Cille! She froze abruptly, feeling as if a bucket of ice had just been hurled over the bed.
His mouth stilled at her throat and she stared helplessly up at the rafters, panting and breathless. It had been a slip of the tongue, she told herself. A mistake. Understandable under the circumstances. No reason to feel hurt or humiliated, even if she did wish the ground would open up and swallow her.
But it had brought her lie back between them.
‘Aediva,’ he said flatly, rolling away from her onto his back. ‘That will take some getting used to.’
She threw an arm over her face and took a deep breath, willing her heartbeat to return to normal. There was so much for them to get used to. Her name was only the start of it.
He touched her arm but she shook her head, refusing to pull it away. She couldn’t look at him—not now. It was hopeless. There was no chance of him ever trusting her again. He couldn’t forget what she’d done. He couldn’t even remember her name.
She heard him sigh and move away, but she kept herself rigid, willing sleep to descend. If she could only sleep then perhaps they could put this catastrophe of a night behind them, pretend it had never happened...
If she could only sleep...
Every nerve and sinew was still alive and throbbing, every part of her still straining towards him.
If she could only sleep...
Somehow she doubted that would happen for a very long time.
Chapter Fifteen
Svend counted the prisoners, trying and failing to keep his mind on the task. They’d captured more than a dozen rebels that morning, and each one of them was now glaring at him with the same expression of blatant barefaced hostility, but he hardly noticed. All he could see was the distraught look on his wife’s face when he’d called her the wrong name.
If he’d wanted to punish her, it appeared he’d succeeded.
That had been almost a fortnight ago. She’d moved back to her sister’s old chamber the next morning and he hadn’t objected—hadn’t known what to say. He’d barely seen her since, most of his time having been spent away from Redbourn. The little he’d glimpsed of her,
she’d been busy with her new duties as chatelaine, and with organising the harvest with practised efficiency. Even from afar he’d admired her hard work and commitment. She hardly needed his help to settle in at Redbourn—quite the opposite, in fact. She was a favourite with both Saxon and Norman alike.
He frowned. For the first time in ten years he had a home. When would he be able to live in it? If it hadn’t been for the Earl’s orders he would have relished taking up the role of farmer again, but he couldn’t exchange his sword for a spade just yet. He had a soldier’s business to finish first. And the sooner he got it over with, the better.
‘The prisoners are ready, sir.’ Renard approached him. ‘Are we going back to Redbourn tonight?’
Svend shook his head. There were still a few hours of daylight left and he didn’t want to waste them. If Henri had been there he might have delegated more of the tracking, but there was no one else with sufficient experience for the task.
‘Take half a dozen guards and lead the prisoners back to Redbourn. You can be there by nightfall. The rest of us will camp overnight.’
‘What about Lady Aediva?’
‘What about her?’ Svend shot him a savage look and Renard took an involuntary step backwards.
‘It’s the first new moon of the month, sir. Her birth date.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Her maid Judith told me.’ Renard looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I thought you knew.’
Svend felt a twinge of bitterness. No, he hadn’t known—had barely spoken to his wife for two weeks. He’d wanted time apart from her, hoping that distance would bring some clarity to his emotions, but it hadn’t worked. He still couldn’t get her out of his head. Every time he closed his eyes he could see her face, hear her voice asking him to trust her.
Could he?
He still didn’t know.
But it was her birth date. He ought to see her at least. He even had the perfect gift—the one thing he knew that she wanted...
The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to repair the damage between them. For a few brief and intoxicating moments that last night he’d thought that a new start was possible. Perhaps it still was.