‘It’s a boy,’ she said finally. ‘Eadgyth says he’s a reasonable size.’
‘That’s a good sign.’
‘She said so too.’
She hesitated, loath to tell him any more, but somehow it seemed ungrateful not to.
‘My sister’s asleep, and her breathing’s steady.’
Aediva, she told herself. She should say Aediva. But she couldn’t trust herself with the lie. Not yet—not when he was standing so close.
‘I’m glad of it.’
‘And the babe is called Leofric after h... My husband.’
She bit her lip, mortified that she’d almost given herself away. But this Norman’s proximity was unsettling. It distracted her. The cottage seemed too small with him in it, as if the walls were closing in on her. Or was he too big? She hadn’t noticed how tall he was before. The top of her head barely grazed his shoulder. Not to mention his chest. If both she and Cille stood together behind him no one would guess they were there.
Suddenly she wished she were back in the birthing chamber, back in the open air—anywhere but there.
She gave him a searching glance but he seemed not to have noticed her slip. Still, it would be too easy to give herself away. Perhaps it was time to tell him the truth, to admit who she was and that she’d been pretending to be her own sister. After all, he’d been unexpectedly kind to Cille. If she admitted the truth now he might let the lie pass, but the longer she deceived him the worse it would surely be. He didn’t look like a man who’d take kindly to being deceived. He would be angry...furious, even.
But at least he couldn’t blame Cille...
No, she decided, she wouldn’t tell him the truth just yet. She’d bear the brunt of his anger when it came, but it was too soon for Cille to be burdened with questions. Eadgyth had said she’d recover, but she was still weak. And she needed time with her baby. Whatever this warrior wanted could wait.
She peered at him from under her lashes, but his expression was closed, revealing nothing of the thoughts underneath. What did he want? Whatever it was, he looked like a man accustomed to getting his own way.
Well, that didn’t mean she would give it. And before she said anything—before she simply turned her sister over to him—she ought to find out what it was...
* * *
Svend stayed silent, unwilling to intrude upon her grief. The mention of her husband seemed to have upset her and he knew better than to offer sympathy.
What the hell had he been thinking, trying to offer solace at all? She’d looked so upset outside the hall that he’d assumed the worst, had felt drawn to comfort her despite himself. Why? What did it matter to him if she was upset? Women cried every day—their reasons for doing so were none of his concern. The world was a hard place, and the sooner everyone learned that, the better. No one had comforted him when he’d been forced to leave his home and family. So why did the sight of this woman crying bother him so much?
He frowned, trying to unravel the skein of his own tangled emotions. It was this place. He hadn’t noticed it at first, but something about it felt strangely familiar, stirring memories he’d thought long since forgotten. He’d seen villages enough since his arrival in England, but this one felt different. This one might have been his village in Danemark, one of these houses his home. The woman in the bed might have been one of his sisters, Agnethe or Helvig—young girls when he’d left them, probably mothers themselves by now. The feeling had been so striking that he’d felt bound to help her.
As for Lady Cille... Nothing about her was sisterly at all. Quite the opposite. So why was he still trying to comfort her?
He watched her out of the corner of his eye, studying her silhouette in the firelight, her slender figure still obvious and enticing despite her tattered tunic. Her waist was so small that his hands would probably meet if he wrapped them around it—which he realised he wanted to, and badly. He wanted to slide them down the slender curve of her hips, over her thighs, up and under her tunic, between her legs...
A surge of desire coursed through him. Was that all his concern meant, then? That he was attracted to her? The idea was...surprising. He was no stranger to women, nor was he easily swayed by feminine charms. And she was nothing at all like the kind of woman he was usually drawn to. She was too small, too delicate-looking—as if a strong wind might carry her away. A tender reed with a temper too big for her body.
Clearly he’d been in the company of men for too long. He desired a woman, that was all, and in the meanwhile he had no time to soothe tender feelings—especially those of a prisoner who’d just tried to kill him.
Besides, she was hiding something—he was sure of it. Just as he was certain that a pack of rabid wolves wouldn’t drag it from her. In the birthing chamber, he’d let his eyes rake her body deliberately to unsettle her, to undermine whatever premeditated answers she might have intended to give him. The fact that he’d wanted to look was simply a bonus. And she’d definitely been unsettled. The flicker of panic when he’d asked if they were sisters had been fleeting, but unmistakable.
He’d assumed that she was Lady Cille because she had answered to the name and fitted the description he’d been given exactly. But then so did the woman in the bed... Quickly, he filtered through the few details he’d been given. Lady Cille was the young widow of the ealdorman of Redbourn, hazel-haired, slight of build, kind and virtuous. But weren’t all wives described as virtuous? No one had mentioned golden eyes or a violent temper. And he found it impossible to believe that anyone could describe the woman before him without mentioning her eyes.
On the other hand, surely someone would have told him if Lady Cille had been with child!
He pushed his suspicions aside. As usual he was being too analytical, too thorough. This was no military campaign, to be examined from every angle, just a simple assignment. Find the woman and take her back to Redbourn. Whatever she was hiding was none of his concern.
‘What do you want from me, Norman?’ She spun around suddenly, interrupting his musing.
He ignored the question, absorbing her anger impassively, vaguely impressed. At least she didn’t try to inveigle him with sweet words, or try to flirt her way out of trouble, like most women of his acquaintance. He doubted this one knew how to do either. She was clearly overwrought and exhausted. But he had his own questions—ones that couldn’t wait. And besides, he had to prepare her for what lay ahead—though, judging by her temper so far, he ought to arm himself first.
‘She’s alone here, your sister?’
Her face clouded instantly. ‘Yes, apart from Eadgyth and me. I ordered our people to leave for their own safety.’
He ignored the jibe. ‘And her husband?’
She blinked, as if the question surprised her, and he raised an eyebrow. ‘She has a husband, I presume?’
‘Of course! Edmund.’
‘But he’s not here?’
‘No.’
She didn’t elaborate and his eyebrow inched higher. ‘No?’
‘He joined the rebellion.’
‘And left his wife with child?’
She shrugged. ‘I came to look after her.’
Svend stared at her incredulously. What kind of a man abandoned his pregnant wife, rebellion or no? Small wonder that Lady Cille seemed reluctant to talk about him. On the other hand, at least it explained what she was doing here—though not why she’d left Redbourn so suddenly and secretly.
‘You ask a lot of questions, Norman.’ Her expression was guarded.
‘I’m simply confused. Since the death of your husband, you’ve inherited his lands, have you not?’