"And then he called her 'my joy,' " Gay replied in a soft voice. "Such little words, but the feeling behind them ran deep. Ye could hear it in his voice." She shook her head and began to help Ilsa dress again. "I realize I am indeed mending in heart and mind for I found myself wishing that, some day, a mon would speak so to me."
Ilsa was pleased beyond words that Gay was recovering so well from the brutality she had suffered, but she also felt a deep stab of envy. "That ye would wish for such a thing shows clearly that ye are healing." She sighed as Gay finished lacing her gown and gently urged her to sit down upon a stool.
"And, ye are right, it would be a wondrous thing for any lass to hear."
"Ere he lost his memory, Sir Diarmot must have spoken to ye that way," Gay said as she brushed Ilsa's hair.
"He did. Such love words are naught but a dim memory now."
"Does he ne'er soften, ne'er speak sweet words?"
"Weel, I dinnae ken if ye could call what he says sweet. When passion grips him, he forgets he doesnae trust me, that he thinks me a liar and a possible threat. Aye, when his blood is running hot, he doesnae speak love words, but he does utter some verra earthy compliments. And, when sated, he rarely returns to his accusations, insults, or angry words. There is a truce between us for a wee while."
"That is a good thing, isnae it?" Gay asked as she finished braiding Ilsa's hair.
Ilsa cast a wry look at Gay as she slowly stood up. "Aye, but it could also be simply that he wants to feed his monly needs and suspects I might cry him nay if he spouts too much of his cynical, e'en insulting, nonsense. I threatened as much in the beginning."
"Possibly. Then, again, I think there are a few lasses about Clachthrom who would be willing to feed those needs if ye kicked him out of your bed."
"Not if they wish to celebrate their next saint's day," drawled Isla as she started out of her bedchamber.
Gay laughed briefly as she fell into step beside Ilsa who was headed toward the great hall. "Weel, I wouldnae scorn his passion. I ken some say the way to a mon's heart is through his stomach, but I suspect the path lies a wee bit lower."
Ilsa grinned, then shook her head. "With Diarmot the path lies buried in his memory. When he first awoke from his sleep this time there was a look in his eyes that made me think he remembered me, that his new injuries had knocked his memory back into its proper place this time. Then Geordie arrived."
"Ye shall have to see if the laird has recovered his memory when ye return to his bedside, then," said Gay as they entered the great hall and walked to their seats.
One of the serving women hurried over to set out bread, cheese, apples, and two tankards of goat's milk, so Ilsa said nothing in reply. Ilsa savored a thick slice of the bread covered with thick honey, and almost smiled at the growing look of impatience upon Gay's face. The girl was definitely recovering from her ordeal and the grief it had brought her.
"Ilsa, ye are going to return to your husband's bedside, arenae ye?" asked Gay.
"Oh, aye," replied Ilsa. "Tis a wife's duty to tend to her husband when he is ill or injured. I will return to sitting by the bed watching him sleep. Later."
"Later?"
"Aye, after I eat and after I see the children. Mayhap after I tend the herb garden, as weel."
"That could take all day."
"Indeed it could." She smiled when Gay laughed, but then grew serious. "I ken I havenae been all sweet smiles and acceptance, but I have done my best. I understand what troubles him and have been most forgiving despite his unkindness and insults. Weel, I have just saved the fool's miserable life, and if he cannae bring himself to trust me, to believe in me, after that, there isnae much else I can do. Tis clear I cannae turn cold on him, but I willnae struggle to prove myself any longer. As of today, I intend to walk my own path. No more fretting o'er how to get him to remember me, trust me, or care for me. When, and if, my husband sees the truth, then he and I can resume our marriage as it should be. I will still be his wife, share his bed, love his bairns, and tend his household, but I willnae keep trying to make him see the truth. I believe tis now his turn to prove himself to me."
"Ye remember everything?" asked Nanty as he sprawled in the chair next to Diarmot's bed.
"Aye." Diarmot sipped his ale trying to ignore the twinges of pain even that small movement caused him. "Weel, almost everything. Some parts are still lightly shrouded, but I am certain that, too, will pass."
"So, ye now ken that Ilsa is your wife."
"Weel, aye, I recall the handfasting now."
Diarmot also recalled the sweet promises they had made to each other. She had taken the bitterness away, soothed the pain, and given him joy. Then, after signing those papers giving her all rights as his wife, he had nearly been murdered. His besotted mind did not want to believe Ilsa had anything to do with the attack upon him, but he resolutely buried those doubts about her possible guilt. Someone wanted him dead and, at the moment, Ilsa really was the only one who would gain from that. Diarmot knew he could not allow himself to ignore that simply because she made his blood burn.
"What has ye scowling?" he asked Nanty when he became aware of his brother's dark stare.