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Konrad snorted and crossed his ankles. Aimee saw Freda glance longingly toward the door before suppressing a sigh and drawing a gray garment of indeterminate age and purpose from her work bag. With her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth, Freda started attempting to thread her needle.

Aimee shot another glance at her husband, but he seemed in no hurry to leave. Reluctantly, Aimee retrieved her long-neglected embroidery from behind a cushion. It looked no better now than it had the last time she had seen it.

The door opened behind them. “Mistress Magnatrude Bartree!” Unwin announced smartly, and Aimee swiveled in her seat to see her sister-in-law bend an approving nod on her new page.

“Ah,” Trude said stepping forward. “I am pleased to see you two are plying your needles.” She leaned over the back of the settle to inspect Aimee’s handiwork.

Instinctively, Aimee stiffened, and she felt herself grow hot and uneasy. Her sister-in-law’s needlework was exquisite whereas Aimee’s was abysmal. The fact that Magnatrude arched a brow but made no comment only served to make her feel worse.

Freda cleared her throat. “Could you light me a candle, Unwin?” she requested. “I am afraid I cannot see to thread this needle.”

Unwin rushed to oblige her, and seeing Magnatrude drift to the window, Aimee rose from her seat with as much dignity as she could muster and swiftly exited the room. She had no sooner closed the door behind her, then it opened again. Instead of glancing back, Aimee quickened her steps and rushed along the corridor to her bedchamber.

This time, she did not even attempt to close it behind her, for a bulky figure was following her to the doorway. Konrad shut the door behind them and then walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge of it.

“I hope you are packed for the morrow, wife,” he commented.

“I am!” Aimee replied tartly. “Are you?”

He snorted. “It does not take me long to throw my things into a pack. Besides, I am used to it.”

He held out a hand to her, and Aimee looked at it blankly. He nodded toward her own, and it was only at this point that she realized she was still clutching the embroidery in her hand. “Let me see.”

Swallowing her instinctive refusal, Aimee passed it over. “I am a very poor needlewoman,” she said bristling all over as he glanced over it. “And wield nothing like the skill your sister would deem necessary in a lady.”

A smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. “She did not actually comment on your work.”

“No,” Aimee acknowledged, firing up. “But she looked at it and lifted her brows in the most goading manner! Even my sister, who has the patience of a saint, would have been goaded into a passionate fury by the sight of it! I am convinced!”

Konrad laughed. “It’s rather an unusual looking hound to be sure –”

“It’s a horse!” Aimee burst forth wrathfully. “Your horse!”

He squinted at it again. “Well, the colors are somewhere near,” he conceded. “But Actaeon’s neck is definitely longer than this beast’s …”

Aimee rushed toward him, snatching it out of his hand. “Oh, never mind!” she burst out hotly.

He caught her about the waist as she whirled around to make her retreat, hauling her back against him so she was pulled down into his lap. “Don’t be a little shrew,” he breathed into her ear. “If it makes you any happier, I don’t give a damn about your proficiency with the needle.”

“It doesn’t!” Aimee huffed.

“And why not?” he demanded. “Is it not my good opinion you should seek above all others?” When she did not answer, he squeezed her waist. “Well?”

Because I don’t love you anymore, she thought mutinously, but did not dare voice. “You are easily pleased in a wife.” Aimee said in a brittle manner. “Ladies are more discerning and less easily appeased.”

“Not true,” he growled in her ear. “I am very hard to please. As you shall soon discover, wife.” He squeezed her again, and Aimee grew slightly breathless. Then he sighed, loosening his grip. “Though not tonight, as we leave early on the morrow and have a five-hour ride ahead of us.”

“Oh,” she responded, and even to her own ear, the faint disappointment was apparent. He gave a snort of laughter and reached into his tunic drawing forth a long rope of pearls.

“These are for you.”

Aimee stared. “For me?”

He nodded and dropped them into her lap. “Betrothal gift,” he said shortly.

Betrothal gift? “Oh,” Aimee breathed in astonishment, only just catching them before they spilled onto the floor. “They – they are beautiful, my lord.” She lifted the strand to look at the magnificent, lustrous pearls. “Were they part of the Bartree collection?” she asked in awed tones.

He shook his head. “No, I bought those for you from my winnings at the royal tournament.” He cleared his throat. “Mayhap they will make up for the wrong I did you there.”