"Weel, it makes more sense to me that some fool mon was bewitched by Anabelle and seeks to make ye pay for her death, than that tis Ilsa and her kin trying to kill ye for greed."
"Until I discover who is my enemy everyone save my own family is suspect. At this moment, all that makes Ilsa a perfect suspect cannae be ignored. Neither can I ignore the fact that, after putting my mark to papers giving her such generous rights, within hours after leaving her I was nearly murdered. Give me something that looks more suspicious than that and I will readily consider it, if only for the sake of my sons."
"As ye wish," said Nanty. "I still hold to my right to believe ye wrong about Ilsa, but I will continue to keep a close eye upon everyone. Shall I spy upon Odo as weel? He is only five, but he is a clever lad. Can be devious, too."
"How verra amusing ye are. If I wasnae near crippled, I would show ye how verra amusing I think ye until ye are naught but a puddle in the mud." Diarmot heard his stomach rumble and frowned at the door. "Isnae it time for a meal?"
"Do ye expect your wee wife to tend to ye?"
"Why shouldnae she? She is my wife. Tis her duty to see to her husband's needs."
"'Tis glad I am Gillyanne isnae here to hear ye say that." Nanty gave an exaggerated shudder, but then grew serious. "Ye expect a lot of a woman ye treat so poorly."
"She is the one who came here demanding a proper marriage." Nanty was making him feel guilty and unkind and it was very annoying. "I may nay trust her, but she still has her uses."
"I am surprised ye let her into your bed. Arenae ye afraid she will work her evil on ye?"
"She cannae do much harm to me when she is naked and spread out beneath me."
Even as he uttered the words, Diarmot regretted them. He regretted them even more when he heard the door to his bedchamber open. Instinct told him it was Ilsa. When he looked toward the door, he inwardly winced. She was holding a tray filled with food and drink. The look upon her face told him she would thoroughly enjoy emptying the whole lot over his head. Diarmot tensed as she strode toward the bed, then inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when all she did was set the tray down on the table by his bed with enough force to rattle the plates. He hoped he did not look as uncomfortable as he felt as he met her glare.
"I could always try to rip your throat out with my teeth," she drawled and decided the look of shock on his face was almost enough to ease the sting of his crude words. "Eat. Ye need your strength."
"Where are ye going?" he demanded when she turned to leave.
"To eat in the great hall, after which I shall bid the bairns good sleep, and then I shall seek my bed."
"Your bed is here."
"Nay. Tis in the room across the hall."
"A wife's place is in her husband's bed. Ye will move your things back in here."
Ilsa struggled with the urge to pummel the man, sternly telling herself he was bruised enough already. She briefly considered refusing to share his bed, then accepted the sad fact that it would gain her nothing. He would probably just see it as another trick or proof of the basic perfidy of women. The bed remained their only neutral ground, their mutual passion the only source of any lessening of his anger and mistrust. She could not give it up, for then there would be no chance of changing his mind and heart. In truth, she doubted she could turn aside from the desire that flared between them for very long anyway.
"I will return here when ye have healed," she said. His response was a soft grunt and the faintly smug look that crossed his face made her clench her fists.
"After all, since I have a husband," she said too sweetly as she headed out of the room, "twould be foolish not to avail myself of the one thing he is good at."
Diarmot gaped at the door as it shut behind her, then looked at Nanty. "Did ye hear the impertinent wench?"
"Aye. At least she said ye were good at it," Nanty said in a choked voice, then he began to laugh.
It was evident he had no true ally in Nanty, Diarmot thought crossly. At least not in his suspicions about Ilsa. He gave the chuckling Nanty a hard glare and turned his attention to his meal. The first thing he would do when he felt better was make love to his impertinent wife until her eyes rolled back in her head. The second thing he would do was pound his cackling brother into the mud.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Weel, that was an unpleasant way to spend the morning," Diarmot muttered as he slouched in his chair at the head table in the great hall, then took a deep drink of ale.
"Hangings always are," said Sigimor as he slathered honey on a thick chunk of bread.