“I’ve been thinking about my friend Gunnilde Payne,” she was saying. “I am not convinced that her feelings are deeply engaged with Arthur Conway. After all, there are probably not that many matrimonial prospects in Tranton Vale.”
Roland managed to dredge Gunnilde Payne from the recesses of his memory, but Arthur Conway meant frankly nothing to him. He assumed an expression he hoped showed the appropriate husbandly interest. “No?” he said clearing his throat.
“For my part I think she could do a lot better than be connected by marriage to the Conways. I wonder if anyone suitable could be introduced to her when they come to Court.” She frowned as though considering a thorny problem. “How does a woman stimulate a man’s interest?” she asked impulsively.
Roland who had extended his own hand to refill his goblet, froze. “What?”
“I said, how does a woman capture a man’s attention? So that he notices her as a woman, I mean,” she explained, seeing his thunderstruck expression. “Or are you not allowed to tell me? Is it breaking some kind of male confidence?”
“Why are you asking?” Almost, he felt like he was swimming against the tide in this conversation.
“Gunnilde Payne,” she said as though explaining something blatantly obvious. “She comes to court next month. I was wondering if perhaps one of your friends might...?”
His brow cleared and he let out a short laugh. “You’re wasting your time there,” he said on confident ground once more.
“Nonsense,” Eden told him briskly. “I’m quite sure these things can be cultivated. I mean,” she hesitated a moment. “You only have to look at us.”
Roland again felt completely floored by her conversation. “What the devil do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“I meant no criticism,” she responded lightly though she blushed faintly. “I only meant that I would never have been the bride of your choice, that is all. And yet, in spite of that you… Well, you do not shun my presence in your… life,” she said, and he knew full well she had been going to say ‘bed’, but then decided it was too indelicate.
Roland was very quiet. He opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again without uttering a word. Gods, why was this so hard? “It’s not something you can just conjure from thin air,” he said with an odd tone to his voice that even he could hear. Eden looked set to argue the point. “And before you say I never noticed you as a woman, let me set you straight. I did.”
Eden sighed. “I know you’re trying to be gallant…” He snorted. “But we both know that is not true, and I’m not remotely offended by the fact.”
“Eden,” said Roland firmly. “We both know I don’t have a gallant bone in my body!”
“Naturally you do not wish to put me out of humor with you,” she stated mildly. “But I would truly prefer there to be nothing but honest dealing between us.”
“Honest dealing?” he repeated. “Are you sure about that?” After all, perhaps honesty would be the best policy. He couldn’t carry on tip-toeing around her like this!
“Quite,” Eden told him. “I believe it is for the best.”
“Very well then, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Roland and she eyed him with surprise. “I always noticed you, Eden,” he said simply. “Even when I thought you a shrill-tongued, stuck up harpy. I wondered what you’d feel like underneath me.”
Eden gasped. “But that’s… absurd.” She stared at him uncertainly. “You did not.”
“Yes, I did.”
“But…” Eden cast about wildly. “Why?”
Roland shrugged. “I don’t know. You always intrigued me I suppose. And when we kissed at Midwinter, that curiosity increased ten-fold. And now you’re mine, and there’s an end to it.”
She blinked at this several times, unsure how to respond. No doubt realizing what nasty creatures men were, when it came down to it. Now he was the one stealing glances at her. He cleared his throat. “Tell me what you’ve been about these past six days, wife,” he said aiming for less contentious grounds.
“I’ve taken many walks with the dogs,” she said in a stifled voice. “And read all the books I could lay my hands on.”
“You found books?”
“To be precise, Cuthbert found them,” admitted Eden. “Fulco saw him throw them into a trunk and I retrieved them.”
“Didn’t know we had any.”
“I believe they belonged to your brother Oswald.”
“I can well believe that,” he grunted. “I bet they’re as dull as ditchwater and all about politicking and such.”
“One was about the government of kings,” agreed Eden. “But the others weren’t. And I found some building plans too,” said Eden. “Which your brother drew up many years ago for extending the Keep.”
“Oh aye?”
“They were vastly interesting,” said Eden. “Although they would cost a fortune to carry out. He must be quite extraordinarily clever, I think.”
Unaccountably, he felt irritated by all this talk of Oswald’s and his plaguey cleverness. “Anything else?” he asked, hoping to induce a change of subject.
“Orla Bernard called. She broke her fast with me.”
“And did she spend the entire visit speaking of Oswald?” he asked sarcastically.
“She did mention him, naturally as he and Fenella are our mutual acquaintances,” said Eden. She paused then added, “She said he is infatuated to an almost unnatural degree with his wife.”
Roland lowered his wine with a frown. Was that true? Both his brothers were certainly very caught up in their wives. “Unnatural?” he repeated.
“She seemed to think so.”
He shrugged. “My sister-in-laws don’t seem to have any complaint.” Eden apparently had no rejoinder for that. “What else did she have to say?” he asked grudgingly.
Eden bit the side of her mouth. “Not much,” she said. “She told me of a seamstress in the village, and seemed surprised we had secured Brigid’s service here.”
“How is that working out?” he asked. “She and Fulco are not… clashing?”
Eden looked surprised by this. “Not that I’ve heard. Why should they?”
“It seems Fulco’s mother does not approve of young widows,” he answered evasively. “I fancy she’s not over-keen for him to take a wife.”
“It’s probably just local prejudice against an outsider,” said Eden with disapproval. “Brigid is from Aphrany, originally. You know how people can be.” She could have a point, he thought, but made no reply. The silence stretched, though he did not notice it until Eden cleared her throat. “So how did your friends fare at Areley Kings?” she asked. “Sir James and Sir Edward.”
“Neither acquitted themselves with much aplomb,” he answered, both pleased she had bothered remembering their names, and irritated she had not asked after his success first. “Attley crashed out of the first round of the jousting and Bev was on the losing side of the melee.”
“And your protegee, Sir Renlowe?” asked Eden. “Did he at least make it through in one piece?”
“I’d hardly call him my protegee,” said Roland with surprise.
“Is he not?” Eden frowned. “I thought I heard somewhere that he was.” She pondered this a moment. “I forget where. So, you do not encourage him to pursue the tourneys then? I thought it a little strange at the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“That it would be most odd for you to encourage one such as Sir Renlowe.”
Roland frowned, placing his cup back down on the table. “How so?”
“I would have thought it obvious,” said Eden, arching her elegant brows at him.
Something about her manner immediately irritated him. Doubtless she thought poor Renlowe should be spouting poetry instead. “Not to me. Why don’t you enlighten me with your superior knowledge on such matters,” he asked coolly.
Eden put down her spoon and regarded him censoriously. “At Tranton Vale, he was ignominiously defeated in the jous
t” she pointed out. “Then he was knocked unconscious and taken hostage in the melee.” The slight pucker between her brows cleared as she recalled something. “I was told you paid his ransom that day, so he was free to join the feasting. That was why I thought you had taken him under your wing. And after that he was defeated at the Challenge to Arms. Badly.”
“And pray tell me, how do you think the likes of Kentigern, Orde, de Crecy and myself started out?” asked Roland, with an edge to his tone. “Do you imagine we sprang forth as fully developed fighters and tacticians in our first season?
“Well, I would certainly hope you showed more natural talent for it than poor Sir Renlowe,” she retorted.
“I’ve seen competitors spit out a tooth, shake off a concussion, and lash broken fingers to a lance,” said Roland harshly, then paused, but she said nothing. “I know Renlowe has what it takes because he is unflinchingly brave. Doesn’t matter how many times he gets knocked down, he’ll get back up, and one of these days mark you, he will start winning.”
“Sir Renlowe?” she asked incredulously.
He gave a short, curt nod. “He is utterly fearless.”
Eden stared at this, before rallying. “Or utterly stupid,” she said.
Roland drew back his chair, getting to his feet. “Skills can be learned,” he said. “Courage can’t.”
“Where are you going?”
“To check on the horses.”
“Surely Fulco can do that,” Eden pointed out, two spots of color appearing in her cheeks.
“I need some fresh air.” He was disappointed, he realized. Which made him as stupid as she clearly thought he was. He’d known all along that Eden was stuck up and haughty. She’d made no secret of the fact, she preferred intellectuals to knights. Why did it feel like such a slap in the face, then? It made no earthly sense. It dawned on him that Eden was still speaking. He stared at her impatiently.
“…If I said aught that offended you-” she was saying.
“You didn’t,” he cut her off, striving to sound bored, but merely coming off as rude. “I would have to value your opinion in order for it to offend me.”
Eden gasped. “And this,” she said. “Is precisely why I don’t understand the way you carry on in the bedchamber!”.
“What?” Now Roland felt his own face heating.
“Why do you keep pretending I’m someone else, come bedtime?”
Roland stared at her. “Pretending you’re-?” Words failed him. “I’m not pretending you’re anyone but you,” he retorted.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I?” he asked, mystified.
“Because,” her face reddened. “We don’t value each other’s company or opinions. We’re not friends. Yet as soon as we’re in the bedchamber you… you keep kissing me.” She lowered her voice over the last two words as if they were somehow indecent.
And he must be as twisted as she was, because for some reason, that made his blood course faster. He kept his face impassive, but it was a struggle. “So?” he asked. “You’re my wife, aren’t you? Funny sort of husband I’d be if I didn’t even kiss you first.”
Eden looked back at him with frank skepticism.
“What do you expect me to do?” he demanded. “Just lift up your skirts and have my merry way without even a kiss first?”
When she appeared to consider this, he felt winded. “N-no,” she said after a moment. “I understand the kissing and such before. I’m talking about afterward. It seems… superfluous.”
“Superfluous?” he echoed blankly. For some reason he was finding it hard to concentrate. He felt like she’d kicked him right in the chest. “Well, now you’ve told me,” he heard himself respond. “Rest assured it won’t happen again.” He threw his napkin down with a hand that shook slightly. He had a bitter taste in his mouth.
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.
An Ill-Made Match (Vawdrey Brothers Book 3) Page 24
