A new chapter of A Novel Guide to Courtship and Counterfeiting goes up tomorrow, so here's a little snippet for WIP Wednesday. :)
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In a scene that evoked imagery from chapter twenty-two of My Princely Pirate Lover, Fjord had arrived at Jester's door clad only in his nightshirt and breeches. His lips were upturned in a rakish smile, and his eyes were half-shuttered, lending a sensual quality to his gaze.
However.
Upon a second look, Jester noticed that he was barefoot, and his hair was sticking up in a half-dozen different directions. Also, the pose he’d struck against the doorframe seemed less like flirtation and more like an effort to stay upright.
“Hey. Hi.” Fjord paused, and then he added: “Hello.”
Jester blinked. She looked to Beau, who gave a shrug, and on down to Veth.
“He’s absolutely plastered,” she said in exasperation. “I got him halfway into bed, and then he decided he had something important to tell you.”
“Something important? About—?"
“Fuck if I know! You’re lucky he’s wearing trousers right now.”
“Just need two minutes,” Fjord said—as he held up four fingers. Grumbling to herself, Veth rose to her tiptoes and shoved him into the room.
“Take an hour,” she said, and she closed the door.
For WIP Wednesday, I offer an excerpt from an upcoming chapter of A Novel Guide to Courtship and Counterfeiting, which finds Revelry prince Fjord and Myriad princess Jester on a visit to Darktow.
When Jester is left feeling unwelcome due to her Myriad ties, Fjord honors his agreement to “make love to her in public.” (Well, uh . . . figuratively speaking.)
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“Everywhere we go,” Jester said, “people keep staring at me.”
“They’re just curious,” Fjord insisted, but the tiefling scoffed under her breath.
“That’s not the reason. You know that.”
Fjord watched her step back from the shop window, her attention turning to her own image in the glass. He’d feared that this would happen—that she’d finally come to Darktow, and she’d meet with the same cold reception he’d suffered as a child.
For once, he wasn’t the outcast or the stranger.
But what had he done to help her?
Since their arrival, he hadn’t so much as held Jester’s hand. He’d been so distracted, and being home again, he’d assumed the reserved manner that was expected of him. Maybe Jester thought he’d withdrawn from her on purpose.
As he dwelt on it, Fjord noticed something.
“Your bootlace has come untied,” he remarked, prompting Jester to look down at her feet. Then he said: “Here. Let me.”
With a touch on her shoulder, Fjord guided the tiefling to face him. He dropped to one knee among the stones and mud, and he gave her boot a playfully stern look, as if to admonish it for failing her. In response, Jester extended her leg toward him and pointed her toe in a manner most delicate and ladylike.
Then she hiked her skirt up a few inches, just above the top of her boots.
Fjord arched an eyebrow, watching Jester shimmy her shoulders and rustle her petticoat in the manner of a Port Damali chorus line dancer. He waited. And finally, when she least expected it, he caught her leg and guided her foot to rest on his thigh. He saw her tail swing out as a counterbalance; he heard her make a little sound of surprise.
“You need to watch your step around here,” he chided her. “People talk about the dangers of Darktow, but it isn’t the cutpurses you have to worry about. It's the shitty street maintenance.”
“It's that bad?” Jester said wonderingly, playing along. Fjord gave a grave nod.
“Oh, yes. The real horror is a twisted ankle”—and he let his hand glide down from her calf to her foot—“or a bruised shin”—and he strummed his fingers up the crosshatch of her bootlace—“or a scuffed knee. And what sort of princess has scuffed knees?”
“Not this one."
“I can see that."
Smiling slightly, Fjord began to fix the slipped laces back onto their hooks and tighten them up. With the care he applied to the task, one would think that he was lacing her corset instead—or at least, that he was quite accustomed to doing so.
“You'll have to mind the cliffs, as well,” he continued as he went along. “I don’t want to find a blue puddle at the bottom of any of them. Understood?”
“R-Right.”
Hearing that stutter, Fjord glanced up, and he caught Jester staring at him with her skirts held still in her hands. He could guess what she was thinking. From which of her romantic novels had he drawn inspiration? . . . From what hero had he learned these subtly intimate gestures? . . . .
Plot twist, motherfucker: He was making this shit up all on his own.
And now for the coup de grâce.
With a few brisk movements, Fjord tied off Jester’s bootlace in a bow. Then, he took her leg in his hands once more—and he bent forward—and he pressed his lips to her bare knee.
It was brief. It was light. It was nothing that anyone would have deemed unsuitable for the public view, if not for the way Fjord gazed up at Jester afterward. Because this was a look that said: Here is a woman who has brought a Revelry prince to kneel—and not for the first time.
A beat passed.
And another.
Then, very gently, Fjord guided Jester’s foot back to the earth. When he stood, he saw that her face was flushed dark, bringing her blue-sky complexion a shade nearer to dusk.
He leaned in close.
“If they want to stare,” he said, “let’s give them some real entertainment.”
In an upcoming chapter of A Novel Guide to Courtship and Counterfeiting, Jester and Fjord bravely tackle one of the more risqué tropes on their checklist. Things get serious . . . but this being Fjorester, things also get silly.
Here’s an excerpt!
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When Fjord was first assigned Everywhere But the Lips, he gathered that the trope entailed acts of intimacy. There was no figurative language involved, nor any room for interpretation; it was all right there in the name. Still, Jester insisted upon setting the scene for him, so that he might embrace his “motivation.”
Imagine, if you will:
“We are lovers, and we’ve just been reunited after many months apart. All that time, longing for one another. All that time, only seeing one another in our dreams, where we—”
“I think I get the picture,” Fjord cut in, and Jester wrinkled her nose at him.
“Shh! I’m not done yet. Anyway—”
“—We’re finally together again. Alone in my bedroom, wearing nothing but—our pajamas. And as you take me to bed, all you want is to rediscover me . . . inch by inch.”
With that, Jester closed her eyes and sighed dreamily. Fjord waited a few seconds to see if she’d continue, and then he gave a nod.
“Right. Got it,” he said. “Now—do you have a sleep mask?”
Jester’s eyes snapped open. “You want to blindfold me?” she said with glee. “Fjord! What have you been reading while I was away?”
“I just thought—it would be more interesting for you if—” Fjord stopped, sitting back from her slightly. “Forget it. We don’t have to—”
—but Jester was already scrambling across her bed to her nightstand. “No, no! I have one. Hold on!”
The tiefling was so excited that Fjord had to catch her tail and pin it to the mattress, lest she whip him with it by accident. He began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. But as he watched her rummage through the drawer, he noticed a familiar porcelain unicorn on her nightstand—and despite his nerves, he smiled to himself.
Finally, Jester put on her sleep mask and adjusted it just so. Then she turned around, and Fjord had to choke back a laugh.
“What the fuck?” he wheezed. “Why does it have googly eyes?”
The tiefling tipped her head to one side, making the eyes wobble. “What’s wrong? Won’t this work?”
“No, it won’t! I can’t look at that and—”
“Ravish me, sailor!” Jester said, pressing her hand to her forehead and feigning a swoon. Fjord watched the googly eyes make a full revolution before they settled into place, one of them slightly off-kilter.
Here's another snippet from A Novel Guide to Courtship and Counterfeiting for WIP Wednesday! As Fjord lies awake, dwelling on a nightmare, he's reminded that he no longer has to bear his worries alone.
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Fjord released a heavy breath—and not a moment later, he felt Jester’s tail wriggle under his hand. He was surprised to find her awake and watching him: her bottom lip jutting out, and her brow furrowed, and her eyes soft and shining.
“What’s that look?” he said suspiciously.
“Fjord. Were you holding my tail while I sleep?”
“Well—I found it on my chest, so—”
“But you’re just lying there. Holding it. That’s so sweet.”
The half-orc squinted at her. Then, very slowly, he began to draw her tail upward, pretending like he was going to bite a chunk from it. Jester let out a soft squeal of protest, grabbing his wrist and shaking it so he couldn't make good on his threat.
More than anything, he wanted her to keep smiling. Better yet, he wanted to throw the blankets over them both—pull her in—and catch her pretty laughter on his own lips.
“I had a dream just now,” Fjord admitted instead. Jester’s giggling stopped, and her eyes grew wide.
Here’s an extra ridiculous excerpt from the latest chapter of A Novel Guide to Courtship and Counterfeiting, which finds Jester and Fjord on a Tusk Love-themed date. :)
As they lounge around after their picnic, Jester realizes that they’ve arrived at a certain, uh . . . climax . . . in the story.
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With a laugh, Fjord rested back and turned his gaze to the canopy again. Jester felt no need to fill the silence that followed; she was content to listen to the wind in the trees, and to braid blades of grass, and to let her mind wander as she watched the sunlight draw its designs on Fjord’s skin.
What a day it had been! They’d roamed the orchard. They’d had their picnic. Next, they’d probably—
Jester stopped.
The grass unfurled in her hands.
Because right then, she realized: They’d reached the part of the book where Oskar and Guinevere made love for the first time.
In the story, it happened in a sheltered part of a grove, upon what was described as a bed of the softest grasses. The scene—which was recognized as one of the finest in erotic literature, and was marked by a dogeared page in Jester’s own copy—was replete with the aroma of flowers and every imaginable metaphor for picking fruit.
Seven whole pages of tender caresses and silken kisses and honeyed words of affection!
The sheer stamina of it all!
“Are you okay?” Fjord asked, startling Jester back to awareness. “You look really flushed.”
“Oh—um—you know—it’s just all these layers! It was cooler when we left, and—I should have picked another outfit.”
“Well, then. Let’s get you out of it.”
Fjord spoke these words in such a cavalier fashion that, for a moment, Jester’s brain entirely short-circuited. She froze in place, watching as Fjord sat up and began to gather their things.
“Right now?” she squeaked.
“Yep. I’ve got the perfect place in mind.”
“Somewhere more private?” she supposed. Fjord paused, and then he gave a shrug.
“I mean, it’s not super private.”
Oh. Oh, gods.
Jester rolled off the blanket so that Fjord could fold it up, and she sat facing away from him. Why was it so hard to look at him all of the sudden? . . . Why could she hear her pulse in her ears? . . . This was her area of expertise, acquired through years of intense study and observation! She shouldn’t be nervous!
But like so many other things she’d experienced since she’d come to Port Damali, it was very different when it was happening to her.
“Ready?” Fjord said, not long after.
He was standing next to her, offering to help her up. Jester accepted, and as they began to walk along together, she cursed her hands for getting so damnably sweaty.
Guinevere never had this problem, did she? . . . She would never perspire; she’d only glow or appear dewy. Her flawless skin would acquire a pretty flush, and only two paragraphs later, she’d be described as smelling of lilies and honeysuckle.
You know what? Jester thought to herself. Fuck Guinevere.
Presently, Fjord circled around to take Jester by the shoulders and guide her forward. As he moved from her view, she felt all the more aware of him: the span of his hands, the gentle pressure of his touch.
“It’s not much further,” he said. “Now—close your eyes.”
Thinking of Persuasion, my brain went: “Anne and Captain Wentworth, but make it Jester and Fjord.” So here’s my favorite scene, Fjorester-style: A surprise encounter many years after Jester was persuaded to break their engagement.
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“If I’d known you’d be in Palma Flora, I’d have gotten you an invitation to dinner,” Veth said as she entered the sitting room, her favorite button earrings in hand. “We could have had a Chaos Crew reunion!”
Jester smiled at the thought. She’d offered to stand in for the Brenattos’ nursemaid, and so, there’d be no evening gowns or fine crystal for her that night. Instead, she’d sit at a halfling-sized table, and she’d clean halfling-sized brushes, and she’d help Luc paint a picture of the harbor.
“We’ll all catch up soon enough,” the tiefling assured her. “Who are you going with, anyway?”
Veth made a humming noise. “Beau, as I told you,” she said, “and Caleb Widogast, a scholar from the Empire.—Yeza, you met him once, didn’t you?”
“Yes, at a lecture,” Yeza said as he draped Veth’s shawl about her shoulders. “Mr. Widogast is the brilliant, melancholy sort. You’d have fun trying to make him laugh.”
“I’m sure I would,” Jester said wistfully. It’d been a long time since she’d had the pleasure of old friends or new acquaintances. A very long time.
“And there’s another fellow,” Veth continued. “The captain of their ship . . . Oh, what was his name?”
At once, Jester perked up. Matters of the sea were always of interest to her; every week, she perused the naval columns until her fingers were stained with ink. No one knew she was looking for a particular name. A name she’d rarely heard in years, ever since she sold her first painting. The name of one—
“Captain Stone,” said Yeza.
The tiefling froze. Her paintbrush tipped forward and nearly tumbled from her fingers.
“S-Stone?” she repeated aloud, just as a knock came at the door.
The noise sent the Brenattos hurrying out to greet their companions. Luc raced off to join them, his laugh echoing down the hall. And for her part, Jester sat in stunned silence, her heart in her mouth.
This was a coincidence, of course.
It must be.
Don’t be foolish, she thought. Stone was a very common name! Why, there must have been a hundred Stones captaining ships on the waters of Exandria—fifty Stones who might make port on the Menagerie Coast at any given time—a dozen Stones who might encounter and socialize with her friends—and certainly not the one Stone that she knew—
Suddenly, there were voices in the hall. They were inviting the others in. Jester jumped up and instinctively turned from the door, and as she did, she caught her reflection in the window.
And she thought: What if it is him?
The way she’d imagined it, they’d cross paths in a distant ballroom. There, she’d be arrayed in her finest, and the setting would lend her the courage to speak with him again. She’d draw him away from prying eyes, and she’d confess that she’d never forgotten him.
She’d share every regret that weighed on her heart.
She’d apologize.
Instead, here she was: Wearing the plain frock that she’d hurried over in—her hair a mess of fly-aways—trapped in this tiny room, with no hope for private conversation. As Jester pulled off her apron and threw it behind the nearest houseplant, she considered making an escape through the window.
But the footsteps were drawing nearer, and nearer, until—
“Jester!” Beau exclaimed with joy. And what could Jester do? . . . She had to turn around.
So, she did.
At first, all she saw was Beau rushing forward to embrace her. In that whirl of greetings and laughter, she looked over the woman’s shoulder, and she noticed a red-haired gentleman speaking with Yeza. Another fellow stood in the threshold, listening.
Finally, Jester looked to this “Captain Stone”—or rather, to the collar of his coat, as she’d forgotten just how very tall he was. Because it was him—it was the Captain Stone she knew—only, he hadn’t been a captain back then. To her, he’d been “Fjord.”
She lifted her gaze, and their eyes met.
It only lasted a second. Perhaps two. But the sight of him put a wild rush of emotion through her, and Jester was grateful for the support of Beau’s embrace.
Fjord was safe and well.
Fjord was here.
And how did he feel, seeing her? . . . It was difficult to tell. Fjord’s gaze swept over her from head to toe—a quick flick of his golden eyes, performed with scarcely a hint of interest. He gave a slight bow, as if he didn’t want to interrupt.
Of course, Jester knew better.
“It’s been forever!” Beau exclaimed. “What are you even doing here?”
The tiefling managed to answer this question—and she hoped her lie was convincing, as she could barely hear herself speak. Her mind was all abuzz; her attention was pulling toward the others. Beau took notice and began to make introductions, starting with the captain, but Jester stopped her short.
“We’re acquainted,” she said softly.
“What? No way!” Beau crossed her arms and gave Fjord a look. “I talked about her all the time, and you never told me that.”
He offered an easy smile. “Acquaintances, Beau. It’s been at least six or seven years since she and I crossed paths.”
“Eight-and-a-half,” Jester blurted out. When they both looked at her, she gestured awkwardly. “I remember because there was another thing that happened, and—that was—. . . that’s how I remember.”
She pushed a stray curl behind her ear, only for it to immediately pop back out. Beau raised an eyebrow, but Fjord’s expression remained unchanged.
“I defer to Miss Lavorre’s memory,” he said, all pleasantness. “She seems to have more to recall from that day than I do.”
. . . Miss Lavorre. He’d called her Miss Lavorre, and that stung like nothing else. When Beau took her by the arm, Jester allowed herself to be led toward the group, and a blur of conversation followed. Now and then, she dared to steal glances at the captain, to see how he’d changed.
Fjord was—tall. Yes, of course he was tall, he’d always been tall. But he was broader about the shoulders than Jester remembered; he stood up straight, and he no longer seemed afraid to occupy space.
And look! His forelock fell in a neat wave, behaving as it never had before; she used to twist those strands in her fingers and laugh when they held a curl. His beard was thick but precisely trimmed; she used to rub her face against his cheek and praise the progress of his stubble. His tusks peeked over his bottom lip; she’d told him once, tearfully, “You’re perfect with or without them. But please, Fjord—don’t hurt yourself anymore.”
Yet, it was his voice that surprised her most. He was using his real accent, not that ill-fitting drawl. All together, it conveyed a sense of self-confidence that he’d struggled with as a younger man. Looking at him, Jester felt a glow of pride.
He was himself. How wonderful.
Her friends were in such a hurry, though. When they gave their regrets and departed, it was like being shaken from a dream, but Jester was very much awake. Everything about her was sharp and bright. She’d not seen color so vividly in ages—a striking realization for an artist.
They’d met again. They’d been in the same room.
And they hadn’t even said hello.
“I want to add a ship,” Luc announced as he returned to his painting. It took her a moment, but finally, Jester tore her gaze from the empty doorway.
For WIP Wednesday, here’s a snippet from the next chapter of A Novel Guide to Courtship and Counterfeiting, my Fjorester fake-dating AU!
In short: Jester (a Myriad princess) and Fjord (a Revelry prince) are attending a brunch hosted by a Myriad leader—their first event as a “couple.” But then some guests get flirty with Fjord, and Jester decides to make a bold move . . .
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As Fjord deliberated on his response, a pair of slim hands arrived upon his shoulders. He recognized this touch, of course; he tipped his head back to find Jester standing there, smiling. Her shadow spilled over him, together with the sweet-cream scent of her perfume.
“Hey!” she said cheerfully—and then she leaned down to give him a kiss. Not on the cheek. Not on the forehead. But directly on the lips, stealing his breath and scattering his every thought to the wind.
Suddenly, there was nothing else.
Only her, and him, and the space that had vanished between them.
The kiss was deep enough that he could taste the champagne she’d been sipping; soft enough that he could feel the full texture of her lips; light enough to leave him craving more. Jester brought one hand to rest under his head—keeping him comfortable, and keeping him where she wanted him.
Now, at the height of it, Fjord felt her fingertips flex against him. Was it his imagination, or was there something . . . protective about it?
Of course not. Don’t be foolish.
With a nudge of her chin, Jester sealed the kiss and withdrew.
It was the tiefling’s laugh that brought Fjord to his senses. As he met Jester’s gaze, he felt her thumb brush over the peak of his mouth, wiping away the smudge of lip color that must have transferred to his skin. He could picture it there, dark as wine.
“Hey,” he finally echoed back—his voice low, his eyes half-veiled.
Who wants another scene from a Fjorester Persuasion AU? :)
This is based on that moment when Anne (Jester) learns what Wentworth (Fjord) thought upon first seeing her again. I went for a more humorous take, since Jester gets the scoop from Beau and Veth—and they have opinions.
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Partway through brunch, as the sun peeked under their umbrellaed table on the patio of The Meridian, the trio began to talk of the party that Beau and Veth had attended a few nights before.
The mention of it sent Jester’s heart rushing apace, though she didn’t dare to acknowledge why. Instead, she let the conversation wander where it may: From Beau’s description of a guest with eyes of blue and violet, to Veth’s accounting of the fine tableware she’d stolen.
And when the discussion turned to Captain Stone, Jester didn’t try to change the subject.
This was a calculated decision. It wouldn’t be in her character to turn her eye from any sailor, let alone one with whom she was acquainted. She’d ask a question about him—no, two questions. The first would quench her curiosity, while the second would prove her indifference.
But then Veth said, in a pointed way: “He wasn’t very gallant by you, Jester.”
At this, a cold spike of nerves ran across the tiefling’s body, and the food went flavorless in her mouth. She heard Beau sigh—but to her dismay, the woman didn’t dispute Veth’s claim.
“How do you mean?” Jester asked, and Veth leaned in close.
“He said you were so changed that he wouldn’t have recognized you.”
Instinctively, Jester reached up and touched her face. Because of course she’d changed in nearly nine years time: Her features had lost the blush and brightness of youth, and when she smiled, laugh lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. Her figure was softer. Her hair, more tamely arranged.
But she had a formidable pair of cheekbones now! And she liked how she looked.
Mostly.
“Is it the ridges in my horns?” Jester fretted, running her fingertips over them. “It’s the ridges in my horns, isn’t it.”
“It’s not how you look,” Beau told her firmly. “First of all: You’re as beautiful as you ever were. Full stop. And who would ever forget a freckled blue tiefling? . . . Really, I think it’s more of a—eh . . . .”
“Personality thing,” Veth concluded.
Jester froze with the tips of her horns in her hands. “A personality thing?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”
“You’ve grown up, that’s all. You’re way more relaxed—and ladylike, I guess?” Beau smiled and gestured out toward the city. “You’re not running around town all night, painting dicks on storefronts.”
Jester’s jaw dropped. “But I did paint a dick on a storefront—just this week!”
“Before that, though, how long had it been?” Veth countered. Jester reflected on the question, and she was alarmed to find that she couldn’t fix an exact date.
“Well—it’s just— . . . I value my art more these days. You don’t want to produce work of substandard quality, or oversaturate the market, or—”
“See? You say shit like that now,” Beau said.
“And you eat your donuts with a fork,” Veth added.
The tiefling looked down, and before her was the evidence: a pastry, neatly quartered on its plate and framed by her silverware. But the horrors didn’t stop there. She’d picked a glazed donut—not out of preference for the flavor, but simply to avoid getting powdered sugar on her clothes.
Changed beyond recognition!
Could Fjord be right?
Of course, her improved table manners made for a silly example—but as Jester thought more about it, she could see how her ambitions and strivings in society had reshaped her. She and Fjord had both gone out into the world in search of themselves. But she’d returned as less of who she really was, in the service of becoming more palatable to others.
Slowly, Jester raised her head.
“I’m like an old person,” she said in despair, “and he thinks I’m dull.”
“Oh, come on,” said Veth. “Why do you care what some random sailor thinks of you? I bet his ship isn’t even that big.”
Beau eased back in her chair, watching as the halfling took a sip of her mimosa. She crossed her arms over her chest—and tipped her head to one side—and leveled her gaze at Jester.
“Because,” she said, “they were a thing.”
Instantly, Veth choked and spat her drink back into her glass. Then she turned and slipped it onto the tray of a passing server, stealthily trading it for another. She was still coughing as she said, “They were a fucking what?”
Beau leaned forward eagerly. “I saw how you reacted to seeing him, and I know Fjord lived in Nicodranas for a while. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Jester held still for a moment. Then her shoulders slumped, and when she buried her face in her hands, her friends erupted into sounds of amazement.
“I knew it!” said Beau, just as Veth cut in—
“You and that guy? But—”
“—how serious was it? Was it just physical, or—”
“That’s a very personal question, Beau,” Veth scolded. Then, she moved closer to Jester. “You can just tell me, if you want.”
“Why would she just tell you?”
Their bickering continued, or so Jester supposed, as she heard little more of it. She felt that she was sinking into a fog. She breathed in, steadying herself, and she caught the varied aromas of the meals all around them—and under that, the smell of the sea. For a brief time, it returned her to a certain day on the docks in Nicodranas.
The day when she’d returned Fjord’s ring, and she’d told him that she was leaving for Rexxentrum.
She couldn’t study art with the masters and go to sea at the same time, she’d pointed out. But he’d pleaded with her. And he’d vowed to wait for her. And he’d said, with such heartbreak and disbelief: What will you have us be? Friends?
Yes, was what Jester had told him—but Fjord couldn’t accept it, and he couldn’t fathom that she could, either. Suddenly, he’d realized the truth: an outside force had persuaded Jester to part with him.
His hurt had turned to anger in an instant. They’d said some harsh things. Then, as their argument drew to a close, he’d arrived at a different solution.
He’d said: Let us be strangers. Forget me, as I will forget you.
And now, he’d said: She’s so changed that I wouldn’t have recognized her.
Very slowly, Jester emerged from her daze. When she realized that Veth and Beau were still arguing, she spoke up and stopped them cold.
“We were engaged,” she told them, “and I ended it. I was convinced that tying myself to him would close doors for me.”
Beau furrowed her brow. “Who convinced you of that?”
The tiefling averted her gaze. Beau and Veth glanced at each other, and then they narrowed their eyes.
“Lady Mardoon,” they muttered in unison.
At the mention of her friend’s name, Jester made an effort to compose herself. She would master these feelings; she would temper these hopes. She would ask only two questions, and no more.
“Is Fjord happy?” she asked Beau. The woman’s expression softened.
“He seems to be.”
“And in all the time you traveled with him . . . he really never spoke of me?”
Beau paused, seeming to search her memory. “He’s never mentioned you by name,” she finally said.
In the throes of her feelings, Jester didn’t notice that this was a different answer than “no.” Nor did she notice Beau’s pensive expression, or the way she glanced down at her bag, as if she yearned to retrieve one of her journals.
Jester only knew that Fjord did not speak of her, and very likely, he did not think of her.
They were strangers, and he was happy.
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The truth, of course, was different. But not altogether so.
First of all, Fjord never meant for his comment to reach Jester’s ears. He did find her greatly changed, but when he spoke so bluntly, he was still affected by the lingering shock of their reunion.
Because he’d never intended to see her again.
Ever.
In his view, that way was shut. She no longer had any power over him. He’d been deeply attached to her, but in failing to stand by her convictions, Jester had severed their bond and lost him forever.
Never mind that in all his travels, Fjord had never met her equal.
Never mind that once, when he’d been asked what sort of person could win his heart, her image rose in his thoughts like an apparition—for good and ill.
“It must be someone who loves adventure,” Fjord had declared, “and I do favor an easy laugh and a kind heart. But above everything, they must know their own mind.”
And what did he mean by that, exactly?
The captain had made a show of pondering the question.
“I can’t abide by those who are too easily swayed,” he’d said. “Enough of my life is spent at the mercy of the wind. I must have someone with the courage to sail against it.”
Fjord had smiled then, inviting the listener to suppose that his pretty words had been spoken in jest. Because no one would believe it, but he’d thought a great deal on these subjects.
Far more than most people, certainly—and with greater feeling than he’d ever care to admit.
