Page 55 of The Cornish Princess
His lips lifted at one corner. “What do you think?” He bared a sharp, pointy tooth, licking it suggestively. What did Gwendolyn think indeed—what did she really think?
She thought him a wretch and a contemptuous beast. But since he didn’t bother acknowledging the question behind her barb, she refrained from answering, and thereafter said nothing more. All the while, he sat chewing on a short whip of reed.
Gwendolyn wondered if he was hungry, and for an instant, considered sharing her prunes, but decided he didn’t deserve any. She pointed to the reed between his lips and asked with no small measure of disdain, “So, is this how you sharpen your teeth?”
Her question only seemed to amuse him, and he responded with a chuckle, the sound dark and rich. But then he said, “Indeed.” And again, grinned, once again baring his teeth, and chomping loudly. “Better to defend you,Princess.”
Again with that tone.
Gwendolyn shuddered. Considering he could rip out a man’s throat with those teeth, it wasn’t a jest. There was something about him—something primeval—that Gwendolyn persistently ignored, even despite sensing she shouldn’t.
“I am not your princess,” she reminded him.
“Ah, but you are… for the time being.”
Gwendolyn lifted a brow. “For the time being?”
Málik shrugged. “Till the gods determine else wise.”
“Gods!” Gwendolyn scoffed. “More like, till you’ve found a better appointment, and a bigger purse?” She slid him a withering glance. “I should make it easy for you. You are not needed here, Málik Danann!”
“Am I not?”
His tone was glib, though Gwendolyn had a sudden sense that, for once, her words had cut him. He averted his gaze, continuing to chew his reed.
Why should she care whether he was wounded?
Málik was neither kin nor kith, and Gwendolyn still hadn’t been able to determine what had brought him to Trevena—and less so, why he should attach himself to someone who loathed him as much as he loathed her. To put it precisely, Gwendolyn didn’t trust him. But lacking the patience to spar with him, she, too, averted her gaze.
“We’ll continue,” she said. “There’ll be another ‘good place’ soon.”
“As you wish,” he said, without looking at her, and Gwendolyn endeavored to ignore him, keeping her eyes on the road.
These days, there were so few brigands along these parts. They were scarce as wolves. But, if there were any to be encountered, they would be found along this stretch of road, where merchants sometimes gathered to peddle their wares—though not in a long time.
No matter, Gwendolyn wasn’t overly concerned. As annoying as Málik was, she knew he could cut a man to bits as skillfully with his blade as he could with his words.
Or his teeth.
Resigning herself to a full night’s discomfort, she sighed.
Regrettably, because of her haste to leave the city, she hadn’t planned well enough for this journey, and despite knowing Málik would have, it galled her to have to depend on him perforce, yet this was what she got for keeping a head full of intrigue. But at least she had her prunes, and if she must, she could endure the entire journey with little more, especially knowing her uncle would greet them with plenty.
They traveled in silence, and only for an instant, she dared to look at Málik in profile. He had a generous mouth and an aquiline nose. He carried his head high, and the golden light gave his silvery mane a warm hue that it didn’t normally possess. His skin was pale, though not too pale, his lashes inky black, and it almost appeared as though he wore kohl about his eyes—eyes that were slitted now as he assessed their surroundings. But no matter that he didn’t look at Gwendolyn again, she felt his scrutiny regardless—enough so that she belatedly realized she was staring and was chagrined. At once she averted her gaze, and to her utter dismay, she heard him chuckle.
Blood and bones. It was going to be a long, insufferable night!
ChapterTwenty
Naturally, because it was the shortest route, they chose the Small Road along the high, sloping moors. At intervals, this road veered east to avoid the worst of the crags, intercepted here and there by patches of woodland. Yet no matter how far east one ventured, the sound of the ocean was a constant roar, and the sea remained a fixture upon the horizon, every now and again revealing a brightly sailed ship.
Positioned between the southern wheals and nestled along a hillside overlooking both land and sea, her uncle’s village lay beyond the Bay of Dunes, close to where the River Hayle rushed into the sea. These days, few people ventured so far south, and Duke Cunedda made certain not to give anyone a reason to do so by regularly exporting his copper and tin.
Until about three years ago, when the yields grew mean, twice every month, even during Winter, her father’s troops had ventured south, then north again, and these were the opportunities Gwendolyn seized to visit her cousins, sometimes accompanied by her father, sometimes not. However, over these past few years, because her father’s envoys were fewer and farther between, her uncle developed a series offogousbeneath his village—underground passages wherein he stored most of his yields until her father could send proper escorts for the journey north. Gwendolyn hadn’t been there since he’d begun construction of those and judging by the vanishing wheel ruts along the coastal road, it had been a long, long while since any of his yields were conveyed. Soon the path would be carpeted by rock sea-spurrey, sheep’s bit, and sea campion, the red, white, and blue of them brilliant against a carpet of green.
Gwendolyn hoped this didn’t mean the southern wheals were exhausted, and she made note to ask her uncle about them, although, no doubt this was the reason for the missive in her satchel—an inquiry over the state of the Crown Wheals. It was no wonder her father hadn’t balked over her request to travel. With the aldermen so distressed over the Treasury, she’d given him the perfect means to inquire over the southern wheals without raising alarms.
The journey would take maybe two days, but they made good time, and neither of the accompanying guards complained at all about spending the entire evening in a saddle.
