She wondered where Trist was. She had missed the marten. She would oversee boiling an egg for him herself.
Severin was wearing the new tunic she’d sewn for him. It was pale blue, soft as Trist’s pelt, and beautifully made. It was too tight across his shoulders.
But he had worn it. To please her. She had left it smoothed out atop the bed and kept her fingers crossed. He had worn it. When she met his eyes, she smiled. Then, before she could lose her courage, she skipped to him, stroked her palms over the wondrous soft wool, and said, “You are magnificent. I am sorry, Severin, but I did not think you were so wide. I will make the next tunic larger.” She measured him with her fingers, making the calculations in her head.
“It is a fine tunic,” he said, and his voice was low and gruff. He looked as if he would say more, but both of them became aware that there was a growing silence in the great hall. Even Edgar the wolfhound, who had been barking his head off just a few moments before chasing one or
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, i-ttje gjrls about as she waved a ball of wool in his face, was silent, sitting on his haunches, staring toward them.
“I was wondering why you always wore gray.”
“I believe it is because the women who did all the weaving and dye. at Langthorne only knew how to dye gray. After I left, I suppose it was just a habit and I sought nothing but gray. You believed perhaps it was a superstition for me? Some sort of ritual?”
“Aye, perhaps. I know how to dye beautiful colors, Severin. May I sew you more tunics, each a different color?”
“You may do whatever you wish with my tunics. This one is very soft. I thank you.”
“Everyone is wondering what has happened between us,” Hastings said, and to prove to herself that she knew exactly what she was doing, she thrust her chin in the air and looked him right in his dark blue eyes.
“Shall I tell them that nothing has happened as yet?”
“But it has,” she said, just a bit of desperation seeping into her voice.
“Aye, I much enjoy hearing you laugh. I have never heard you laugh before today.”
“It is not ordinary?”
“Nay,” he said, smiling down at her. Then he rubbed his knuckles lightly over her cheek. “You are so soft,” he said, then leaned down, kissed her lightly. “Softer than my new tunic.” He laughed at her stunned expression and strode to the lord’s high-backed chair.
Trist had wrapped himself around Severin’s wine goblet. He stretched out his arm to pet Trist, feeling the tightness of the material under his arm. Too, he wished the new tunic were more full-cut. He was hard and hurting. He quickly sat down. Trist unwrapped himself and came to rub his whiskers against Severin’s hand.
He stroked the marten’s soft fur until Hastings herself placed his pewter plate in front of him. There was a thick, rich slab of white bread
atop it was a capon, perfectly roasted, with honeyed almonds, peas,
abbage, and onions around it. He had been well fed in his three new
ePs, but none could compare to MacDear. He fell to his meal, wanting
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to eat quickly so he could grab Hastings and haul her to their bedcham ber. She wouldn’t fight him tonight. She would smile. She would hold out her arms to him. Just as Anne had. No, he wouldn’t think about Anne that woman child who had given him so much guilty pleasure that he’d almost swooned with it. No, he should not have felt guilt. Hastings was his wife, nothing more, nothing less.
There was nothing to change here. Except her. Aye, she had changed and he was pleased. He hoped the changes continued.
He would not rub her nose in the dirt for bending to him. No, he would be magnanimous. He wondered what had happened to turn her
from a bold-tongued shrew-who had helped him, he admitted that
into this lovely smiling girl who looked at him as if she were actually enjoying looking at him.