"How many of those qualifications do ye think ye meet?"
"Quite a few,” she said, forcing herself to meet his amused gaze without blushing over that lie.
There was a look in Jolene's eyes that warned Sigimor that it would not be wise to laugh or cry her a liar, and that made him feel even more inclined to laugh. “Weel, I have e'er believed the English could be complete fools. Ha! Save for the needlework, managing a household, and frugality, it seems the English men want their lasses to be much akin to my Meggie."
"Who is Meggie?” Jolene was not sure she kept all of the sudden fierce jealousy she felt out of her voice.
"My hound. Och, weel, I suspicion most of ye at least smell a wee bit better."
Jolene glared at his broad back as he rode away. Her annoyance was added to by the fact that she could not be sure if he had just insulted her by inferring she was not a proper lady, or complimented her for the very same thing. On behalf of all English women, especially those who tried hard to attain that ideal of womanhood, she took umbrage over Sigimor's comparing them to his hound. On occasion, she had thought much the same thing, but that was her right as a woman, one who had to suffer under such rules and beliefs. She told herself that, as a man, his ridicule was hypocritical since he was one of those who tried to keep women cowed, but could not wholeheartedly believe it. Attempting to shake free of her own confusion, she rode up beside Nanty and turned her attention to keeping Reynard happy.
Sigimor looked up from spreading an extra blanket over a sleeping Jolene, then Reynard, to catch Liam grinning at him. “Tis cold and they are too thin to bear it,” he grumbled, striding off toward the surrounding wood and cursing softly when Liam followed him.
"Sheisa wee, thin lassie, to be sure,” drawled Liam.
"Aye, and a pampered English lady."
"But, verra bonnie. Such fine skin she has. Ye did notice that fine milk white skin, didnae ye?"
"I noticed,” Sigimor replied through clenched teeth, knowing he was being goaded, but unable to completely hide how well it was working.
"Weel, ‘tis a good thing I ken that ye prefer a buxom lass with fair hair or I might think ye had an interest in the wee lass."
"Ye think too much. Staying with the monks is what did it."
Liam laughed. “Since ye arenae interested in the wee lass, then, mayhap I—"
Sigimor swung around to face Liam so quickly it caused his cousin to stumble back a few steps with a gratifying lack of grace. “And mayhap ye best think on how that winsome smile of yours wouldnae woo the lasses so weel if ye didnae have any teeth. Stop grinning. Ye look like a fool.” He started to walk back toward the camp, sighing loudly when Liam kept pace with him.
"Why so irritable, Cousin?” asked Liam. “Where is the harm in being drawn to such a bonnie wee lass? She is your equal in birth, chaste, and nay doubt she has a fine dowry."
"That sounds suspiciously like the qualities one looks for in a wife.” It worried Sigimor that he did not immediately and fiercely decry the thought of marriage to Jolene.
"Tis past time ye took a wife."
"Why? I dinnae need an heir. Dubheidland fair swarms with them."
"True, but that doesnae mean ye dinnae need a wife or bairns of your own."
Sigimor stopped, slowly turned to face Liam, and crossed his arms over his chest. He was strongly tempted to pound his cousin into the mud for putting this idea into his head, if only because it felt right, tugged at a need within him that he was trying very hard to deny. Logic told him Lady Jolene Gerard was all wrong for him, but everything else within him kept sayingmine.
"Ye did notice her size, didnae ye? And my size?” The fact that his deeply sarcastic tone of voice had no apparent effect upon Liam truly annoyed Sigimor. “If I put a bairn in her ‘twould probably tear her apart."
Liam also crossed his arms on his chest and gave Sigimor a look of utter disgust. “That is nonsense and weel ye ken it."
"She is English. ‘Twould probably be illegal to marry her."
"Mayhap in England, though that law comes and goes as often as the tide. I suspicion ye wouldnae be able to claim any lands she might have, but ye wouldnae want them anyway, aye?"
"Why have ye set your teeth into this whim?"
"Mayhap because this is the first lass of good birth ye have e'er shown an interest in. Dinnae try to deny it for, although she may be too innocent to ken it, the rest of us can see that ye want her. Ye fair stink of it at times. Ye are two and thirty and have ne'er done more than indulge in an occasional tussle with a buxom whore. Ye have ne'er e'en taken a leman. Ye, Cousin, are a mon who should marry."
Sigimor knew Liam was right, but would rather have all his toes broken than admit it. He had a hearty appetite for fleshly pleasures, but did not often succumb to those needs. While he enjoyed the occasional tussle with a well-rounded tavern maid, it never fully satisfied him. He was always too aware that it was coin that put the woman in his bed and that another man's coin was just as welcome as his. The few times he had tried to woo a better-born lass, he had failed. Such women either feared his size, revealed an unkind amusement over his character, or just did not feelright. It was not something he would ever confess to because it seemed nauseatingly romantic, but he liked the idea of having a woman who was his alone, one he could talk to, a companion who would share the burdens of home and family. He wanted a mate. Only once, ten years ago, had he thought he had found one only to be gloriously proven wrong. It was why he was cautious now, would prefer not to be feeling all he was feeling for the delicate Englishwoman.
"And what makes ye think this lady is a good choice?” he asked, inwardly cursing the curiosity that prompted the question.
"She watches you."
