“You are a strong one, lass,” Granny said in her low murmur. She was as old as the hills, a big-bosomed, plump woman with white hair and Ceidre’s own dark purple eyes. “You will be healed in no time.”
“You do not chastise me?”
“I know you, Ceidre, you did what you thought was right. A soul can do no more.”
“I must help my brothers, I must.”
“Shh, do not get in a dither.”
Ceidre laid her head back down while the old woman packed a poultice on her wounds. “I hate him, truly,” she murmured. “He has no heart, none at all.”
“No?” her grandmother asked. “That must be why he ran to you and cut you down and carried you, in his own two arms, with all of Aelfgar watching, into his home.”
Ceidre flushed. “Mayhap ’twas guilt, but that would truly be a surprise.” Yet she could see his eyes, as he had looked at her before the flogging, with their dark, strained depths, turbulent, roiling. And she could hear his voice, hoarse and pleading, as he called her name—but pleading for what?
“He did his duty, as you did yours,” Granny said.
“’Tis a fine coil, this is, with him wed to Alice but with eyes only for you. And now this.”
“He is merely randy, like a goat,” Ceidre spit out.
“He takes any passing wench that amuses him. I amuse him most now, yet I am his wife’s sister and he is decent enough to leave me be. But that whets his overly large appetite.”
“Ahh,” mused her grandmother. “’Twas for lust that he carried you to your sickbed.”
Ceidre was angry, and she snorted. The door opened precisely then, and Ceidre knew, instinctively, that it was the topic of their conversation. She met his steady regard with a hot glare.
“How is she?” Rolfe asked, stepping to the bedside.
“She will be fine, ’tis her peasant stock that makes her strong.”
Rolfe did not smile. Ceidre turned her head away but was aware of him gazing at her naked back. Her torn dress had been completely removed. From the hips down she was covered with a thin blanket, and she felt very vulnerable lying bare as she was.
“Will she scar?” Rolfe asked grimly.
“Yes, but not too badly if the salve is applied frequently. With time, who knows? Perhaps the marks will fade so as to nigh be discernible.”
“With time,” Rolfe echoed, staring.
“There is nothing more for me to do,” Granny said, rising heavily.
Rolfe took one last look at Ceidre, her head averted, then stepped with the old woman to the door. “Thank you,” he said.
Granny looked at him with a smile. “’Tis not for you to thank me, my lord.”
Rolfe looked at her. “Thank you,” he affirmed, and followed her out.
Alice heard him coming.
She was pacing like a caged cat, ire in her every stride, in the tight lines of her face. She froze at the sound of Rolfe’s strong steps upon the stairs, then struggled to attain a pleasant façade. It was not easy to do.
It was late, past supper. He had not summoned her for their evening meal, and instead a serf had brought her food and drink as she remained confined in their chamber. All of Aelfgar knew, she was sure, that she was being punished—and it was because of that witch, Ceidre.
Humiliation and fury vied equally, but strongest of all was hate. She hated her husband, and she hated his whore even more.
But she must get a grip on her emotions. He had not touched her since that first morning, when she had awoken beneath him to find him attempting to fornicate with her. She wished now that he had succeeded, that the consummation of their marriage had taken place. But it hadn’t. Tonight, however, there was no reason he would not fulfill his duties.
Rolfe entered, barely sparing her a glance. Alice had already changed for sleep. She paused by the hearth in a robe, her eyes huge and riveted upon him. Like a doe, she was poised, waiting to gauge his mood, his actions. He sighed and began stripping off his tunic.
