“Stuart?” Della inquired, disturbing him from his preoccupation with the fire. They had both been silent for so long, her voice cracked.
Stuart turned to her and smiled pleasantly. He rested against the back of the chair, his feet upon the table. “I was thinking of the time I convinced you to pour a bucket of water on Edwyn from the wall. Do you remember?”
“Yea, you had been at Strathfeld for only a few years. You said he was afraid of water and I was to help him with that fear, going so far as to help me haul the bucket up the ladder. Then you put a clump of mud in it and I doused him in muck instead.”
Stuart laughed and his feet landed with a thud on the floor. “You were so mad at me you swore you would never talk to me again.”
“Yea, Stuart, I remember it well. You pestered me for hours until I was forced to forgive you and I only relented to quiet your persistence.”
It was only one of the many pranks her cousin had played on her and the other hapless inhabitants of the keep, but the jokes had been the harmless antics of youth.
“And, if I remember correctly, Edwyn did not get mad at you either.” Stuart sighed, his mind on the past. He chuckled to himself.
“Nay.” Della watched him carefully. His eyes were distant, frighteningly so. “But my father was livid when he found out all we had been up to. He came home a few days after it happened.”
Stuart’s eyes clouded at the mention of the late Lord Strathfeld. “Yea, you were about seven years, were you not? Your father locked you in the tower and sent me away to my training.”
“I was eight,” Della said. She remembered the night her father sent him away. Stuart had already been in his teenage years. She’d cried endlessly at the unfairness. It was also around the same time she’d taken complete control over the duties of the manor. To cheer her, her father thought to put her in charge of the keep. Della wondered if the responsibility had done more harm than good, though she’d been grateful to be kept busy. “And he did not lock me in a tower, only my bedchamber until you were gone.”
“Your father hated me. He banished me from the only place I was happy as a child. My father didn’t want me. I could never please the man before he died.”
“My father claimed it was not for the pranks that he sent you to your training, but because it was time for you to learn to be a man. You would not become a man hanging about a girl child all day. He did not hate you. In fact, you were only gone from Strathfeld for a short time. You came back oft to visit us and methinks your father bid you home on several occasions.”
Stuart growled in the back of his throat, obviously not believing her. He stared back into the fire.
“Stuart, I need to go outside. I need to walk.” Della spoke softly, drawing him gently back to the conversation.
“Nay. It’s not a good idea for you to be out.”
“Cousin, you don’t understand.” She hoped the heat coloring her features would be mistaken for a blush and not apprehension. “I have to get out of this chamber. I have to walk outside. In private.”
“Nay, I see no need. If you must stretch your legs walk about the chamber. You will not be here much longer.” Stuart waved his hand in the air to dismiss her request. “The feeling should have completely returned to them. I didn’t order Serilda to prick them again.”
Della tried not to scowl, wanting to spit in his smug face. He acted as if he bequeathed her with a gift. “I must relieve myself, dearest cousin. Please don’t make me go in that dirty chamber pot again. Serilda does not wash it. She hates me and I must have some fresh air. Please.”
“Oh.” Stuart sat up. “I do not think I like you calling me dearest cousin.”
“What would you have me call you then?” Della asked, surprised at the admission. “Lord Grayson?”
“Dearest husband,” Stuart corrected. “Yea, let us pretend that we are already married. It will make the eve go by faster.”
Her gut twitched as he stood and moved toward the bed. He smiled down at her, holding out his hand. She looked at it warily, unable to force herself to take it. Her eyes watered.
“Stand,” he ordered.
Her gown was dirty, tattered, and stained to the point it no longer looked to be blue. The bruise on her cheek was still swollen and her tired eyes undoubtedly red. Yet he smiled at her as if he pictured her as the grandest of ladies in the most favored of places. Della wondered if he even really saw her.
“Stuart,” Della began, only to be cut off by his hush.
“Stand,” he commanded again. His voice lowered.
Della held out her shaking hand to him, unable to control her trembling.