Again.
Whatever.
I stomped to four feet away from him and stopped.
“I take it you’re my guard,” I guessed.
His eyes moved over my face, lingering on the bruise at my cheek (whatever!) before stopping on mine. “Yes, madam, myself and the seven men outside.”
Seven men?
That seemed like a lot which didn’t bode good things.
I didn’t share these musings with him.
I introduced myself, of a sort. “I take it you know I’m Ilsa.”
“I do,” he replied.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Derrik,” he answered.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I snapped.
His eyes lit and his lips twitched.
I found this a bizarre reaction, so I asked, “Is that funny?”
“Yes, seeing as you said kind words you so obviously didn’t mean and I’m not entirely certain what I’ve done in the last three seconds to earn your ire, having done nothing but stand here and greet you,” he shared.
Crap.
He hadn’t done anything. I was being rude.
I wasn’t averse to being rude if a situation warranted it, say, a telemarketer called during dinner…or ever.
But mostly I was averse to being rude.
Therefore, I decided to explain.
“I’m annoyed,” I told him. “Not at you,” I added hurriedly. “At your master, or leader…or…whoever.”
He dipped his chin and looked at me from under his brow, his voice gentling. “I am of the House of Lazarus. I trained under the House of Ulfr. Apollo and I grew close, shared a bond that was strong enough that when I would have returned to my own House, I elected to stay with him and command his men in his stead when he’s absent. I’m not in line for the Head of my House therefore it’s a good position.” He grinned and lifted his chin, not letting go of my gaze. “And the women of the House of Ulfr are more pleasing to look at and not one of them is my cousin or sister.”
At his words, I felt my own lips twitching and surmised, “So you’re his second in command.”
“Yes,” he affirmed.
I decided to take this as good, Apollo leaving his second in command. I was guessing by the way this guy’s shoulders looked in his shirt, his thighs looked in his breeches, and the casual way he carried that sword at a slant in his back, he was no pushover.
So at least the jerk gave me something.
“Do you speak French, or…um, Fleuridian?” I asked.
“Haltingly, but I can make myself understood”—he paused— “eventually.”
“That’s not much of an interpreter,” I mumbled, looking at my feet.