Page 73 of An Ill-Made Match

He had been victorious at Areley Kings, but any warm glow from that now abruptly fled. Which was also foolish, as he had a large purse of gold and a new trophy out of it. What did he care if his cold bitch of a wife didn’t want his kisses? He rubbed his chest distractedly, as he moved away from the table.

“Wait,” Eden had half-risen from the table, her expression tense. “I just meant… it feels strange, that’s all,” she finished lamely.

“I see.”

“So, you won then?” she asked with an air of desperation, and it dawned on Roland with horrible clarity that she could see she had hurt his feelings. How was that even possible? He was Roland Vawdrey, and no-one had, had the power to do that in years. Realizing he was still rubbing his chest, like she had inflicted a physical wound, he abruptly dropped his hand. “At Areley Kings,” she rambled on. “The jousting or the mock battle thing?”

“Melee,” he corrected her automatically, though continuing this nightmare conversation was the last thing he wanted. He just wanted to get away. “Joust,” he said shortly, answering her question.

“You won both?” she asked in confusion. “Well, that’s very impressive.”

He snorted. Gods, now she was trying to bolster him up! Could this get any worse?

“What? Everyone agrees you’re very good.”

“I only won the jousting, Eden,” he said irritably.

“Oh, well, that’s still…” she trailed off. “What went wrong in the melee, do you suppose?” she asked brightly.

Roland regarded her with almost open-mouthed incredulity. “No-one expects to win both! And even if they did, I’m not about to talk battle strategy with you!”

“I’m just trying to make a little pleasant conversation between us,” she huffed.

“Well don’t bother!” he bit back. “I find your conversation superfluous.” With that cutting rejoinder he flung out of the room, slamming the door behind him. It would have been more satisfying if he didn’t suspect she was surprised he even knew what the word meant!

Eden Montmayne, thought Roland savagely, as he descended the stone steps, was without doubt, the most infuriating woman in the unchronicled history of infuriating women. No doubt, he thought, she’d soon correct him if he ever shared that suspicion. The bloody woman always had plenty to say, no matter what the subject matter! He was slightly disturbed by the fact he was now anticipating what she would say though. His footsteps slowed. When had he started doing that? He never did that. Other people’s opinions were largely a matter of indifference to Roland. Certainly, they had no consequence regarding the way he acted. Not that, they would now, he thought with a hasty scowl. She was a shrew of a bride, and he must be stark, staring mad to have – what? He pulled himself up short. Wanted her? Well that was ballocks. He’d been coerced into taking her to wife, he reminded his errant thoughts, uneasily. A sarcastic response in his own head, irritated him, telling himself he never stopped panting after his own wife. When the hells had he started upbraiding himself? He frowned, diverting his steps toward the stables.

Besides, she was an ungrateful harpy, not wanting his kisses. He must be the only man in the kingdom who hankered after her cruel lips! Gods! He rubbed his jaw distractedly. And why didn’t she want his attentions, damn it? He was her husband. And by his reckoning, he hadn’t been all that contemptible in the role. Had he even once taken her to task for trapping him into wedlock? Not even once! He’d accepted the consequences of his actions with practicality. No reproaches had passed his lips, even though the little wretch had the nerve to look as sick as a dog throughout their entire wedding ceremony and even tried to flee in the aftermath! He snorted. And then she’d got the brass neck to begrudge him her lips! It was the least she could bloody give him, he thought walking on with an injured air. When he thought about the rank ingratitude, it fairly took his breath away! He was the King’s champion! Maidens dropped their handkerchiefs, and other things, in the hopes of enticing him and his own wedded wife was asking him not to kiss her after he’d ploughed her. It was beyond all reasoning, he thought darkly. It was pointless even trying. He kicked an abandoned pail as he entered the stables. It made him feel a little better, but not much.

**

Roland was never going to kiss her again. Eden paced the room distractedly as Brigid cleared away their supper things. She felt a little sick. She wasn’t really sure how things had deteriorated so quickly over supper, or why she had persisted in such a completely fruitless line of conversation. Good grief, it was almost like she had been trying to needle him. She covered her mouth with her hand, and turned sharply on her heel as she ran over the conversation in her head. Where had it all gone so badly wrong? Her steps slowed a little and she frowned, remembering the blaze of emotion she had felt when he had described Sir Renlowe as ‘utterly fearless’. She had been pierced with the strangest regret and longing at his words. No-one would ever describe her in such glowing terms, she thought, closing her eyes briefly. Little miss perfect who always strove never to put a foot wrong, but somehow ended up disgracing herself anyway.

And how extraordinary that Roland Vawdrey should consider the strange figure of Sir Renlowe, as the perfect fledgling knight. He really was full of surprises, this husband of hers. A pity then that she had gone and willfully filled him with disgust for her, she thought biting her lip. So far from the brave Sir Renlowe was she, that instead of welcoming Roland home and attempting to build some kind of mutual respect between then, she had instead flung every dark doubt and secret fear she harbored about their ill-fated marriage in his face. Oh well done, Eden.

“My lady?” asked Brigid hesitantly.

Eden sharply turned her head. “Yes?”

“I didn’t catch what you said.”

Eden made a quick movement with her hands. “Nothing to signify,” she said hurriedly. Had she spoken aloud? Then to her embarrassment, she felt the flood-gates open and tears coursing down her cheeks.

“Oh milady!” Eden shook her head, but when she tried to reassure her maid, all that came out was a sob. “The great brute, what did he say?” asked Brigid indignantly. She plunked down the tablecloth she had been folding and ushered Eden into a chair.

“He – not his fault – mine,” gasped Eden, mopping at her eyes with a napkin.

“Hah – likely story! And you been missing him so, these last few days too!” she tutted. Eden took a jagged breath. No, that wasn’t right. Had she? “Menfolk!” exclaimed Brigid with great loathing. “If you knew what I had to contend with that oaf, Fulco! Huffing and puffing at me, and never taking his beady little eyes off me.“

“Oh dear,” quavered Eden, glad of any distraction from her own woes. “You’re not leaving us, are you?”

“Leaving?” snorted Brigid. “I should say not! It’d be a fine thing if I let such a great lummox drive me out, now I’ve found somewhere I belong.”

“Oh, good,” said Eden shakily. She wiped her cheeks, and rallied herself. “Someone will have to speak to Fulco. Is he waiting for you to put a foot wrong, then?”

Brigid gave her a wry look. “Something like that,” she murmured. And strangely enough, she blushed.

“Roland says that his mother is likely poisoning his mind against any marriageable women.”