Beguiled (The Fairest Maidens Book 2)

by Jody Hedlund

  There was only one way to find out.

  I lodged the torch into a wall holder, set the bag of supplies down, then slid my knife from its sheath. I held it out, letting the light glint off the sharp blade. I kept my attention focused on Mikkel’s face, gauging his emotions. Was he afraid of me and what I could do to him?

  Even battered as he was, he was still handsome, perhaps more so now that I’d seen his kindness and consideration toward Gregor and Fowler. Certainly more so than any noblemen I’d ever met.

  He didn’t look at the knife but leaned his head back against the wall, his body as relaxed—or as much as possible with his arms spread out and manacled to the crevice where the floor and wall met. His position might not be entirely comfortable, but at least I’d spared him having his arms chained to the wall above his head.

  I shifted the knife closer to him. And still he ignored it. Instead, he studied my face—what was visible of it above my veil. “So, will you tell me your real name?”

  I slid the knife to the drawstring of his tunic at his collarbone. “I shall question you, my lord. Not the other way around.”

  “Then begin the inquiry.”

  If he’d had his arms free, I suspected he would have crossed them behind his head. He was too calm. Didn’t he believe I was capable of harming him if I so chose?

  I thrust the irritation aside. All my life I’d had to be careful about letting my feelings rule me—whether jealousy or pride or anxiety. I’d watched those emotions control my mother, taking over and turning her into a cruel and vindictive woman at times. I didn’t want to become like her. Ever. But was I fated to resemble her regardless of my desire to be different?

  In fact, this taunting him with a knife was too similar to my mother’s tactics. I needed to pull back and do what I’d come to do—tend his wounds. Yet as I started to lift my knife away, his eyes seemed to mock me, as if to say I didn’t have the wherewithal to carry through on torturing him.

  I hadn’t planned to torture him—had just wanted to scare him a little. But at his challenge, I paused. Then with a flick of my wrist, I cut away the drawstrings on his tunic.

  The light in his eyes remained, daring me to do more.

  He needn’t dare me. I’d do so willingly. Careful to connect just with the fabric and not his skin, I slid my knife down, slicing it wide open and revealing a lighter, thinner tunic underneath. The material was of fine silken quality, belonging to nobility and not a pauper. Nevertheless, he must shed it along with the top garment to give me access to his wounds.

  I wrenched upward and rent the material so the ripping echoed in the chamber. Behind me, Gregor’s chains rattled as he strained against them. I made another quick slice, cutting first one sleeve loose at the shoulder and then the other. Finally, using the tip of the knife, I tugged the bloodstained linen away.

  His tunics in tatters around him, Mikkel still hadn’t moved, still reclined against the wall, as if he made an everyday occurrence of sitting in dungeons, facing women wielding knives.

  With his arms and chest now bare, his wounds were visible, but blood covered much of his skin and would need to be washed away before I could examine the extent of his injuries.

  I stood and returned to the ladder. “I am ready for the last item,” I called up to Tommy.

  A moment later, he lowered a blackened pot with steam rising up from the water within. As I knelt beside Mikkel and opened the satchel, I avoided his gaze. He’d likely figured out by now that I hadn’t come to torture him.

  I dipped a rag into the pot, wrung out the excess water, and then gently laid the cloth against his arm upon one of the gashes.

  He sucked in a breath and his body jerked against the chains.

  I removed the cloth and then dug through my supplies until I found the flask I’d placed there. As I pulled it out and uncorked it, Mikkel shook his head. “No, I don’t need anything.”

  “’Tis but a concoction of wine and theriac and will take the edge off your pain.”

  “I shall endure the pain without it.”

  “As I shall need to suture several of your gashes, I insist you drink a little.” I lifted the flask to his mouth.

  He pressed his lips together and jutted his chin, his light-blue eyes flashing with a determination that was gallant and yet foolhardy.

  “Come now.” I touched it to his lips again. “Surely with your keen observation skills, you realize that if I wanted you to suffer, I would have refrained from coming to your aid at the outset of the gauntlet.”

  He shifted his head away from the medicine. “With my keen observation skills, I see that you would do whatever Irontooth asks, even if you must slice me open further.”

  I sat back on my heels, my ire rising once more. “I am my own person and do not bow to Irontooth’s every whim.”

  “’Tis clear enough you allow him to think for you.”

  “’Tis clear you’ve forgotten I stood up to Irontooth and gained you an extra week of life.”

  “So that you might glean private insights into my life to relay to Irontooth.”

  My irritated retort died upon my lips. Was Mikkel correct in saying I did whatever Irontooth asked, even allowing him to think for me? I’d assumed I’d merely given him my allegiance after he’d taken me in and offered me protection. Somewhere along the way, had I lost sight of who I was? What if I’d never known myself to begin with? After all, I’d lived in the shadows of my mother’s demands, answering her call whenever she commanded me.

  “Irontooth only wishes to protect me and all the others in our camp.” Certainly I hadn’t exchanged one dictator for another. Irontooth was nothing like my mother. He cared about me more in the short time I’d known him than my mother had my entire life.

  “So you admit you would like me to drink the theriac to loosen my tongue and enable you to report back to Irontooth all he wishes to know about me?”

  “I had not thought of that. But ’tis a brilliant plan.” I lifted the flask again. Perhaps such a strategy would be easier than winning his affection.

  He twisted away from me.

  I chased his lips, but he angled farther out of reach, giving me full view of his profile and the awful bruises on his cheek.

  I released an exasperated sigh. “You are a stubborn man.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  “’Twas not a compliment.” If he refused to dull the pain, then so be it. I’d let him suffer through my ministrations. I picked up the rag and pressed it to the burn mark.

  He hissed through his teeth before he clamped his mouth closed and shut his eyes.

  I lightened the pressure. “Daft is a better word—a word you cannot misconstrue for a compliment.”

  He didn’t respond this time, likely in too much pain to think of a retort. As I resumed washing the wounds, I attempted to be careful, but with each touch, he stiffened until his body and limbs were as rigid as the cave walls. Before suturing the first cut in his arm, I offered the medicine again, but he pressed his lips into a hard, straight line.

  “Daft,” I whispered again. But even as I slipped the needle through his flesh, my admiration for him swelled. He might be foolish, but he exuded a strength unlike any man I’d ever known.

  Maybe I’d been amiss to think I could sway him into revealing the truth about his being on the island. What if he didn’t tell me anything by the week’s end? And what would I do if Irontooth insisted on killing him?

  I pushed away the thought. I had seven days to earn Mikkel’s trust. Surely I could accomplish the feat if I set my mind to it.

  Chapter

  5

  Mikkel

  Fire raced up and down my arms as if someone were roasting me alive. I jerked to free myself, but I was trapped in the flames. I lurched again, and this time cold shackles dug into my flesh, waking me from one nightmare and plunging me into another as the memories of my capture came back to me.

  “How do you fare, Your Highness?” a voice whispered through t
he thick darkness.

  “Gregor.” I fought off the pain in order to think clearly. “You’re delusional to call me by so great a title.”

  “Fowler’s gone, Your Highness. It’s just us.”

  I relaxed against the cave wall, pressing against a cloak someone had draped around my body. Although my arms and chest burned from my wounds, the rest of my body was cold from the dampness of the cave, and I was grateful for the covering.

  My mind scrambled to remember everything that had happened. But my last memory was of the veiled woman stitching my wounds. “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Only a couple of hours.”

  “What happened to Fowler?”

  “They took him up above.”

  “Is he free?”

  “No, he’s been made a slave.”

  I’d expected as much, since enslaving prisoners was the practice over in Blade’s camp. What I hadn’t counted on was raising their suspicions to the point that they would consider killing me.

  At least I had a week to figure out how to keep myself and Gregor alive. What other tale could I spin? I’d already used the most plausible one and had no other ideas. Perhaps I needed to put my energy into devising an escape instead.

  I tested my manacles, twisting and turning them.

  “I’ve already tried to free myself,” Gregor said. “I can’t do it without a knife.”

  “The one in your sole?”

  “I took it out during the gauntlet and couldn’t get it back into my boot in time.”

  The king’s weapons master had given us each knives to wear in secret compartments in the soles of our boots. Unfortunately, someone had stolen my boots early in our journey, and I’d had to make do with an old pair I’d purchased after offering myself as a laborer for hire.

  Now that both Gregor and I had lost our concealed knives, we’d have a harder time liberating ourselves from our chains. Perhaps we would have to persuade one of the guards to aid us.

  The scraping of the door overhead was followed by a slant of light that illuminated the cavern, revealing Gregor chained to the wall opposite me. His scarred face contained bruises like mine, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.

  As the ladder descended, I realized that even if we happened to obtain a utensil that might unlock our manacles, we still would need the help of one of the guards to break free of the dungeon. And yet how could we convince any of them when we had nothing to exchange?

  Dainty boots stepped onto the first rung and then the second. The veiled woman was coming back. Though her hose and breeches were mostly shielded by the long tunic she wore, I could still see too much of her shapely legs. As she climbed down and hopped to the ground, I tore my attention from her legs to the baskets looped over each arm. The waft of fish soup sent my stomach into a rolling growl.

  She lifted her torch higher in my direction. “I see you’re finally awake.”

  “Just in time.”

  “Just in time for more doctoring?” Her tone contained a hint of teasing that seemed to lighten her eyes.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’ve been waiting for—more needles digging through my flesh.”

  She laughed, and the sound was soft and lilting behind her veil. I wished suddenly that I could see the way her lips curved up when she smiled. As though sensing my scrutiny, she dropped her gaze to one of her baskets.

  Was it possible I could convince this woman to aid our escape? I sat up straighter, the prospect giving me renewed energy. Already she’d shown her willingness to help us. And she’d just laughed at my weak attempt at jesting. Could I make this woman like me enough in one week that she’d free us?

  With her blemishes, perhaps she’d never had much flattery from men. And perhaps she’d relish having someone pay her attention. Such a strategy was worth a try, wasn’t it?

  As she hooked the torch into the wall, I observed her more carefully. Her dark hair hung in a single thick braid down her back. The curve of a delicate ear showed above the veil as did the arch of a high cheekbone. Her long lashes and narrow brows served to highlight her stunning green eyes.

  At one time, she’d likely been an exceptionally beautiful woman, which made her blemishes all the more tragic. No nobleman would ever be able to marry a woman with deformities, regardless of how much he might care for her. He would put himself and his family in danger of becoming an outcast with her.

  As she placed the baskets on the floor, my mind spun with the various methods I could employ for winning her affection. A part of my conscience warned against using her this way. But another part whispered that a little wooing would be harmless if doing so could preserve Gregor’s and my lives.

  “My lady.” I tried to make my tone serious. “I am truly grateful for your doctoring.”

  She knelt beside me and gently peeled back the cloak.

  “Without your tender ministrations, my wounds would be festering by now.”

  She bent closer and examined one of the cuts on my arm.

  Think. I’d interacted with many maidens over the past few years as I’d come of age. Wealthy noblemen and foreign kings alike had flaunted their daughters before my brothers and me at court. I’d never been without attention from one comely woman or another. What had I done then to gain their favor?

  For a long moment, I scoured the far corners of my brain but could come up with nothing. In all truth, I’d never had to do anything, because the young ladies had been the ones to throw themselves at me.

  I glanced sideways at the veiled woman. How could I charm her when I had no idea how to do so? What would Vilmar do if he were in my place? Or Kresten? My youngest brother had been the most winsome amongst the ladies.

  I pictured Kresten winking and teasing, tossing back his handsome head and laughing. He’d always been smooth-tongued, saying just the right words to melt a woman’s heart. I’d scoffed at his use of such tactics, but what I wouldn’t give to have his ability at this moment.

  “And how are the wounds feeling?” She bent to examine another of the areas she’d stitched.

  What could I say that would sound witty and impressive? The cogs within my mind whirred, but again, I was speechless.

  She sat back, her brows furrowing. “That bad, my lord?”

  “No, they’re doing well enough.” I felt suddenly like an awkward lad using a blunt sword instead of a full-grown man on the cusp of ruling a nation.

  “Then the poultice I packed into each is easing the pain?”

  “Poultice?” I glanced down at my arm and chest to the places she’d stitched. I caught a whiff of spices I couldn’t begin to name. “The wounds do hurt, but I’m sure without your efforts I’d have no relief.”

  She studied another one of the areas and then draped the cloak back over my shoulders and arms. Ought I mention how appealing I looked without my tunic? Vilmar or Kresten would say such a thing.

  But somehow the words stuck, and I knew if I forced them, I’d sound even more like an awkward lad.

  “You are hungry, are you not?” She reached into one of the baskets and removed a small crock.

  “Very.”

  She lifted the lid and held it close to my face, letting the waft of steam rise beneath my nose.

  I attempted to raise my hands to take the bowl from her, only to remember they were securely fastened to the floor. Her eyes lit, almost as if she was smiling in enjoyment at my helplessness.

  She rose, crossed to Gregor, and handed him the bowl. Since his hands were free, he took the soup eagerly and began to drink it. Surely she wouldn’t be so cruel as to make me watch Gregor eat without giving me anything.

  As she returned to the basket and retrieved a second crock, she caught me watching her. “You did not suppose I would let you go hungry, did you?”

  “Alas, I confess, it crossed my mind.”

  “I am not so heartless as that.”

  “If you’re not heartless, then you will unshackle my hands so I might eat like a man and not an animal.
”

  “I would never allow you to eat like an animal, my lord.” Her voice was low, and her stunning green eyes captured and held mine as she walked over and knelt next to me. She situated herself, her knees brushing against me. And then she lifted the bowl to my lips, never once averting her eyes. Instead, the green turned dark and seemed to beckon me.

  My heart began to thud an unsteady rhythm. When the bowl tipped higher and our connection was lost, I sipped but didn’t taste anything. I could only ponder how pretty and expressive her eyes were.

  When I finished drinking the last of the soup, she set the bowl on the cave floor and then lifted her hand. Her fingers hovered above my mouth for an eternal second before she dabbed at the corner with her thumb. “You have a drop of soup . . .”

  At her touch, something warm streamed into my veins, reminding me of drinking hot glogg on a snowy winter day. The sensation was new, even pleasurable, and something I could welcome.

  She retracted her hand, as if stroking my mouth wasn’t something she’d planned. And she ducked her head almost shyly before she reached back into the basket and took out another item. A wedge of cheese.

  “Would you like more to eat, my lord?”

  Was she planning to feed me every meal all week long? How would I endure such sweet torture? And yet how could I say no?

  In answer to her question, I opened my mouth.

  She broke off a piece of cheese and set it inside, careful not to touch my mouth again. As I chewed, she tore off another portion. “Why is a young man like you yet unmarried? Surely you have had many women vying after you.”

  “I have been waiting for my father to choose my bride.”

  “And he has yet to find someone suitable?”

  “He’s considering several options.”

  Her brows arched. “Several?”

  I smiled. “Is that so surprising, my lady, that several women might be interested in me?”