The Salt in the Soup

As if he had called her name, Lothíriel turned towards the door and put her head to one side. "Is that you, Éomer?"

The low voiced conversations amongst her ladies stopped abruptly and they looked round in surprise. When they would have got up, he waved them down and crossed the room to take his wife's hands, which she held out to him.

"Yes, it's me. How did you know?"

She smiled in triumph. "I felt the draught from the door opening."

"But it could have been a servant."

"They knock before they enter," she pointed out with impeccable logic. "You're the only one who doesn't."

He laughed and kissed her fingers. "You've caught me again." It always amazed him how Lothíriel, blind from a childhood accident, used her other senses to make up for the one she lacked. "What are you doing?" he asked.

She motioned to the pile of fabric. "The Yule presents for my girls arrived from Dol Amroth today, only just in time. Now we have to wrap them all up."

Éomer saw that the pile consisted of colourful headscarves and picked one up. Edged with embroidery, tiny shells decorated its four corners. He remembered now that Lothíriel had sent to her sister-in-law for presents for 'her girls' – all fifty-seven of them. They belonged to the orphanage that she had acquired somehow within a week of marrying him. The boys would get a carefully tooled leather belt each and all the children would receive a new set of clothes for Yule.

"Can your ladies manage on their own?" he asked. When she hesitated, he turned to the circle of women who were watching them discreetly. "Ladies, may I abduct the queen for the rest of the day?"

Some of the younger ones looked at him with wide eyes, but the older women exchanged knowing glances.

"Of course, Éomer King," Éothain's wife answered. "We will finish here."

Éomer snaked his arm around his wife's waist and pulled her along. "Let's get your warm cloak."

By some mysterious means Lothíriel's maid had already been alerted and was waiting for them in their chambers.

"Pack an overnight bag for your mistress," Éomer instructed Hareth and once the door to their bedroom had shut behind the maid, he pulled Lothíriel close and stole a quick kiss.

"Éomer!" she protested. "Hareth will be back anytime."

"I promise to hurry."

Lothíriel laughed and slipped her arms around his neck. "That's not what I meant."

He ran his fingers through the silken length of her hair. "Anyway, I'm sure Hareth knows by now that I'm desperately in love with my cruel wife."

Playfully she pushed him away. "I'm not cruel!"

"You are if you won't let me kiss you."

That seemed to convince her, for she did her very best to prove him wrong. Holding her in his arms proved as intoxicating as ever and she had learnt a lot since that first surprising kiss in Éowyn's fountain. It took an act of will for Éomer to resume his plan. Later, he promised himself. "Your cloak," he said.

"As you wish," Lothíriel replied, the picture of wifely obedience only spoilt by the way she let her fingers trail slowly along his neck.

Éomer groaned and released her. How she delighted in tormenting him! But he could not imagine life without her anymore, it did not bear thinking about.

A discreet cough announced Hareth returning, carrying a bag and Lothíriel's warmest boots. For once his independent wife, who always wanted to do everything for herself, submitted meekly to being helped into her clothes.