Damn her. Damn her and her festering feet!
Several of the bar wenches in the pub had made it perfectly clear he’d have a warm, welcoming bed to stay in this night, if he so wished. But for some unknown reason, he’d turned them all down and returned to The Liar. She wasn’t a liar simply because she lied whenever it suited her. She was a liar because she’d been pretending she was something she was not.
Cold? That woman was not cold, no matter what she wanted the world to believe. Dagmar Reinholdt was contained. A quiet volcano waiting to go off.
And why should that bother him, one may ask? Because his response to her disturbed him. Between that kiss and a few strokes of her small, bandaged hand over his chain-mail leggings, he’d almost come like he’d never come before.
Even now he could still feel her touching him. And the thought of what direct contact would do to him had caused an ugly buzzing in his head he couldn’t seem to stop.
And that was her hand, mate. Imagine what that sweet pu**y of hers would do to you.
He needed his mind to shut up now. If he started thinking about that he’d be doomed. They both would.
Gwenvael glared across the room at her sleeping form. Gods, what have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 11
He knew it made no sense for them to be in a dress shop. He may have only had an hour or so of sleep, but he was clear enough on that point. This was Dagmar after all. He couldn’t imagine her willingly going into a dress shop unless her father had his war ax to her head.
And yet here he was, wandering around a dress shop in the early morn.
He grabbed a lovely detailed gown of bright pink and held it up for her to see. Dagmar’s horrified expression was priceless.
“You must be joking.”
He was. Overdone gowns would do nothing for her except make her feel uncomfortable. And it was her confidence that he found so enticing.
“What was that message you sent off earlier?” he asked, putting the dress back and continuing to look around.
“To my father.”
“Sure that was wise?”
“If he didn’t hear something soon, he would have come looking for me. It’s best to let him know that I’m not yet at Gestur’s but that I am safe. The alternative is your head looking dazzling hanging from my father’s gates.”
He turned to face her. “Why are we here?”
She didn’t answer him, but smiled at a shop girl who came out from the back.
“Lady Dagmar!”
“Hello, Saamik.”
To Gwenvael’s surprise, the shop girl hugged Dagmar as if they were long-lost cousins.“You’re looking well,” Dagmar told her.
“Thank you.”
“Are you happy?”
“I am so happy, my lady.” She gripped Dagmar’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I have a small house now and a lady who takes care of Geoff during the day.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.” Dagmar stepped closer. “Think we can talk for a bit? In private?”
“Of course. Give me a few minutes.”
The shop girl rushed off and Dagmar smirked at him.
“A shop girl?” he murmured low, once he was closer. “You’re getting your information from a shop girl?”
“The wives and kinswomen of very important men come in here every day. And every day they spend hours getting fitted into new gowns.” She smiled. “Wives know more than men ever think they do, Lord Gwenvael. And their servants know everything.”
Dagmar sipped her tea and listened to Saamik closely.
Saamik had grown up on Reinholdt lands. Her parents and their parents and their parents’s parents had all been born and raised in the same small area. Saamik had been destined for the same life, her future husband already picked out for her. When Dagmar had made the offer to get Saamik an apprenticeship at a dress shop, she never asked for anything. Never made Saamik promise anything for this gift. Instead they simply passed letters. Saamik knew how much Dagmar enjoyed gossip, and Dagmar filled Saamik in on the family and friends she had left behind.
It all worked out well, but Dagmar felt the need now to ask specific questions and she wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that in a letter that could be read by others.
“You were right, my lady.” Saamik stirred milk into her own tea. “Lord Jökull’s troops are expanding. He’s created truces with at least three other warlords to the west.”
“A truce? Not an alliance?”
“No. He’ll get no troops from them, but he won’t be fighting them either.”
“Where is he getting his troops?”
“Hiring them. By the boatload, I understand.”
For once, Dagmar received no pleasure from being right. “I see.”
“Lord Tryggvi,” young Saamik glanced at Gwenvael—again—and explained, “he’s the leader of these lands.” She let out a breath, focused on Dagmar. “His sister says he’s none too happy about all this.”
“Would he be open to becoming allies to The Reinholdt?”
“Perhaps. It’s hard to tell with him. He’s not a pleasant man from what I’ve seen.”
“Who among them are?” Dagmar reached for a sweet biscuit, but her hand found only an empty space on the small table. She gazed at the dragon, amazed. “You had to take the whole plate?”
“I wanted them.”
“Are you a child?”