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“Drop the American accent,” he snapped. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Would he ever respond to a question outright? Butokay. All right. If he wanted me to sound like the real Isobel, I'd comply. “Aye. I willna use me American accent in yer exalted presence again, yer majesty.” Nope. Abort, abort! I sounded like a pirate.
He blinked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
To save my very life, I absolutely needed to go a different route with this. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit.” I exaggerated my drawl and tossed in a wink for good measure. My version of the sassy southern wife. “I think I’ll stick with being American. I kinda love it.” I smiled at him, all innocence, then forked another bite of eggs into my mouth, chewed, swallowed. “Bless your heart, you’ll just have to deal.”
Again, he merely blinked, not realizing the utter burn I’d just leveled.
Might as well try a different tactic to angle for the trip home. “Speaking of America, I’m officially requesting permission to fly to the United States to see a friend. A quick jaunt really. Only a few days, nothing more. There and back in a jiff. You might not even know I’m gone.”
“Nay.” He picked up and opened his folder, an action meant to end the conversation.
“But—”
“Nay.”
Wow. Not even a split second to consider. Now I almost missed the unrelated statement responses. “Aren’t you curious about who my friend is and why I wish to see her?”
“Nay.”
I speared a piece of sausage with more force than necessary. He would never let me leave, proving Isobel right. That might be the worst of all his crimes so far.
Without warning, he stood, gathered his things, and strode from the room.
Unwilling to give up, I abandoned my half-eaten food to chase after him and called, “Is it the cost?” Though the house was massive and filled with fabulous antiques, he might be cash poor.
“Nay.”
“Then what is it?” I wanted to hear him admit it. And, okay, yeah, maybe shouting questions at a potential berserker wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done. For my next query, I modulated my volume. “If you’re unwilling to part with my magnificent presence, you could make the trip with me, I guess.”
He didn’t bother to respond.
If he’d been anyone else, I would’ve put him in time out.
The thought roused a memory, Isobel’s voice filling my head.
“How do you handle emotionally unavailable males?”
“I put them in time out.”
“Time out? Oh, I bet he’ll love that.”
What a fool I’d been. I fisted my hands, demanding, “Tell me where you’re going today. You must. I’m kind of your wife.”
“I’ll be at the office.” Not a hitch in his step. He didn’t stop until he reached a smaller, second foyer, both grand and menacing. Framed, blood-stained battle axes graced a wall. The same old guy who’d brought me a plate of food waited with a wool overcoat and a briefcase.
Buzz and Ponytail sidled up behind me. I clenched my jaw and gritted out, “But it’s Sunday.” More importantly, no mythological berserker with rage issues would risk grinding in an office from 9 to 5. Right?
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said, heading for the door. Old Man Butler helped him don the coat. “We have a clan meeting at eight.”
“Great.” But was it a clan meeting with normal people or berserkers? And oh, what a frustrating man! The unrelated statements weren’t better I decided. “What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
“Remain here, avoid trouble, and speak to no one.” With that, he claimed the briefcase and stalked outside. The door closed behind him, shutting me inside.
The nerve of him! Well, good riddance. His absence was a blessing. With the big, bad king of the castle gone, the lady of the house could search it from top to bottom, on the hunt for clues about her fake husband’s species, the real Isobel, and anything and everything able to aid my escape.
Mr. Butler gave me a look, lifted his nose in the air, and marched off.
