Page 11 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo

The inside of his own mouth dried as he alertly watched her savor the bite of stew. His hand dropped from his chest to cover his lap.

“Mmmmmm,” she moaned with overwrought appreciation. “It’sextradelicious today.”

Disturbed by his body’s reaction to her, he crossed his legs and covered the moan of pain the movement caused him.

“You must have some nourishment in order to heal.” Her eyes became pools of concern. “Is there nothing that could entice you to eat? What would it take?”

“Your name…” The words escaped before he’d properly formed the thought.

She blinked rapidly, the bowl in her hand threatening to spill when she trembled. She turned peach rather than pink when she blushed. He stored that away for future reference.

“Lorelai. My name is Lady Lorelai Weatherstoke.”

Lorelai.He couldn’t bring himself to repeat it. The name was too lovely. Too lyrical. He needed to practice first. To test it by himself before addressing her.

“Are you a man of your word?” she asked.

His heart stalled. “What do you mean?”Washe a man of his word? He had an ominous feeling that he was not.

“You said you would eat.”

“Oh… yes.” That he could do. In fact, he realized then and there that he would never break a promise to Lorelai. He’d keep his word to her, or die trying.

She dipped the spoon, crafted a bite, and lifted it to his lips.

As he took it, she unconsciously mimed the action of eating, opening her mouth and then closing it to mirror him. Swallowing when he did as if to teach him how.

She transfixed him so utterly, he didn’t even taste the food until the second bite.

She’d been telling the truth. It was very good. The soup consisted of dark, briny meat, sweet carrots, and was thickened with potatoes, herbs, and a luxurious taste he couldn’t identify. Something told him he wasn’t used to decent food.

His tongue lingered against the spoon. Pondering what he considered the illicit intimacy of sharing the utensil. Of tasting what she’d tasted. Of putting his mouth where hers had been.

Perhapsshe’dbeen the secret ingredient all along.

“You’re probably wondering what makes this broth so scrumptious,” she guessed.

He blinked at her. She couldn’t read minds, could she? He dismissed the ridiculous notion right away. If so, she’d have run screaming from the room already.

He found that in order to swallow, he couldn’t look at her lips, her eyes, her hair, her throat, below her throat or… well, anywhere, really. He affixed his focus to the tiny bob dangling from her lobe. It danced and twinkled in the light of the lone candle, a diamond floating on a disk of iridescent blues and greens and pink. Crafted from a shell, maybe?

She reached out another bite to him, and a discoloration on her wrist snagged his attention. A faded bruise showed beneath the delicate lace of her sleeves. A purple tinge barely visible beneath an unsightly yellow. Had she hurt herself?

“It’s salt,” she revealed cryptically.

“It’s what?” He forgot himself long enough for her to plunge the spoon into his mouth once again, forcing him to chew.

“Black Water salt is thebestin the world, and the rarest. It’s so difficult to render, that there isn’t much of it, but we locals have our ways.” She gifted him an impish wink and he nearly choked.

Lorelai.Her name had as many curls as the unruly flaxen hair spilling past her shoulders. Shorter wisps fringed about her face like a halo. How apropos. With such a lovely name, why would they…?

“Why do they call you Duck?”

She paled, even in the golden light. “You don’t know?”

He flushed along with her, wishing he could take it back. Or scoop out his own tongue with the spoon. Anything to avoid the shimmer of mortification in her eyes.

It had something to do with her uneven gait. He should have surmised that.