Brant frowned. “Yea, Ebba, begone.”
Ebba shut the door. Della pushed away from Brant, all desire having faded from her body at the news. Worry filled each breath as she hurried to her trunk to don a fresh undertunic. Her hands shook with her need to help as she pulled her hair back to the nape of her neck. More to herself than to him, she said, “I should never have stayed in bed so long. What was I thinking?”
Brant stood and grabbed his braccas, sighing in obvious disappointment as he slipped them over his hips.
“I should have been belowstairs.” She hurriedly pulled on her dress. “Not in bed doing naught.”
“Naught? I would not say we were doing naught, lady wife.” Brant pulled on a new undertunic.
“I shall ride immediately,” Della announced, barely looking at him. She swallowed hard, not daring to ask his permission. “I should have ordered Ebba to ready my horse.”
“Della, you will not be going.” Brant’s tone made the finality of his decision unmistakable. She didn’t intend to obey.
“Nay, I will. It’s still my responsibility to care for these people. Just because you are my husband does not give you the right to forbid me from doing my duty.” She placed her hands defiantly on her hips before looking up at him. Fire burned in his eyes, but she didn’t back down.
“Because I am your husband, I do have that right. I will see to it, Della. It is a man’s affair to be dealt with. You will handle only the womanly concerns of the keep.”
“And what is a woman’s concern?” Della preened with a false smile and bat of her eyelashes. Inside she fumed at his daring.
“Cooking, sewing, cleaning,” Brant stated. He gave her figure a meaningful look. “And keeping your husband’s bed warm.”
“Nay,” she insisted with a tight snap of her jaw. “A woman’s concern is to care for and to nurture the people of her keep. Mayhap that sometimes means feeding and clothing them, but more likely it means a woman should ride to the site of a raid and help with the care of the survivors. It’s likely I will be needed there more than you. You are a man and a man should stick to what he knows—fighting and leaving a mess for the woman to clean.”
He didn’t move and she was secretly glad.
“The services of your sword are most useful while fighting. I can handle the aftermath.” With that, Della brushed a wayward strand of hair from her eyes.
“Della…” Brant began in warning.
“If you try to leave me behind, I will just follow you. So better you take me along. Better that than to have me traipsing along the countryside alone, unescorted.” Della stood her ground. She’d been feeling sorry for herself long enough. Ever since he’d arrived at Strathfeld, she’d forgotten her responsibility to the people. She would wallow in self-pity no longer.
Brant moved to grab her. “You dare too much, lady wife.”
“And you too little. It’s my life to put at risk.” She grabbed his tunic and threw it at his head, effectively stopping his advance. Brant ducked out of the garment’s way and caught it with the swift reflexes of one hand. When he looked at her again, she was almost to the door. “So get dressed, lest we leave without you!”
“Is that a threat?”
“Nay, but this is,” Della charged, not heeding her words. “Mayhap I will run into Stuart while you are gone. He could not have gotten far since last night.”
“What?” Brant’s eyes turned deadly. In a rising growl that echoed past her, he shot, “You said you walked alone!”
Della realized what she’d revealed and stopped right before ducking out the door. Trying to amend her rashly spoken words, she rushed, “I did walk alone, only I ran into Stuart on my way back. Naught happened that would shame you. Methought you would not understand and get angry.” His look proved how right the assumption was. “I swear on my father’s grave that naught dishonorable happened.”
She quickly moved out of the chamber, slamming the door in her haste to get away from him. It was not wise of her to be alone with him after such an admission. She ran to the hall, deciding to let his anger cool before confronting him alone. Brant would not make a scene in front of the servants or his men.
Brant glared after his tigress of a wife. Her defiance stirred his blood and he took grim pride in the proud tilt of her head, the hard tone in her voice. She was a strong one, his Della. Even though her stubbornness grated against his very nature and they clashed heads more often than not, he could not help but feel a fire in his soul for her. He glanced longingly at the bed, wanting to toss her back onto the soft mattress to finish what had been started that morning.