Chapter Fifty-Two

“You scare me, and I don’t know why.” For some reason those words haunted Sigurd throughout the night. He had asked her to explain how, but all she said was, “I have become accustomed to keeping my heart to myself.”

Ruth was so different from any other woman he had ever known. He watched her sleeping. A woman who didn’t snore. Perhaps it was because she was not one to partake regularly of mead. The triptych mirror showed him different images of her. He stripped away the coverlet, knowing she was too hot.

The nightgown was as modest as he had suspected. He had only come to check on her. The chill she had taken was showing no signs of abating, leaving her nose red and her throat, when she spoke, sounded raw.

“Rest easy, little bird,” he said, preparing to stay awhile. The low stool in the corner had a tapestry cushion showing hounds chasing a fox.

“She could have stripped me naked,” Ruth murmured, pushing at the frilled cap on her head, obviously in the middle of some dream. That would