Page 14 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
Why did she have to be beautiful? ’Twas as distracting as her personality. He wanted to despise her. To be able to walk away from the locked door and not feel guilty about it. But the more time he spent with her, the more he knew that would be a problem. “As a prisoner, ye dinna have the leverage to bargain.”
“On the contrary, my laird, I’ve something ye want verra much.” She twirled a tendril of hair, the most fascinating color he’d ever encountered. It was dark brown enough to be almost black, yet streaks of red wove their way in an out like a fairy had run her fingers through the long strands.
Beiste spread his legs out, stretching, and crossed his arms over his chest. He pulled his gaze from her hair and focused on the tiny cleft in her cheek. “Ye’re clever. Stubborn.” What did they call that? A dimple? ’Twas the wrong place to look, because he simply wanted to touch it.
She shrugged dainty shoulders. “I am my mother’s daughter.” Then she flashed her gaze at him. “A Viking.”
Why she sought to remind him, he wasn’t certain. Needless to say, he was running out of time. “What do ye want in exchange for the information?”
She squared her shoulders, sensing that his patience was beginning to wear thin. “I want ye to give me your oath.”
Beiste narrowed his eyes. “In regards to?”
Her chin came up, jutting out in defiance. “My brother. Erik.”
Beiste could toy with her, but the flicker in her eyes only told him that she was terrified about her brother’s safety. And from what he’d just learned, the man behind her parents’ and his own father’s death was currently holding her brother hostage, if he wasn’t dead already.
“All right, I promise to go to Castle Gloom. To get him back.”
“And when ye do, I will tell ye about the sword.”
Beiste slapped his knees, growling, “Nay, nay, nay. Ye simply said my oath.”
Her hand smacked the wooden floor. “Your oath of his safe return.”
“Aye. Words.” He wanted to throw his hands in the air.
“Words that must be put into action.” She slowly stood, sliding up the wall to hold herself steady he presumed. “I will gladly surrender my life in order to gain my brother’s safety. Take it, if ye must.”
What in heavens? Did she truly believe he was capable of killing for no reason? “And if I dinna want to take it?”
“That is your choice, but I would die for him.”
Beiste let out a slow breath. The room suddenly felt very tight and sticky. “Ye’re a brave lass.”
She walked toward him on unsteady legs, tiny boots peeking from beneath the hem of her dirty, torn gown.
“When was the last time ye ate?” he asked.
“I dinna know.”
“Eat. Drink. Rest.” He stood from the chair and reached out his hand to her.
She stared at his hand, her pallor fading. Beiste caught her just as she stumbled forward. She was light in his arms, warm, her curves pressed against him. Her breath was soft, slow against the nape of his neck.
He would have expected her heart to be pounding, her breaths heavy, but she was surprisingly steady, even if she didn’t have a handle on standing upright. He chalked that up to lack of sustenance. This was no damsel in distress.
Beiste guided her to the chair, reluctantly letting her go. He repeated himself. “Eat. Drink. Rest. I will go to Castle Gloom. I will bring Erik back and then ye will tell me about the sword.”
She leaned back in the chair and he poured her a cup of watered wine, holding it to her lips. The lass drank greedily, draining the cup.
Beiste frowned down at the food. ’Twas obvious she was starving. “Do ye need me to feed ye?”
“Would ye?” she asked, her eyes teasing. The corner of her lips lifted as though she wished to laugh but did not quite have the energy for it.
“I would.” God help him, what was happening? Him feeding her? “If ye required it.” What in bloody…? The lass had turned him into a sap within half an hour…
“I can manage.” She sat up a little straighter, grabbing hold of a hunk of chicken and shoving it ravenously into her mouth. She barely chewed before swallowing and then grabbed another piece. “This is good,” she murmured around another mouthful. “Please give my compliments to your cook.”
