Chapter 21
With her pinned against the wall in his arms, the woman, already small, felt even tinier. Her snow-white head seemed so small that one open palm could easily cover it. This tiny woman, with her frail body, was worrying about him—a man who looked twice her size. And not just anyone, but Daniel Rihardt. The mad dog, the hunting dog—often called more beast than man.
"Today's Frida is confessing to today's Duke. That I like you."
Only upon recalling that confession he'd brushed off casually did he vaguely understand. The reason for his irritation these past few days—toward his blameless wife, or perhaps something intangible.
"I like the Duchess. Very much. More than Leopold."
Dreading that damned memory surfacing. Perhaps he'd bickered with talk of duty and such to block it. Hating how those clear, unclouded eyes—revealing every thought—reminded him of his own foolish, innocent childhood self. Confirming his own ugliness and pettiness through another was far worse than imagined. And pathetic. Between failing to reclaim a shyly offered heart or realizing the recipient's raw truth—which was more wretched? This tiny woman enduring both—what sin had she committed? Strength drained from his tightly clenched fist, hollow as air. At the same time, fury surged. Damn Dowager Empress. Ruining his and his mother's lives wasn't enough—why drag in the unrelated? Crimson slowly bled into Daniel's reddish-brown eyes.
'Whoa... he's huge.'
Her first impression of her husband, now looming in her face, was simply 'huge' overall. The thick sweat scent wafting from his massive frame filling her view was oddly fascinating. His freshly donned shirt clung damply to his chest—how intensely had he trained? Frida, who'd never done anything resembling vigorous exercise, had no experience of sweating or drenched like rain. Thus, Daniel's pulsing vitality—like a freshly caught fish thrashing—his every lively movement amazed her. Less than a month since regaining consciousness, yet he rode daily without fail, honing his body at the Training Ground. Impressive. This man is truly strong. She newly realized he was a swordsman like Ricardo or Muriel. Of course—when first changing his clothes, how shocked she'd been. His rock-hard flesh wouldn't yield to her press; like touching stone. His rugged body clashed so with his refined features she'd momentarily lost words. She'd never seen arms so thick. Disbelieving such a robust man merely breathed while lying still, she'd secretly poked his arms when alone. The day she sold her last bed and shared his room. Lying beside him, cold as death, had frightened her. Yet his side held unexpected warmth. On winter nights too lazy to relight the cold hearth, wolves howling fiercely, fierce winds rattling windows—his mere presence warmed and soothed her. She hadn't wished those days eternal, but never dreamed she'd one day inhale his thick scent up close. Sweat beaded on his sharp jaw, heaving with his chest. Glancing up, his prominent Adam's apple—size of her fist—writhed similarly. Breathless to the jawline must mean this. The dynamic motion before her felt so alien... yet slightly enviable. Just then, a sweat drop dangled precariously from his jaw. She swiftly raised her sleeve to his chin. Like an eagle snatching prey, his hand seized her wrist.
"What are you doing?"
"Y-You're sweating so much. Ah, Your Grace's eyes..."
Releasing her arm, Daniel cupped his face and turned away. Thirsty, he walked to the water pitcher. Watching him, Frida tilted her head.
'Strange. His eyes looked a bit red.'
Ricardo and Dominic had emphasized repeatedly. Avoid Duke Rihardt when his eyes redden. No questions—shut your mouth and bolt.
'What now? Should I bolt?'
Had her Harkbon tutor seen Frida, where 'bolt' stuck to her tongue over 'flee,' she'd likely collapse in shock. Frida groped backward for the doorknob. Gulp gulp. Quenching his throat, Daniel set the cup on the table and said,
"If you have nothing more to say, leave."
Something to say? Recalling her purpose, Frida dropped the just-grasped knob.
"Right. Will you really duel Muriel tomorrow?"
"As you've heard."
"Are you serious? The stakes are enormous now."
"Stakes?"
His eyes, thankfully the deep reddish-brown she knew, turned to her. Discarding wariness, Frida hurried to the room's center.
"Everyone's betting on tomorrow's duel winner—it's chaos. The whole castle's buzzing. Adel said even servants and the entire mercenary corps wagered money."
The kitchen was mayhem, folks pulling coins everywhere. Mostly copper-silver mixes, but silver common, even glimpsed gold. She'd meant to scold wasting hard-earned pay, but Dominic stopped her.
"Let them be. Rare fun spectacle—they're thrilled. Bet too, Duchess. Though the tide's already turned."
First time seeing such sparkling eyes in the duchy.
"Tomorrow, they'll halt work to watch."
Perched half on the table, Daniel lifted the cup again to quench his throat. Beyond the half-obscuring rim, purple eyes stared anxiously. How long since someone fretted so openly for him? Rare since childhood; he couldn't even guess. The inseparable Molly duo aside, those around took his campaigns and battles lightly long ago. Even his mother feigned nonchalance before him. Always serene, world's boldest woman. Even dying before her son. Setting down the cup, he steadily eyed his wife, emotions bare. Arms loosely crossed, curious for more.
"So?"
"Cancel the duel, obviously. Too late, might not even call it off. You're not fully recovered, Your Grace. Dueling Muriel in that state—if you get hurt, disaster."
Pfft. Involuntary scoff escaped. Not dying, so what's the big deal with injury? But obvious she thought he'd lose. He, Daniel. Before joining mercenaries—at thirteen? Already knelt two-years-older Dominic. Halved Ricardo's sword around seventeen. From nineteen, at then-Duchess Dowager Empress's behest, battlefield after battlefield. Hundreds since Leopold's throne war began. Never once lost. Wife's innocent worry from utter ignorance baffled him.
"Then bet gold on Lady Rosivalt. Stakes huge—profitable yield maybe."
"Well..."
Her evasive gaze revealed kitchen bets. Most on Lady Rosivalt, obviously. Even undefeated Rihardt Duke, swordless three years—rusty, they'd think. Daniel clenched and unclenched his fist, imprinting returning arm sensation. Day found behind bookshelf. Sudden block of Lady Rosivalt's strike differed from today. How much of famed Rosivalt might he'd parry unknown. But suppressing foes isn't mere strength. Tough, but Daniel Rihardt never fights losing battles. His unbeaten legend from precise schemes, not sword or brawn—few knew. Moreover, injury-staked famed sword 'Koldar.' Snatching from Muriel Rosivalt, Rosivalts' finest. Would he charge sans victory intent? Those knowing him—especially fox-like Dominic—likely bet heavily here, smirking slyly. Butt leaving table, Daniel rolled shoulders, walked to window. Cooling workout heat with late evening spring breeze. Restless Frida trailed.
"Muriel trains sword daily without fail. Never slacked. You know her sword? Legend cleaving thickest trees in one stroke..."
"Madam."
Half-opening window, Daniel turned to Frida. Short-cropped black hair softly waved on breeze from window. Feeling wind, he slowly closed then opened eyes, languidly speaking.
"Is your body alright now?"
"Pardon?"
"Due to my sudden poor health, I am unable to fulfill my duties. I apologize."
Reciting her letter verbatim, he quietly asked,
"To me, you look perfectly healthy—fit to fulfill wifely duties."
Chatter ceased instantly; ploy succeeded. Daniel blinked leisurely, awaiting reply. Even recovered, no intent to embrace her. Just end talk, resume training. Withstanding merciless Rosivalt assault demanded more arm strength; wasting time irked. Say no, send packing, later feign forgetfulness.
"Ah, might need a few more days..."
"Reason this time?"
Had question not slipped unbidden. Not truly curious—meant dismiss—Frida fidgeted, then spoke.
"Well... my, uh, monthly period hasn't fully ended."
"...".
First hearing the term, Daniel didn't ask. Felt best not to. *** Thud thud, crash. Careless footsteps echoed in Noiban Castle, home to Svergen's Margrave Updyke. Gold-haired youth slid down second-floor railing to first, leaping before entering knight.
"Is it true? Really? My hero, our mad dog Daniel's truly awake?!"
