairy.” He gestured at her body. “Look at you. Your feet are small, your hands delicate, your neck long and lithe, and there’s not a scar on you. Not that I have a problem with scars. They can be quite alluring. But it’s been a while since I’ve seen a woman who didn’t have at least a few.” He pointed at her spectacles. “And being nearly blind only makes you appear more innocent and vulnerable.”