Her hair was loose and luxuriously thick, falling over her shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot and round looking up at him with caution.
He felt ill because of it. He didn’t want her to be afraid of him or to not trust him.
“Are you hungry?” he asked softly, not moving when she stepped closer, closing the door behind her.
“What did you have in mind?”
Her breath fell against his chin. He had the urge to put his arms around her and draw her in closer. “Some pheasant with roasted mushrooms in some kind of honeyed sauce.”
“That actually sounds very good.”
He nodded and smiled at her. He hated to step away, but he didn’t want her to think he was going to jump on her at any moment.
He walked with her and called to a passing servant. “Have our supper brought to my library.”
“The library?” she asked, looking up at him while they walked. “You really know how to charm a girl.”
“I hope to prove to you that I am not an ogre.”
“Beast, fromBeauty and the Beasthad a library.”
“Who?”
She smiled. “It’s a story from the eighteenth century written by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve.” She told him about the story, and he laughed to think of himself as the beast. She was most certainly the beauty though.
He liked the library. He didn’t come here enough. Once he put some wood in the hearth and started a fire, it was cozy. There were books set neatly on shelves, opened on a chair, piled on a table. “What did you get to look at last night?”
“Monmouth of course. I was impressed to see some Christine de Pizan in your collection. She was innovative and challenged male writers of misogyny in their literary works.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know about all that. I have only readThe Book of Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry, so far. And for a book about warfare written by a woman, ’tis quite good.”
“Hmm.” She looked him up and down. “Maybe you’re not an ogre after all. But I cannot come to any premature conclusions.”
They ate, with Nicholas’ appetite fully restored, and drank fine wine. They gave up their chairs for blankets on the floor. Her idea, not his. They read in front of the hearth from Monmouth’sHistory of British Kings. There were many, according to this work, including Constantine, Vortigen, Uther, but Nicholas opened book eleven and read from chapter two.
“And even the renowned king Arthur himself was mortally wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avallon to be cured of his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine, the son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second year of our Lord’s incarnation.”
“What?” Kestrel blinked and sat up straight. “Why did you read that part?Thatin particular?”
“I…I don’t know.” And he didn’t. He’d never read past book six. “I just opened there by chance.”
“No. There’s no by chance. One of my roommates’ name is Constantine. I wonder if he has a part to play in this.”
“He is not here,” he pointed out woodenly.
She stared at him for a moment and then smiled behind her hand.
“What?” he insisted.
“You’re jealous.”
“Ha!” he mocked. “I do not get jealous. And besides, we hardly know each other.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she quipped. “You’re jealous, and you were jealous this afternoon with your lieutenant.”
“You have a lively imagination.”
Her smile faltered. “Nicholas, you know I’m telling the truth about how I got here.”