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Chapter Three

Oskar

He woke up at the crack of dawn, as was his wont, peeling himself away from the muddy soil at the entrance of the cave with a groan.

As he retrieved his bow and arrows, Oskar glanced over his shoulder, his lips twisting in derision at the sight of the still form curled up by the pearwood trunk. If he knew anything about the upper crust, it would be hours yet before Miss Guinevere bothered to rise.

Although it was understandable that she needed her rest, after what she’d gone through…

His sneer faded. It had been an automatic reaction, borne of his general contempt for all the fancy lords and ladies who treated those of his ilk as though they were dirt.

He’d assumed Guinevere was no different when she acted like he was going to steal the damn trunk, but then she’d apologized—so timidly yet earnestly—after he’d said those harsh words to her.

Oskar conceded that he could probably be nicer.

He made his way through the morning mist, retracing his steps to the ashen remains of his former campsite.

He was pleasantly surprised to find that at least one of his packs had survived the fire.

Not the one with the food and waterskins, of course, because that would have been too lucky, but his clothes were safe, as was the letter from his mother’s clan in Boroftkrah.

Driven by the compulsion to assure himself that it really was in one piece, he carefully took the worn paper out of its envelope and read what he had already committed to memory: a few terse lines in a clumsy scrawl, footnoted by a red wax seal engraved with a snarling panther that was the emblem of Clan Stormfang.

We grieve to hear of Idun’s passing. Her son is welcome at our hearth. Come soon. This seal grants you safe passage through the Wildlands.

His mother had been a woman of few words, and it seemed her relatives were no different. But he knew that they were sincere. He was their last link to Idun—and they his.

With a muttered curse, Oskar pinched the bridge of his nose, staving off the sting of oncoming tears.

The searing pain of his mother’s death had mostly receded to a dull ache over the last few months, but it occasionally snuck up on him, and it always felt like he was realizing for the first time that he would never see her again.

His shoulders squared, and he walled his grief away—slowly, methodically, with the discipline of one who woke at first light every morning.

Oskar had gone straight to his shift at the blacksmith’s after burying his mother, else the unreasonable man cut him loose. He didn’t have the luxury to mourn. Not then, and certainly not now.

There was a problem that he needed to deal with.

The problem was still asleep when Oskar returned with breakfast, the sun high in the sky.

Indeed, Guinevere did not wake until the rabbit was crisp and golden on the spit that Oskar had rigged up over a fire constructed with dry leaves from the cave floor, branches relatively dry despite last night’s rain, his tinderbox, and a whole lot of prayer.

Head bent over the task of turning the spit, he heard rather than saw her daintily step out of the cave, only the most fragile twigs snapping beneath her ridiculously impractical satin slippers.

“Good morning,” she called out, in that polite, melodious voice of hers that was as pure as a glass bell. “Something smells positively delicious— in the name of the six approved gods! ”

Oskar looked up.

He hadn’t let Guinevere’s physical attributes sink in the previous evening, as preoccupied as he’d been with keeping her alive.

But he was paying attention now. She was a short woman, with clear skin as lustrous as copper.

Her thick hair wasn’t merely blond; it was so pale as to be almost the color of moonlight, stylishly chopped strands of it covering most of her forehead while the rest spilled down to her waist in a silvery cascade.

Her eyes were too big for her heart-shaped face, their crystalline color an arresting shade of violet.

She was beautiful, in that otherworldly, untouchable kind of way that sent musicians and poets into paroxysms of delight. Which made what Oskar saw from the neck down even more jarring.

In all honesty, what couldn’t he see? Not even the mud and soot staining her long-sleeved, ankle-length nightgown could detract from the fact that it was still somewhat damp and far too thin, clinging to every curve of her lush body.

The combination of ethereal beauty and earthy sensuality was too much for Oskar. It was like someone had conked him over the head with an anvil. Thus, it took him an embarrassingly long while to realize that Guinevere was staring at the skinned, dressed carcass on the spit with alarm.

“What is that?” she whispered.

He followed her line of sight. It was several beats before he could remember what the animal was called.

“Rabbit,” he grunted.

He doused the fire and helped himself, giving the meat scarce opportunity to cool before slicing into it with his dagger. The gamy flesh burnt his tongue, but chewing it gave him something to do that wasn’t ogling his accidental companion.

Guinevere sat across from him—decorously, her knees tucked together and her legs to the side. She looked like she was about to faint, and it prickled his curiosity. “Haven’t you ever had rabbit before?”

“I—I have,” she stammered. “Stews, terrines…”

In porcelain dishes, he silently filled in, with jeweled forks, on linen-clothed tables decorated with fresh flowers.

Maybe the butter’s carved into the shape of a swan—or is that too gauche?

At any rate, Miss Guinevere had certainly never eaten freshly slaughtered rabbit from a crude spit while sitting on the forest floor with a blacksmith’s apprentice who was actually little more than a glorified chimney sweep.

Oskar’s thoughts came racing in fast and soured his mood, which had not been that cheery to begin with.

He hacked off a generous portion of the roast, telling himself that he wasn’t selecting the tenderest part of the animal on purpose, and handed it to her with an air of challenge.

She glanced around surreptitiously, and he knew, he just knew, that if she asked him where he’d washed his hands before eating, he was going to snap at her…

Guinevere straightened her spine and took the chunk of rabbit saddle from him. Her expression couldn’t have been more determined if she were marching into battle, and he suddenly felt more like laughing than snapping.

“Thank you, Oskar.”

She said it so prettily. Pretty, too, was the way she ate—in small bites, like a proper lady at a fancy banquet, rather than the bedraggled survivor of a bandit raid gnawing game off a stick on the forest floor.

Her bow-shaped lips pursed delicately around each tiny morsel of flesh, her pink tongue darting out to lick glistening juices from her fingertips.

Oskar stared and stared, then cursed himself and scowled.