Tears welled in her eyes. Was that how it had been for their own mother? Had she suffered so much?
‘Lady Cille?’
She jumped, dismayed to be caught at such a vulnerable moment. She didn’t normally let down her defences so easily, but her emotions were still raw and the stress of the day had made her careless.
She hadn’t heard him approach, but Svend was already standing beside her, barely an arm’s length away, pale eyes glinting like twin crystals in the near darkness. He must have shaved, because his stubble was gone and his jutting cheekbones were even more prominent in his tanned face, his blond hair slicked back as if he’d just finished bathing. She’d never seen a man without a beard before. His skin looked smooth, the strong line of his jaw soft and almost strokeable. She found herself wanting to reach out and touch it. Instead she scowled deliberately.
‘Forgive me.’ He bowed stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. Is there news?’
‘What do you care?’
She tossed her hair and stared into the distance, reluctant to meet his gaze until she had her tumultuous emotions under control. After his too intimate assessment of her in the birthing chamber, he’d barely glanced in her direction, but now his scrutiny was back—too close, too penetrating. Why did he have to stare at her again now, when she wanted to be alone? How long had he been watching her?
She thought she heard a sigh, but when she looked back his expression was blank, impenetrable.
‘You should eat,’ he said finally.
For a moment she thought of refusing, but the very idea of food made her ravenous. A curl of smoke twisted up from a chimney in one of the abandoned cottages, accompanied by a strong smell of cooking, and she felt her stomach tighten with hunger.
Svend gestured towards it and then stepped aside, letting her precede him across the courtyard. It was another thoughtful gesture, but she refused to acknowledge it. Now that the crisis was over, her nerves felt stretched to breaking point. She felt utterly drained and exposed. Why was it proving so hard to pull herself back together?
She looked around, trying to clear her befuddled head, and experienced a vague sense of surprise. She’d assumed that the Normans would take over the Thane’s hall, but they were scattered throughout the village, billeted in the recently vacated dwellings. Damn them, why were they being so reasonable? She didn’t want to feel indebted.
Not looking where she was going, she tripped and stumbled headlong into the cottage, a foot catching in her tunic and dragging her down. At once a strong hand gripped her elbow, but she shied away, hitting the ground with a thud, preferring to sprawl in the dirt than accept any further help. If he did one more honourable thing she would scream.
Svend stared down at her for a long moment, his expression set hard as tempered steel as she glared defiantly back, ignoring the pain in her hands and knees where she’d grazed them, daring him to help her up.
‘As you wish,’ he commented icily, striding to the central fireplace and ladling out a bowl of steaming broth. ‘Will you deign to eat Norman food or would you prefer dirt?’
Aediva struggled to her feet, abandoning the last shreds of her dignity as she snatched up the bowl and drained the contents in a few short gulps. The warmth coiled through her limbs, giving her strength, but she still couldn’t bring herself to thank him.
Instead she licked her lips, savouring the last taste of broth, delaying the moment when she’d have to face him again. The fire flickered and crackled between them, casting eerie shadows along the walls and filling her nostrils with woodsmoke. She looked around the room and felt a shiver of unease. Aside from a few cracked earthenware pots and a straw mattress it was completely empty, when just this morning it had been a home.
She could sense his eyes on her, but when she finally looked up they were hooded.
‘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 hi
m 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.