Imelda poked the coverlet. “He shouldn’t have bothered.”
She wrinkled her nose.
“Can you smell that? It’s like iron. The whole bed is probably rusted all over.”
“If you weren’t prepared for unsavory scents, you shouldn’t have come along on this quest.”
“If you weren’t prepared to act a smidge less than noble, we wouldn’t have to be stuck in here.”
“I’ll take the floor.”
“There is no floor, and I might end up stepping on you when I wake up. You made your bed. Now you have to sleep in it.”
Ambrose leaned against the wall. “Sleep in it? With…you?”
“No. With the innkeeper. Of course me!”
“We’re not married,” he said.
“Debatable.”
“I wouldn’t call a day and a night a real marriage. I don’t even know if we ever…”
“We could have,” Imelda mused. She paused. “We just may not remember.”
They fell silent. It was a thought that had crossed Imelda’s mind more than once. Surely, they must’ve…at some point…right? They’d been married for a day and a night before that cursed tomato had gotten to her and everything had changed.
Imelda stared at the bed, some nameless feeling snaking through her. She hadn’t shared a bed in a year and a day, and she’d gotten used to sprawling out on the silks. The sound of her own breath. It was perfectly fine. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t imagined different scenarios.
At night, when her thoughts grew untamed, she wrapped her arms about herself and pretended they belonged to someone else. She wondered what it would be like to spend the night in a bed and never once sleep.
Her eyes darted to Ambrose. He was watching her intently. A moment later, he tore his eyes away, shaking his head.
“I’ll go talk to the innkeeper,” he said gruffly.
Imelda grabbed his arm. “I thinknot. I don’t trust that creepy man.”
“He’s not creepy.”
Imelda leveled him with a look.
“Okay, he’s a little creepy. But I really think—”
Imelda pushed his chest, and he fell back on the bed. He sat there for a long moment, propped up on his elbows, his eyes wide. It looked more than a little strange to see him sprawled out like that. His legs were long and kicked out in front of him. His hair—usually held back by a circlet—had fallen over his forehead. An almost amused smile touched his lips. He looked at Imelda, storm-gray eyes pinning hers, before he raised an eyebrow.
The sight of him unnerved her, and so she spoke quickly:
“See? It hasn’t killed you.”
“And yet—”
But Imelda never heard the end of the sentence. Just then, the bed rattled to life. The coverlets arced upward in a crimson wave, trapping Ambrose against the mattress. The four iron posts snapped above him, caging him within. And suddenly, the idea of sharing a bed together struck Imelda as very deadly indeed.
Chapter 7
AMBROSE
And this, thought Ambrose,was why one mustn’t share a bed with a woman one was not exactly married to.
