Page 46 of An Ill-Made Match

Fulco snorted and shook his head. “There’s been no womenfolk at the Keep, not for a twelve-month.”

Now it was Eden’s turn to stare. No womenfolk? What kind of a household was this?

Roland swore. “Cuthbert will have to play the page, until we sort someone out.”

She thought she heard Cuthbert mutter darkly at this, but did not turn her head to dignify it.

“You sent no word ahead,” Fulco rumbled in reproach, lowering his axe. He cast another uneasy look at Eden. “Wife, ye say?” he squinted at her suspiciously.

“Aye, wife.” She was surprised by Roland’s tone, which was not unlike the one he’d used earlier when speaking of the Keep. “Of five days now.”

“Six,” she corrected him.

“Six?” he frowned down at her. “Oh aye, I always forget that day we lost in bed.”

Fulco coughed, and to her annoyance she felt her face turn bright red. Roland was now striding toward the rickety-looking steps. Eden sat up in alarm. “The steps will surely break if you carry me up them!” she objected. “And bearing my weight must surely be paining your ribs.”

“You’re slim enough, and weigh no more than a decent-sized dog,” he said absently.

“A dog?” Eden looked at him in exasperation. “Don’t you mean a feather?”

He smirked. “Sweetheart, you’re not that light.”

She was still spluttering indignantly as he mounted the swaying steps. They creaked ominously.

Eden grabbed for his broad shoulders. “Do not drop me, Roland Vawdrey,” she warned him fretfully, and squeezed her eyes shut. Almost, she could imagine herself on a storm-tossed ship. “These steps are treacherous.”

“Faint-heart,” he mocked, though he held her a little tighter. “I’m not about to drop you. And these steps have been here many a long year.”

“Then it’s high time they were replaced,” she told him, her eyes still shut.

“Stop ruining tradition, wife.”

Eden cracked an eye open. “What tradition? Making your wife sea-sick?” By her reckoning he had already ascended a good five steps. How many more could there possibly be?

He ran up the last five steps nimbly enough. “Carrying you across the threshold,” he murmured, shouldering the huge studded oak door open. It creaked in a sinister fashion.

Eden peered into at a bare room with a large wooden table in it and a window-seat. Other than that, the room was strewn about with a good deal of what looked like either farming or battle implements.

He seemed to notice her puzzlement. “The disarming room,” he explained.

“Disarming room?” Eden repeated blankly.

“Aye, wife.” It seemed to Eden, that he had of a sudden, a gleam in his eye that she regarded with misgiving.

“Ready for what comes next?” he asked.

Not caring for his manner, she pointed out, “I’m not armed,” with dignity.

“You can’t expect me to take your word for that,” he said, letting her slide down his body to her own two feet.

“You know full well-” Eden began hastily, stepping back, only to nearly trip over a pair of boots. “Ow!”

He caught her about the waist and yanked her back into his arms.

“Roland!” she protested breathlessly, as his lips sought hers, but before she knew it, she was being pushed back against the door and soundly kissed. Not this again!

Suddenly the inner door was shoved back and what looked like a half dozen large dogs burst into the room, swarming and jumping around them, barking and knocking things over. Roland tore his lips hastily from hers. “Down you brutes!” he roared. Eden eased past him in the confusion, and nearly lost her footing again as the heavy tail of a huge barrel-chested dog struck the back of her legs, nearly buckling her knees. For a moment, she was even grateful for Roland’s arm at her waist, keeping her upright. “Down Hector!” Roland bellowed. Eden clutched at him helplessly, in the midst of the chaos of writhing dog bodies. She scrambled to stand on her own two feet, seeking to put some space between them. “Is this part of tradition in these parts too?” she asked stiffly. “Savaging your bride with the hounds?”