Page 74 of The Queens and the Kings (The Isles #2)
brITT
Anticipation felt like a live wire in her blood. Britt cursed it, the way it flipped her stomach, tilted her balance. She felt like she rode a ship on its side, and her whole world waited to feel normal again.
Finally, the rowboat docked. Denerfen chirruped from her neck, seeking.
Stenberg men and women poured out of the rowboat and onto the dock, heading toward the smoking fires of the market. Children secure back on the mainland vessels, these islanders returned to fight, pack their belongings, or find lost friends. Tears, sniffles, and muted fears accompanied them.
Once the speedy rowboat emptied, she hopped onto the dock.
No port authority waited to glower her into submission.
Sunrise belted the distant sky, lightening the smoky and vague shadows.
The sounds of battle had faded into a breathless question.
From her vantage, she glimpsed the high, sealstone streets and winding cobblestone roads.
Barren.
Near-destitute.
No vendors accosted her as she neared the shore. No one shouted for her to purchase something, or raced away from a storm. Pedr hadn’t emerged from his quarters in the hours she’d shuttled islanders away from danger. She didn’t dare return.
Britt stepped onto land, barefoot, with Henrik’s name on the tip of her tongue. How perfect the irony. The first time she sprinted down this dock, she fled Henrik. This time, she couldn’t find him fast enough.
Her heart hammered as she carried her fears for his life with her off the dock. Her forward momentum stalled as she pondered where to go next. The battle appeared to be over. The calamity and noise had ceased.
Where would Henrik be? In the thick of it, probably.
A deep voice called her name.
“Britt!”
Whirling to the right, her heart stalled in her throat.
Henrik!
He jogged toward her, an intent, concerned expression on his face. He studied her as he dashed across distance between them. Despite a little sweat, blood, and dirt, he appeared no worse for wear.
“Henrik!”
Her breathy exclamation carried terror and relief, concern and admiration. But she didn’t care. The time for analysis and stress over Henrik had come to an end—life was too short for this uncertainty.
He slowed.
She threw herself into his arms.
He caught her, arms wrapped firmly around her back, and swamped her with the smell of the sea and everything she longed for. Her time with wyverns vanished. Her fear for his life dissipated. Of course he was fine . Henrik was a soldat. A survivor.
He swung them around in the sand, wrapping her in impossibly strong arms. Everything righted. Her world tipped back into balance as she braced her hands around his cheeks.
“You’re fine?” he asked, holding her gaze.
She nodded.
“You?”
“Fine,” he confirmed and lowered her to the ground. Laughing, he reached into her hair, tapping Denerfen on the snout as he emerged. “Ta to you, too.”
He cheeped.
She kept her hands on Henrik’s shoulders.
“Einar?”
“Also fine.”
Relief weakened her tense shoulders. “Is His Glory gone?”
“Gone.”
Her jaw dropped. “Truly?”
Chuckling, he put a hand under her jaw and said, “Einar made certain of it. I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Everything. But first.”
He pulled her into him, tilting her world off axis again. Her arms turned to jelly as his hot lips claimed hers. A kiss so gentle and searching belied Henrik’s simmering ferocity. There was a step beyond longing and care in his touch. Beyond this moment. Beyond fears.
All insecurities bled away as she sank into his warmth, the security of his arms.
He cared.
Oh, how he cared.
He chuckled as they reluctantly separated, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and tightened his hold for several thrumming, long heartbeats. She felt utterly encompassed. Safe. Nothing in the world could break beyond Henrik.
Nothing at all.
Someone cleared their throat.
Britt’s eyes blew open, catching a glimpse of a gray-haired man before Henrik turned, pushing Britt behind him. As quickly, he relaxed, reached for her arm, and pulled her forward again.
An inquisitive man peered at her, head tilted to the side. There wasn’t much to him. Slight, but tall. A reedy man, hollowed out with age. Wrinkles lined his intelligent face.
“Ingemar, this is Britt.”
Ingemar’s brow rose. He smiled. “Britt. A pleasure.”
Britt inclined her head.
Ingemar’s curious gaze lingered for only a moment more before he said to Henrik, “We are fifteen minutes away from Arvid’s speech to the sailors, soldats, and those still on Stenberg.
We have asked individuals to make copies of what he says, and then send it to their friends on the boats.
We will, of course, have an official record,” he added, with some gentleness, “but we will not prevent others from telling.”
Britt’s heart swelled. She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “So it’s over?”
Ingemar nodded.
“Now, the hard work begins. Come, both of you. Having you there at Arvid’s acceptance speech will be very important. Whether Henrik accepts the truth or not, he has been a very trusted figure in this resistance, and having him at Arvid’s side will allay the fears of many citizens.”