“Have I?” He grimaced. “’Tis still very stiff.”
“Aye, but there is little awkwardness. I should have been there to help you.”
“Nay, you would have simply worried yourself ill.” He smiled faintly. “Seeing as you care for me so much.”
He glanced down to catch her eyeing him warily and with a hint of annoyance. It was a little mean to keep pulling the words from her, but he could not help himself. They were words he doubted he would ever hear often enough to satisfy his need for them. In them rested not only all his happiness but comfort and a feeling of security. She was his, all his.
“You believe me.” She was a little surprised at how quickly he had accepted her declaration.
“Aye. Should I not?”
“I doubted you would. Why do you believe me?” When he frowned at her, making no secret of his puzzlement, she sighed. “I need to know. I must have done something right for you to heed that declaration when you have so stubbornly refused to heed most everything else I have said.”
“Well, you screamed it at me.”
“I did not scream,” she muttered, knowing full well that she had.
Ignoring that, he continued, “You were furious. The words just tumbled out of you. Such a thing, a confession made without prodding and so impulsively, holds the strength of truth. And you are not one to lie or use such words for gain. Have you held back the words because you thought I would not believe you?”
“And would you have before now?”
“Aye.” He frowned, then sighed. “Nay, mayhap not.”
“I thought not. Little else I have tried to show you or tell you seemed to have been heeded.”
“Gytha,” he kissed her forehead and held her close, “you are so beautiful and perfect.”
“Perfect?” She peeked up at him in disbelief. “Perfect? Hah! Does a perfect wife refuse to greet her husband when he arrives home after months away at some battle? Does she leave him to seek his meal alone? I did that out of angry spite, you know. ’Tis hardly how a good wife should act. I wanted you to worry over how angry I was and maybe sting your pride some.”
“I know. You did that,” he said with perfect calm.
“You are most forgiving.”
“Nay, not truly. I gave serious thought to coming after you and dragging you down to the hall, but I felt that would only make you angrier at me.”
“Aye.” She smiled and cuddled up to him. “It would have.”
“Then ’tis good you came down to the hall when you did, for I was standing up to do just that.” He smiled when she laughed softly, then combed his fingers through her thick hair, pleasured by the feel of it. “So, you are not perfect except in my eyes. Nay, truly,” he added when she made a soft scoffing noise. “Faults and all. That is what makes you perfect to me, for me. You are Gytha—no shadows, no lies, no deceiving twists and turns. Youdohave a lot of twists and turns, but they are just part of you.”
“Are you trying to say ’tis my fault I have been unable to make you understand anything I have tried to tell you, silently or elsewise?”
“Nay, dearling. I did not trust myself to judge correctly. What I feared was deceiving myself by hearing what I wished to or seeing what was not there. I made myself accept only what could not be questioned, what did not need to be considered or guessed at. Like the passion we share. I could clearly see the truth of that, could feel it. Surprise me though it did, I knew it for a fact.” He grimaced as he glanced at her. “Am I being clear or is this all coming out as a muddle?”
“Very clear.” She brushed a quick kiss over his cheek. “I understand. You were wary. You had learned to be.”
“True, but it was unfair to treat you so warily.”
“Mayhap. But, ’tis also not wise to ignore a lesson well learned.”
He shrugged and idly moved his hand up and down her side. “You are so beautiful.” He heard her cluck her tongue in annoyance and smiled at her. “You cannot tell me you are not beautiful.”
“To say I am sounds vain.”
“You are not vain simply because you recognize the truth.”
Leaning away from him, she studied his face. “The truth as others see it. Since the day I first understood words, I have heard that I am beautiful. All I have met seem to think it, so I must be. I see only me, only Gytha. I see flesh, bone, and hair that God has seen fit to arrange in a manner pleasing to the eye—for now. Age can steal it away. Sickness can mar it. So much can end it. T’would be a sorry thing to put all my faith and hope in. There are many more important and lasting things to reach for and hold on to—although I am glad for it in that it pleases you.”
“Pleases me? Aye, though at first it terrified me. When I first set eyes upon you, I felt as if a hand had reached inside me to curl around my heart and squeeze it. I feel that grip each time I look at you.”
