Page 57 of An Ill-Made Match

Eden tutted, and was disconcerted to see him smile. How could he look so...so… words failed her… Happy? Even in her thoughts, she stuttered over that choice of word. It couldn’t be because of her. His hand seized hers and stroked it over his chest. “Like this.” Eden bit her lip. A week ago, if someone had told her she would be lying naked on top of a satiated Roland Vawdrey, stroking his chest, she would have called them a liar to their face. “Now kiss me,” he said interrupting her thoughts.

“What?” Eden faltered. She glanced around, the hour was hard to determine in their cupboard-bed. “It must surely be approaching daybreak,” she objected.

He opened one eye. “How does that signify?” He sounded lazily curious, nothing more.

Eden ducked her head, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I just mean that, we’ll soon have to rise.”

“Not until you’ve kissed me, we won’t. And make it a good one.”

“What do you mean, a good one?” asked Eden indignantly.

His smile grew, though his eyes were closed again. “One that will fortify me for the day ahead,” he explained. “Otherwise, I’ll have to keep snatching kisses from you to keep me going.”

Eden spluttered. “That’s ridiculous!” Did he mean with tongue? She wondered distractedly.

“Now don’t turn all stiff and starchy,” he said, his hand sliding from her waist to rub her hip. “It won’t work, not when I can still recall …”

Horrified at the prospect of what he might say next, she dropped her head and pressed her lips to his. Roland’s hand on her hip squeezed gently, and Eden shifted slightly over him, as she steeled herself for the next part. Bracing a second hand against his warm chest, she touched her tongue to his lips. Roland gave a muffled exclamation. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she slipped her tongue fully into his mouth, and found both her hips firmly gripped as Roland sat up, dragging her into his lap. She squeaked and would have pulled her head back, but his hand was suddenly tangled in her hair, holding her plastered against him as he took the lead in their incendiary kiss, his tongue stroking insistently against her own. One of his hands grasped her backside firmly, whilst the other covered her breast. Finally, he dragged his mouth from hers and leant his head back against the headboard.

“Fuck Eden, not that good,” he groaned. “Now all I can think about is being between your thighs again.” Eden’s face flamed. He shot her a speculative look. “I expect you’re too sore though.

“Of course, I am!” she stammered, dragging her gaze away from the blatant arousal between his legs. In truth, she was more tender than sore this time, but she certainly did not fancy another round with the beast that very morning! It was indecent to even think of it!

He huffed out a breath, releasing her. Immediately, Eden scrambled off him and pounced on her shift, dragging it over her head to cover her nakedness.

“Sorry,” he said ruefully, raking a hand over his face. Then he grinned at her. “But that was a very good kiss.” He had no right to look so boyishly handsome, when his behavior was so utterly brazen!

**

Roland kept a close eye on Fulco as they broke their fast. He was unnerved by the idea of him as some kind of bearded seducer. He would definitely be having a conversation with him at some point on the subject. How the devil was he supposed to go off and compete at the tourneys and leave his wife with such a manservant?

Fulco did not join them to eat this morning, having risen hours before and started on his work outside. Instead he simply brought in a large platter of pickled herrings and salted stockfish, and then abruptly left. Parnell and Seth snuck through the door and insinuated themselves under Roland’s bench.

“What’s that one called?” asked Eden, pointing to the ginger dog wrapped around Cuthbert’s legs.

“That’s Nudd,” Roland told her.

“Nudd?”

“It’s an old name round these parts.”

“I see.” She seemed ill at ease this morning, and blushed whenever his gaze fell on her. Which was often. He found he didn’t tire of the view.

“You should have called him Tod after a male fox,” said Cuthbert. “He looks just like one. My Granny raised a fox cub once. She found him half drowned in his den. Someone had killed his mam.”

“What happened to him?” asked Eden.

“She still had him, last time I visited home,” shrugged Cuthbert. “He stinks something awful though. His name’s Nix.”

“What’s the grey dog called?” asked Eden. “The one who looks like a gargoyle.”

A gargoyle? Roland lowered his butter knife. “His name’s Dimon.” He saw her repeat the name under her breath, as if committing it to memory. For some reason that pleased him too. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Parnell had abandoned him to appear at Eden’s side. His tail thudded against the floorboards, when she spoke to him in low tones.

“Should have called him Babewyn,” said Cuthbert scornfully.

“I’ll have you know,” said Roland. “That my Father considered him a vastly handsome animal, and paid a goodly sum for him.”

“Speaking of gargoyles, I forgot to tell you,” said Cuthbert looking up from his plate. “When I was in the village yesterday, I came across a Lady Orla Bernard. She was buying flax from old Simpkin, when I was getting wool for your mattress.”