Otherworld Challenger. Jane Godman
ankle. It probably wouldn’t hurt to give himself regular warnings while he was in such close proximity to her.
“Speaking of tight schedules, I expect you’re wondering why I’ve made this detour when Cal wants the challenger found urgently.” Why was he explaining himself to her? She had chosen to tag along. It wasn’t like he’d invited her.
“It crossed my mind.”
“There is someone here I need to see. Someone who may be able to help with this mission.” Vashti was clearly waiting for him to say more, but that was enough for now. It felt like too much. It felt like intimacy. Something Jethro didn’t do. “I’ll show you to your room.”
Her tiny, indrawn breath as he released her and rose indicated Vashti had also felt something more than their usual antagonism. Damn. Coming home was supposed to make life less complicated. Coming home and bringing an achingly beautiful faerie princess for company was starting to look like it might have the opposite effect.
* * *
Vashti awoke from a sleep so deep it felt like she was being pulled down into quicksand. Fighting her way to the surface, she became conscious of two things. The smell of fresh-baked bread and the sound of tuneless humming. Both seemed to be coming from the kitchen, which was directly below her room. She lay still for a few minutes, gradually allowing the memories of the last few days to infiltrate her lethargy. With the recollection of Iago came a resurgence of her aches and pains and she groaned, levering herself out of bed. There was a mirror over the dresser and a glance at her reflection confirmed the worst. Her face was an interesting array of bruises.
As she dragged on her clothes, every muscle screamed in protest. Remind me again why I was so keen to be the one to accompany Jethro on this mission? She peered inquiringly into the mirror once more, directing the question to her battered reflection. Oh, I remember now. It’s my duty. I need to see this through for the sake of my people. Once this challenger is found, the faerie dynasty will be plunged into a bloody civil war. I know my father well enough to be certain of that. He will not go without a fight. And I wanted to make Jethro de Loix suffer. He accused me of helping Moncoya escape from justice. I owe him a little pain, and how better to cause that than by inflicting my presence upon him? She winced as she moved toward the door. So why the hell am I the one hurting?
Navigating the spiral staircase felt like she was descending one of the great mountains around Valhalla. Used to her well-trained limbs doing exactly what she wanted them to, Vashti was impatient of injury. After the battle for control of Otherworld, she had been close to death. It was only through the skill of the faerie doctors and Tanzi’s patient nursing that she had survived. It had not been through her cooperation or adherence to their instructions.
She found Jethro in the kitchen. This was the biggest room in the house, running the entire length of the rear of the property with spectacular views across the bay to the mainland. Vashti blinked in surprise at the sight of him removing a loaf of bread from the range oven.
“You should have stayed in bed.” He looked up in surprise as she limped into the room.
“If I did, how would we find the challenger?”
“We are not going to find the challenger. I’m going to find the challenger and you are going to watch me.” The familiar arrogance was back in his tone.
“While serving up a delicious meal?” She gestured to the bread.
The arrogance vanished and was replaced by a smile that was almost—she hesitated to use the word in relation to Jethro—shy. “My mother used to bake. It’s therapeutic.” He pointed to another loaf standing on a cooling rack. “Want to try some?”
Vashti’s stomach gave an enormous rumble in response, and she tried to remember the last time she’d eaten. It was on the plane when the flight attendant had been so attentive to Jethro while casting an occasional dismissive glance in her direction. She nodded and, within minutes, she was seated at the vast, scrubbed table with a cup of steaming coffee and a plate of bread and butter in front of her.
“You do not strike me as the domesticated type.”
Jethro lounged in a chair opposite hers, his long legs extended in front of him. He wore a white shirt and his biceps stretched the thin material of the rolled-up sleeves to its limits. The V shape of the buttons left open at his chest revealed dark hair. His broad chest tapered to a narrow waist and flat stomach. He had obviously recently showered since his still-wet hair hung loose and slightly wavy below his collar. The crisp scent of citrus reached Vashti’s appreciative nostrils. Big, dark and dangerous, he invaded her senses. Domesticated was about the last word she would have applied to him.
“You can’t see me in a flowered apron?”
She pretended to consider the matter, tilting her head to one side. “Not flowered, no.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “But you do see me in an apron? Now that’s an interesting fantasy, princess.”
Vashti, who had taken a bite of bread and butter, choked as his meaning dawned on her. At least dealing with the coughing and the streaming eyes gave her time to consider how to respond. She decided the best plan was not to respond. To pretend she hadn’t heard or she didn’t understand what he meant. That sort of banter was probably like breathing to Jethro. All that thrumming masculinity needed an outlet and any woman, even one he disliked as intensely as Vashti, would do. At least the redness of her face could be ascribed to her mild choking fit and not extreme embarrassment at the image—vivid and suddenly very tempting—of Jethro in an apron and nothing else.
“What’s the plan for today?” Vashti asked when she had gained control over her voice.
“Yours should be to rest.” Jethro’s gaze skimmed the bruises on her face.
“Can we skip the bit where we pretend that might happen?”
He paused in the act of gathering the empty coffee cups. “Have you ever listened to advice from another person?”
“Only one.”
“Moncoya?”
Vashti shook her head. “I used to do as he asked if it was also what I wanted. But my father and I are equally stubborn.” A slight smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “Our fights were legendary. No, when we were children, Tanzi and I had a nurse who cared for us. She was probably the only person I listened to.”
Jethro’s expression was inscrutable. “It sounds like you were fond of her.”
She gazed out across the dark blue water. The memories—or rather the recollections of which they’d been deprived...the mother they’d never known—didn’t get any easier. “We both were. Our mother wasn’t around, you see. At the time we believed she’d left our father when we were babies. Now we know he murdered her when she tried to leave and take us with her. Rina was the closest thing we had to a mother.”
“Rina?”
Vashti turned back to look at him. There was a slight frown in Jethro’s eyes, as though he was searching for something just out of reach. “Our nurse. Her name was Rina.” The frown persisted. “What is it?”
“That name. It seems familiar, but I can’t place why.”
“It is unusual, but not unique.”
He nodded, the frown clearing. “If it’s important, I suppose it’ll come back to me. Now, back to your question about plans for today. If you insist on coming with me, we’re going visiting.”
* * *
When they reached the sleepy mainland town of Darwen, Jethro left the motorbike close to the town square, complete with its decorative bandstand, and led Vashti along the main street. He carried a small, flat box made of polished wood, but didn’t reveal its contents. The street boasted a handful of shops and a few bars and restaurants. A sign outside one invited them to a cider tasting evening. Another boasted it served the best lobster in town.
Vashti was conscious