It was his stomach that voiced a rejection. It churned, unwilling to accept what Rurik might be willing to do to mete out justice. He had never considered harming a woman or an invalid. The years since the massacre had wrought many changes in him, most of them bad. He had kidnapped, held a weapon on an innocent and many other things he would rather have missed out on in his life. Was he really prepared to add more atrocities to the list?
He hoped not to find out and clenched his jaw to hide his hesitation. The breath he had been holding slowly released when she reached behind her and closed the door. His hand kept its grip on the dagger, but his muscles relaxed, leaving his limbs numb with relief.
‘Come and sit down.’ He gestured towards the bed. ‘Wilfrid and I have been having an interesting discussion.’
She did as he asked, closing the door and taking halting steps across the room. He allowed himself a moment to admire the upward tilt of her chin, the flaming hair that escaped her plait to sweep around her shoulders and the determined glint in her eyes. She was breathtaking. There was something about her—her strength, her innate integrity—that combined with her very pleasing looks to make her special.
Like someone he could care about very much given different circumstances. Or, perhaps, someone he might be coming to care about anyway, despite the circumstances. No, that could not be right. It must be that he was mistaking respect for genuine affection. That made more sense. He could respect her while still maintaining that she was an enemy.
Of their own accord his eyes dropped to her lips as the memory of their kiss caused an echo of his earlier desire to flare to life in his belly. She drew herself up when she saw him, the very sharp-looking dagger held before her, limbs braced for action.
When she was close enough, he reached out to take the sharp dagger from her, but she pulled it back. He could not blame her. Not when he knew the actions he would resort to if needed. Respect for her increased yet again in the tiniest measure. Inclining his head, he allowed her to keep it for now. He did not want to fight her for it and alert Wilfrid that something was wrong. The house was at rest and he would keep it that way while he could until he got some answers.
‘What has he told you?’ Her eyes were wide and focused, never leaving Rurik’s, as she sat lightly on the bed. It was clear that she was ready to jump up and defend both herself and Wilfrid if needed.
‘How long has he been like this?’ Rurik asked.
Wilfrid, who had gone back to studying the table game, looked up. ‘Annis,’ he said, although it came out as one syllable with the sounds all running together. As if his speech was not to his satisfaction, Wilfrid slapped a hand on the table and gave one hard shake of his head.
Rurik glanced from Annis to the old man, taking in the lines of strain around his mouth and the deep grooves that time and pain had carved into his forehead. His hair was almost purely white and, though it was thin, it stuck out at all angles. As if noticing Rurik’s censure and determined to present her father-in-law in the best light, Annis reached over and smoothed it down on his pink scalp. The man gave her a lopsided smile filled with obvious affection.
The simple action—her touching him with such affection and the warmth with which it was received—stirred something in Rurik’s chest. He ought to look away from the tender act, but he could not risk that when she sat right there with her dagger ready. He had made the mistake of underestimating her once. The pain in his nose could attest to that. It would not happen again. The sharp bite of fury raced up to replace the tenderness. This man had ruined lives in Maerr. He was not entitled to Rurik’s leniency.
Rurik met Annis’s gaze. ‘How long?’ His voice was sharper.
She swallowed and glanced away, hesitant to answer. Finally, she said, ‘A series of brain attacks have whittled away his abilities over the past several years.’
‘But how long has he been witless?’
She looked as if he had slapped her. Rage mottled her face and her eyes turned as hard as marbles. ‘He is not witless! He is a superb player of hnefatafl, routinely besting us still.’ She gestured towards the game they were playing. Realising that her voice was raised, she stopped talking and looked over to Wilfrid who was examining them both in suspicion. In a great display of restraint, she nodded to him as if to tell him things were fine and reached over to the board.
‘Here,’ she said, taking up one of the game pieces before Rurik. ‘Your task as opponent is to trap his King—this piece—’ she pointed ‘—into one of the upper corners.’ Her well-shaped fingers placed a figurine on another square and Wilfrid grumbled. It had apparently been a good move.
The older man did not immediately move his King or any of the other pieces. Instead, he looked at the people before him, his keen gaze going from Annis to Rurik and back again. Finally, he mumbled something that sounded like, ‘Tell him.’
Rurik stared at him. He had to wonder if ‘witless’ was an apt description for Wilfrid. In those two words, he revealed that his mind was still active even if his person was starting to rebel against him. ‘Yes, tell me, Lady Annis.’
She breathed out through her nose in frustration. The dagger lay across her lap, where her fingers worried with it. ‘Several years ago he had a brain attack. Since then he has had many others. They
