“I dinnae like her this way.”
“I meant as shewas.”
Artan dragged his hand through his hair. “I am nay sure of the best way to do that, to make her believe me and stop this nonsense. I tried to make her angry, but that didnae work. All she did was apologize and promise to try harder to be a good wife.”
“That doesnae sound like our Sile.”
“MySile and, nay, it doesnae. Seems Lady Anabel deafened the lass for years with lectures on how a lady should act and what a proper wife should do and say and she enforced her opinions with beatings. Now Sile has decided to obey each and every rule.” Artan nodded when Bennet cursed, pleased that his cousin finally understood his problem. “I am going to have totalkto her.”
“I see the problem now. By talk ye mean telling her how ye feel and all that. Difficult.”
“Impossible. I am nay a mon of sweet words and I have no skill at flatteries.”
“Er, nay. Nay, ye dinnae. ’Tisnae something I can teach ye in but a few hours either, Artan.”
That was not what Artan wanted to hear. He suddenly wondered if being skilled with flatteries and sweet words did not necessarily mean you were truly good with women, or understood them any more than any other man, or could solve a problem that arose between you and the woman of your choice. It only meant that you could draw them into your bed or make them blush and smile. It might get one a wife, but it did not mean that one could keep her happy.
“Nay, I suppose ye cannae,” he agreed and sighed. “And e’en if ye did, it wouldnae sound right when I said words ye had given me to say. Sile would ken they werenae my words. Just tell me what ye would do.”
Bennet grimaced and scratched his chin. “I dinnae really ken. Tell her how ye feel, I suppose. Tell her ye liked her when she stood firm against ye and called ye an oaf when ye were acting like one.”
“Actually, she called me an overbearing ogre who grunts more than he talks.” Artan smiled faintly in remembrance as Bennet laughed. “Oh, and a wart on Satan’s nose. I told her she needed to think harder on that one as it wasnae one of her best insults.”
“She thinks up insults?”
“Aye, she claims ’tis because she is too small to physically defend herself so she wants a quiverful of insults to fling at any foe.”
“I dinnae think it was her insults that left Malcolm looking so poorly.”
Artan nodded, feeling proud of how his wife had dealt with Malcolm.“Thatis the Sile I want. Nay this sweet, puling little weakling of a lass. When I kidnapped her the first time and I set her back on her feet and took that gag off, she spit out insults that could make your hair curl and was practically hopping up and down she was so angry. I kenned then that I had found my mate.”
“Aye, she sounds perfect for ye,” drawled Bennet, and chuckled when Artan nodded in all seriousness. “So tell her that.”
“Tell her I thought she was adorable when she kicked me in the shins, then cursed me for making her toes hurt? That I get as hard as a rock when her eyes spark with fury and she pokes me in the chest as she scolds me? Doesnae sound like sweet words or flattery to me.”
“But it is and of the most sincere kind. ’Tis how ye can make her see that ye truly want her just as she was, that ’twas that lass ye wed and wanted as your wife, as the mother of your bairns.”
Artan stared at Bennet and frowned. “Shouldnae I be telling her how bonnie she is or something about how her hair shines or her eyes are like some flower?”
“’Tisnae her looks she is trying to change or is worried about.”
Revelation came hard and fast and Artan cursed softly. Bennet had hit the mark squarely and dead center. Although Cecily did not seem to believe she was as bonnie as she was, she was also not terribly concerned about it. Only the occasional hint of jealousy revealed that she thought she was not pretty enough for a man she had declared was beautiful. Foolish lass, he thought fondly. He would have to make her see that she was beautiful, but not just yet. Now he had to make her understand that it was her spirit he married, her courage and pride, and even her temper.
“Of course ye could always just tell her that ye love her,” murmured Bennet.
“And why should I be doing that?” Artan was sorely tempted to remove that smug, knowing look from Bennet’s face, preferably by grinding it into the mud.
“Because ye do. Saw it the first day ye arrived, when ye realized that she had been hurt by the knowledge of your bargain with Angus.”
“Weel, it may be true, but a mon has his pride. She hasnae said she loves me, ye ken. Dinnae see why I should be the first.”
“Mayhap she hasnae said it in words, but she has in so many other ways that ’tis clear to everyone at Glascreag. Aye, and why else would she be trying so hard to be a perfect wife for ye?”
Artan stared blindly at the keep as he and Bennet approached the gates. His heart was pounding hard and fast in his chest at the mere thought that his Sile might love him. He had told himself that her passion, respect, and caring were enough, but now knew that he had lied to himself. There had remained an unease in his heart, a nameless craving. He now knew what that craving was for. He needed Cecily to love him because she was his life, his mate, his love. It was not enough to have Bennet say it was so either. Artan needed Cecily to say the words. The urge to race to their bedchamber and demand she say the words was fierce, but he wrestled it into submission. In her current humor she could well say the words just because he had demanded them of her. He wanted to hear them only if she truly meant them.
As he and Bennet dismounted in the bailey, Artan struggled to prepare himself for the confrontation with his wife. It could not be delayed any longer if only because waiting was not going to give him any better idea of what to say to her. Realizing he was cowering at the thought of having a serious discussion with a tiny green-eyed woman, Artan suddenly found his courage again. If he had to, he could face an army armed only with his bare hands and make a good accounting of himself. He could certainly face a discussion of feelings with his wife without flinching. Artan set his shoulders and walked purposefully toward the doors of the keep.
“Good luck!” called Bennet.
