My hands twist around one another. “I know.”
Did I? Did I know he was taking my name? My first name, which somehow feels a billion times more significant than sharing a surname. Was this a marriage detail I was told, but forgot?
“I am your consort. You are my husband,” Dyfri says in that same careful tone, like he is trying to explain something to someone who isn’t that bright.
Shame coils through me. I hate it. It’s far too familiar. I’m often the dumbest person in the room, just intelligent enough to know I’m not keeping up.
“Oh. Does it have to be that prescriptive?” I say, because it sounds like a reasonable response. But I can’t keep the weary resignation out of my voice, not at theproposed bedroom activities, at the fact yet another person is belittling my intelligence.
“Definitely for the wedding night.”
Something new about Dyfri’s voice makes me look up. His head is tilted to the side, and he is regarding me intently, as if he has never seen me before. His dark eyes are far softer, kinder.
“Oh,” I croak, my mouth suddenly dry.
Maybe I really have lost the plot, but I’m getting the impression that he is not entirely displeased at my suggestion, and that is making me feel rather hot under the collar.
His intense focus lingers. I feel as if I am being examined and dissected. An interesting scientific specimen for his scrutiny.
“Trying to figure me out?” I say softly, mostly to fill the painful silence.
His expression shifts. A flicker of anxiety in his dark eyes. A microscopic wobble of composure. It’s there, and then hidden again before I can blink.
Dyfri blinks and then shakes himself. He draws in a shaky breath and resumes glaring at me.
“Do you need a tea to enable you to perform?”
My cheeks heat again, but this time shame doesn’t coil through my guts. I’m on to him. I’ve figured out my new husband. I don’t know why or how, but suddenly I can see him clearly.
He isn’t cruel or mean. He isn’t mocking me for fun. He’s scared. And like a hurt and trapped black cat, his defence is hissing and claws.
“No,” I say as gently as I can.
He blinks. I step towards him. He flinches and recoils. The movement is subtle and quickly aborted. But I see it.
Dyfri is definitely a hissing black cat. He’s every bit as nervous as I am. Which is understandable. We are strangers. Being married to a stranger is all kinds of awful.
I lower my head towards his. His eyes widen, and he turns sharply away from me.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
“Kissing you?”
Dyfri turns back to face me while keeping his body carefully angled too far away for a kiss.
“No, you are not!” he exclaims
I stare at him. I search his alarmed dark eyes. This isn’t merely claws. He really doesn’t want to be kissed. He is absolutely adamant about it.
My shoulders drop. “I don’t think I can do this without kissing.”
Dyfri blinks several times. “That’s adorable, but no. You’ll have to figure it out.”
Slowly, he lies back. Gingerly placing his body on the rose-petal strewn bed. He stares up at the ceiling, and his hands grip the sheets with a white-knuckle hold.
I force a swallow down my throat. I’m no longer confused by the apparent mixed messages. He has to have sex with me because of the customs of his people, but he doesn’t want to. And why would he want me? He doesn’t know me. And while some people go for the big rugby player look, it’s far from everyone’s cup of tea. I’m not beautiful like him.
“By the goddess!” Dyfri declares suddenly as he sits up. “Undress. Lie on your back on the bed.”
