Rose’s stomach felt pleasantly full, she was warm and, just now, safe from the threat of Miles and Arno and Fitzmorton. Suddenly the women lurking about their hut, eager for a glimpse of the mercenary, were almost amusing. She looked over to Gunnar and smirked.
“What is it?” He was lifting his bowl of milk and stopped, frowning back at her.
“You,” Rose retorted. He narrowed his eyes at her, and that seemed even funnier. Was it really so simple to breach his legendary tranquillity? Or mayhap Gunnar Olafson had had a bad day.
For no sensible reason that made her laugh.
“Me?” He watched her giggling to herself, and his suspicion turned to bemusement. It was a rare day when Gunnar Olafson was the source of a woman’s hilarity.
“The way they look at you—the women. You are like a giant flower, Gunnar, and they are the silly bees and butterflies that come to smell the scent and try and sip the nectar. You spoil them for all the other flowers in the field.”
One of his eyebrows rose and he waited patiently while she pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to prevent the little spurts of laughter from escaping. This was madness, and she knew it, and yet the laughter was bubbling up inside her like a boiling pot, and try as she might, she could not keep it down. If Constance were here she’d tell Rose to take a deep breath.
Gunnar had leaned back, his hands folded comfortably behind his head. He appeared so relaxed, but Rose no longer believed it. It was pretense, another lie. A man like Gunnar Olafson would never be able to truly relax. She wondered how much longer it would be before another of the Mere women found an excuse to return. More milk? More fish? More of that nasty green seaweed?
She had to laugh again, but now her stomach was beginning to hurt.
“Are you jealous, Rose? Is that it?”
That stopped her. Sobered her instantly. Rose sat up and gulped in a deep breath of smoky air, wiping her streaming eyes with her sleeve. But the dried salt in the cloth stung them and they only watered the more.
“Hardly,” she mocked, pressing her fingers to her eyes and blinking hard. “I am not such a simpleton as that, Captain.”
“And what is wrong about admiring the way a man looks? Men admire women all the time.” He had leaned forward slightly, and now there was a glint in his eyes that made her nervous.
Rose sniffed. “Is that what you call it? Admiration? The poor creatures would spin in circles if you asked them to!”
“And you would not?” he retorted, shifting closer. There was something in his voice, a warning, and Rose glanced at him sideways. “Well, lady?”
“No, I would not! Some women are more gullible than others. And I know that men are not to be trusted, Captain—if I did not know it before then I surely know it now. Men do not feel as women do, you see. Their hearts are colder, harder. Like the sword you wear strapped to your hip, men use their hearts to wound, Captain, and sometimes the wound is fatal.”
Gunnar seemed puzzled by her intensity as he stared at her across the smoky firelit room. “I can see you truly believe every word you say. Is it a lesson, lady, taught to you when you were young?”
She paled but could not find a reply. She had given too much of herself away already.
His voice went on—a soft, mesmerizing murmur. “My father would lie down and die to protect my mother. He would fight an army to keep her safe. Is that not feeling deeply, lady?”
Was that true? Or was it another lie?
“Lord Radulf would howl like a wolf who has lost his mate if anything happened to his Lily. He told me once that she is his moon, that she lights his way. Is that not feeling deeply, lady?”
“You are twisting my words.”
“How so? I am simply showing you that you are wrong. Maybe there are men like those you mention, but not all.”
“You show me two men who care for their women,” Rose retorted. “How many does that leave who do not?”
“And you judge all men by the actions of a few, lady.”
Rose frowned at him, a
nnoyed that he was smiling at her as if he had won the argument. He was wrong and she was right, and she knew it. That was all that mattered. So she shrugged her shoulder indifferently and said, “How can you understand? You are a man.”
“Aye, I am a man,” he repeated softly, and now there was danger in his voice. “And there are many things I understand.” She watched him uncertainly as he shifted even closer. His hand closed, large and warm, upon her knee. “I understand how much you like me to touch you,” he murmured.
She pushed his hand away. “’Tis not the same!”
“How so?” He was on his knees before her now, and she glared up into his face, but he was still smiling. Could he not see how much she hated him? “I know you like this,” he murmured, his voice deep in his chest, and bending, set his lips to hers. The taste of him, the heat of him, was nearly her undoing.