‘You’re shivering.’ Svend’s voice was matter-of-fact now, without even a trace of sympathy. ‘Renard! See if we have anything warmer for the lady to wear.’
She tossed her head, still refusing to look at him. Somehow she doubted that Renard would find anything. The Normans seemed to be wearing all of their clothing at once, wrapped up as if for the deepest of winters. All except Svend. He was wearing only a linen tunic under his gambeson, as if he were immune to the chill easterly wind.
Her mind flew back to the birthing chamber and the fur-lined cloak he’d draped so carefully around Cille’s trembling shoulders. Why wasn’t he wearing it now? Unless...
Her head spun back towards him. ‘You gave her your cloak?’
His brow creased as his gaze slipped past her shoulder, studying the horizon as if there were something of intense interest behind her.
‘She was in greater need.’
‘Oh.’ The word sounded ungrateful even to her own ears.
There was a long silence, broken only by the screeching of a kestrel overhead, before he drew rein abruptly.
‘Hold!’ He jumped down easily, striding away from the horses without bothering to help her dismount. ‘We’ll rest for a while.’
Aediva lowered herself to the ground, her mind at war with itself. He was a pig! Disrespectful, callous and insensitive, not to mention ungallant—and yet, much as she hated to admit it, overall his behaviour had been surprisingly honourable.
She stole a glance at his profile. He was staring into the distance, his expression stern, aloof... Norman. He looked like a Norman, sounded like a Norman, and yet despite his ill manners he’d behaved more like a Saxon might have done—as Edmund ought to have done. Since they’d met she’d told him she hated him, threatened to kill him, held a knife to his chest twice, and yet he hadn’t punished her. He’d taken care of Cille and sent Henri to rescue her people. He’d noticed when she was upset, when she was cold, when she was hungry and tired. In retrospect, she’d been less than grateful.
And, as a Thane’s daughter, it was her duty to acknowledge it, no matter how angry she felt.
She took a deep, faltering breath. ‘What I said this morning...’
‘About wanting to stab me in the heart?’ He turned to face her, arms folded as if braced for a fresh verbal assault.
‘Yes. I didn’t mean it.’
‘Really?’ He sounded sceptical.
‘I was angry.’
‘I noticed.’
‘And I’m sorry.’
His expression remained stony and she sighed inwardly. Clearly he wasn’t going to make this easy. How was it possible for a Norman to make her feel like the one in the wrong? But she still had to thank him. That was what her father would expect her to do.
‘I owe you my thanks. For taking care of my sister, for sending your man after our people. I should have thanked you this morning.’
‘Instead of threatening to kill me, perhaps?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘Instead of that, yes.’
‘But...?’
‘But what?’
‘Speak honestly, Lady Cille. I don’t like half-truths. You’re sorry for this morning, and you’re grateful to me, but...?’
She stared at him, taken aback by his bluntness. How did he do that? Trap her with her own words? She’d been trying to thank him. Why couldn’t he just leave it at that?
‘Well?’ He prompted her.
‘Can’t you just accept my thanks? I have said I’m grateful.’
‘But you’re still angry.’