He nodded curtly, then watched her signal a page over to refill his goblet. She was doing it on purpose. He was sure of it. Even when being merely courteous, she had always done better at the art of conversation than he had. She was knowingly letting him flounder. Annoyance gnawed at him, but he struggled to ignore it.
Whenever she could do so covertly, Gytha studied Thayer. She could easily see the rising anger he valiantly fought to control. It was the other emotions she could read in his expression that really interested her. There was the hint of fear in his fine dark eyes. She wondered if he shared her fear that the wound he had dealt would never heal, thus destroying something that had held so much hope. There was also a look of guilt. That pleased her, although she prayed it was only for what had happened in the garden and not for something he had done after she had left court.
A quick glance was all that was needed to tell her that Roger had guessed her ploy. His obvious amusement did not deter her. She felt it could even aid her. Thayer would hate it; it would strain his temper even more.
Looking back at Thayer she knew she was going to push him, push him hard. She wished their troubles to be resolved as quickly as possible. Sitting close to him as she was made her body uncomfortably recall how long they had been apart. She ached for him. She wanted him to take her to bed and make love to her until they were both too exhausted to move. That, she was sure, would help to ease some of her pain.
Worried that her wanton thoughts might reveal themselves in her face, she concentrated on the sweet being served. Thayer knew her too well. He would be able to read her desire in her eyes. It was far too soon for him to know how much she still wanted him. Perhaps, she mused, if he feared the coolness she displayed could seep into their bed, the confrontation they needed would come sooner. It was a fear that could easily strain his swift, hot temper.
Striving for an idleness he did not feel, Thayer said, “We were sent on forays against rebels and thieves.”
“There are many about.” She forced herself not to think on the danger he would have faced.
Gritting his teeth, Thayer continued, “I was wounded on one foray.”
Gytha felt as if her heart had leapt into her throat and lodged there. She fought to calm herself. It was with an extreme effort that she stopped herself from immediately searching him for any sign of injury. It was just as hard to speak in a cool, unperturbed voice, but she felt she had succeeded when she was finally able to speak.
“It appears to have healed well.”
Recalling how she had reacted the last time he was wounded, Thayer found her nonchalance painfully disappointing. “Aye.”
Thinking that he looked remarkably like a sulky little boy, Gytha struggled to hide her amusement. “Would you like Janet to take a look at it? She possesses some skill at healing.”
“Nay, I would not like Janet to look at it,” he grumbled.
“As you wish, husband.”
“The name is Thayer,” he snapped, then hastily drank some wine in a vain attempt to regain his rapidly slipping composure.
Adopting a look of wide-eyed innocence mixed with a hint of fear for his sanity, she murmured, “Aye, I know.”
“Then why not use it?”
“As you wish, Thayer. Some fruit?” She held out a bowl filled with an assortment of fruit.
Barely restraining a nervous jump as he viciously snatched up an apple, Gytha set the bowl back upon the table. She was sure he growled as he bit into the apple. Laughter bubbled up inside her, but she hastily smothered it.
Never had she tried so hard, so calculatingly, to rouse someone to fury. And never, in her opinion, had Thayer struggled so mightily to hold on to his temper. She feared he might burst from the effort. He was, she decided, looking rather flushed and wild-eyed. She hoped he would lose his grip before too much longer—and not only for his sake. It was getting harder to think of ways to goad him. Biting back another urge to laugh, she mused that holding in all that anger had to be torture on his digestion.
Each cool, polite word Gytha uttered rubbed Thayer raw. They stirred memories of how things had been before the debacle in the garden. It was like slow poison dripping into him, rotting out his insides. He had little doubt that his meal would trouble him later.
Drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, he finished his apple. He noted crossly that Gytha talked fulsomely with Roger and Margaret. That was like salt rubbed into an open wound. Thayer began to feel like a guest in his own home, not a particularly welcome one either. Even telling himself that Roger and Margaret had done no wrong to Gytha while he had did not still his ever increasing anger. It was not really Gytha he inwardly raged at either. His fury was stirred by the situation he found himself in and the painful knowledge that he had brought it all upon himself.
Determined to make one last concerted effort, he asked, “What other plans have you made for Riverfall?”
“I go day by day.”
“Do you? What do you plan for the morrow then?”
“I thought to see to the herbs.”
“What herbs?”
“The usual.”
“But of course. Do you plan a garden like your father’s?”
“If you would like one, m’lord.”
