Blast. He tossed the riding gear on top of a barrel of cider and inured himself to the walk down to Llanwyr. It was a beautiful crisp day, but it might as well have been sleeting for all the joy Gareth felt at the moment.
He was having his first fight with Annie on the eve of their wedding. He supposed it had to happen sometime—they had been floating on a blissful cloud of lust for weeks now. Yes, the cloud had quivered with news of her father’s search and Parry Lewys’s return, but they’d exchanged no cross words since she’d handed him his head the night he fell down the stairs.
It wasn’t natural to get along too well, was it? His parents had had their ups and downs. Anyway, he’d given her no reason to be vexed with him lately. Hell, he’d saved her life, or come close, three times. She’d fallen down the cellar stairs, and twice she’d set accidental fires. Once they were married, he’d have to wrap her in cotton wool to keep her safe. Keep himself safe, too. He had no interest in leaping into a frying pan.
To pass the time as he walked through the hedgerows, he pictured Annie tethered to his bed by stout silken ropes, where she couldn’t get into any mischief other than the sexual kind. She would be completely at his disposal, although he expected he’d have to find a silk scarf as well to cover her mouth to prevent his ears being blistered. Which meant no scorching kisses, at least on her lovely, rose-tinted lips. He’d find other places to kiss her, which would be no hardship at all.
Gareth was whistling quite cheerfully by the time he got to the Silver Pony, imagining all the delightful things he might do to Annie, starting tonight. He entered by way of the kitchen door and found a flurry of activity. Mrs. Chapman and her serving girls had boxed up dozens of rolls, and the kitchen smelled like a yeasty heaven. A large iced cake sat at one end of the table, where the innkeeper was affixing dried sugared fruit in a circular pattern.
“Back already? I didn’t hear the cart. What do you think of my cake? It’s not fancy, but I think it will do, aye?”
Gareth dropped into a chair. He felt a touch weary if he were forced to admit it. “Well, there’s a problem. Several, actually. I don’t suppose one of you could fetch me some ale? I’m parched.”
“Sally, you go. Gareth, what is it? Wedding jitters?” Mrs. Chapman wiped her sugary hands on her apron and sat down. “One for me too, Sal,” she called. “I’ve earned it.”
“If only it were so simple. We’ve had a slight disaster in the kitchen at Ripton Hall. There was a fire—” He caught sight of Mrs. Chapman’s expression and hurried on. “Don’t worry, it was nothing too serious. Anne is fine but the kitchen’s a mess. Smoke and soot and water everywhere. The stove has virtually fallen apart and we won’t be able to cook anything until we get a new one.”
“Oh, dear. I’m doing all the roasting here but we’ll need a stove for tea. Some of the ladies will not drink spirits, you know.”
Sally set down two stone mugs of ale. Gareth downed his in one go, and Sally slipped the mug from the table to fetch more from the taproom. “The thing is, we can’t have the reception at home. It would take every pair of hands in the village to clean the place up in time. Can we have it here, upstairs in the assembly room?”
“Good lord, Gareth, I haven’t had that room open since the Harvest Dance.”
Gareth had not attended. His presence as a suspected murderer would have made the occasion even less celebratory—the harvest had been disappointing for others beside himself. “We won’t mind a little dust. And it will be easier to sweep that to scrub the walls clean at Ripton Hall. I’ll even help.”
“You? Go on with you.”
“You’d be surprised at how domestic I’ve become since I fell in love with my housekeeper. She’s a little dragon. Do you know I wash my own shirts?” He winked as Sally deposited another ale in front of him.
“You said there were several problems,” Mrs. Chapman prompted.
“I seem to have lost my horse, and the loaded cart I left with an hour ago is on my drive. I hope gypsies and crows haven’t discovered it.”
“I’ll get Jim and one of his boys to fetch it and bring it back.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Oh, aye. For your bride, not for you, you scamp. Poor girl. She must be beside herself, all the work she’s done on the old place to get it ready. What about Delores and Kitty? Does she still want them at the house this afternoon?”
Annie had told him she didn’t care, so he made a decision. “Have them stay here and help get the room upstairs ready. We can clean the kitchen on our honeymoon.”
Mrs. Chapman shook her head. “If that is how you mean to go on with married life, you have a great deal to learn. I thought you were going to London for your wedding trip.”
“We’d planned to.” Maybe they should put it off a few days until the house got squared away. Gareth sat back with his ale as Mrs. Chapman mustered her troops and sent messages to every able-bodied person she could think of to help her. He wondered if Annie would feel left out of the activity, but she’d worked hard enough these past weeks. All for naught, now. Let her relax this afternoon. He’d bring her home a basket of hot meat pies and some of the apple cobbler he’d spied on a traveler’s plate in the taproom earlier.
Gareth would help here, then help Annie get into her wedding clothes tomorrow morning. And have an even better time getting her out of them after the reception. He grinned and raised his mug to Sal.
C
HAPTER
27
A
nne had done the best she could in the kitchen, sweeping and scrubbing. She’d have to wear her gloves all through the ceremony and reception to keep her blackened nails hidden. She’d pulled out the rusty crane in the old fireplace and was heating some washing water in an iron kettle, it being far from the bath she needed.
She and the water were both steaming. The longer she thought about the fire and Gareth’s reaction to it, the angrier she became. How could he think she’d stuff tablecloths into the stove and on top of it? She’d found a pan of charred meat inside the oven, too. Someone had played a trick on her—a vicious, vile trick. Someone had deliberately tried to ruin her wedding day.
Maybe even
kill
her.
Anne didn’t think she was being too fanciful. She’d been so exhausted from all the preparations, she could easily have slept through a conflagration, and had until Gareth shook her awake. Most people died of smoke inhalation, did they not? They couldn’t be roused, and their lungs filled with poison. Just because the kitchen wing had not gone up in flames didn’t mean that there had been no danger.
The worst part about all of this, though, is that Gareth believed she was responsible. Anne knew she’d been cow-handed when she’d come to Wales, but her housekeeping skills had improved by leaps and bounds. She’d read Mrs. Smith’s
Compleat Housewife
book from cover to cover now, had dog-eared pages and even knew now how to prepare lemon puffs—if she could ever get her hands on some lemons. She was not so henwitted she’d stuff three tablecloths that she’d spent hours ironing within an inch of perfection into and on top of the damned stove.
She glared at the thing with malevolence. She’d cooked scrambled eggs on it just this morning. There was something distinctly
not right
about the stove now. The burners were tipsy and the door hung loose. The stove pipe gapped along a seam. She remembered the smoke billowing out of it as she’d fled to hunt for Martin.
Who had come into the kitchen while she was asleep? She’d made no enemies here, had worked hard to ingratiate herself with everyone. Mrs. Chapman and her serving maids had befriended her, and she had hopes of getting to know Gareth’s neighbors much better once they were wed. She’d even have dinner with Parry Lewys—and like it—if Gareth wanted to.
She’d been cool to Lord Lewys the other day, but surely had not offended him so much that he came to Ripton Hall to set it on fire and teach her a lesson in civility.
Perhaps she wasn’t the target of the unknown arsonist. Gareth had plenty of people concerned about him. Likely there were any number of people who didn’t think he should marry and be happy. Though Ian Morgan wouldn’t try to burn down the house he was practically raised in, would he? He and Gareth were on much better terms now, anyway.
Anne rubbed her forehead, pushing away the tumbling thoughts. She ladled water from the kettle into a basin to let it cool, then put some in the teapot. She wasn’t hungry, couldn’t even contemplate dinner—and it would be a cold one, anyway—but a cup of tea was always welcome.
Where was Gareth? The sky had darkened and the wind had picked up. The windows still stood wide open to air out the room, and she shivered. The walls would have to be whitewashed and a new stove purchased, all easily accomplished once she had access to her funds. She supposed she was foolish to sit in the dirty kitchen, but the fire was roaring along nicely in the enormous hearth and she’d pulled a blanket off her rumpled bed and wrapped herself in it. From her vantage point in the rocking chair, the world was not such a terrible place save for the vexing man who lived here in this house with her. She’d have a talk with him tonight. Tomorrow, everything would fall into place for her future.
Anne sipped her tea and stared into the fire. Everything depended on tomorrow.
The case clock in the hall chimed the hour, and Anne frowned. Gareth really should be home by now. The wedding was set for nine o’clock in the morning, and a hearty wedding breakfast was scheduled for immediately thereafter, presumably at the Silver Pony now. Anne thought she would have heard if Gareth had been unable to persuade Mrs. Chapman to host the event. As an earl’s daughter, Anne never dreamed she’d celebrate her marriage in a taproom, but there must be worse places.
She flew to the window at the first sound of hoof beats echoing down the drive. A swinging lantern revealed Martin leading poor old Penny with a large sack on his back. If that was her wedding present, it looked unusually large and lumpy.
And then the sack twitched and broke into song.
“Not drunk, nor yet sober, but brother to both,
I met a young man upon Aylesbery vale,
I saw by his force that he was in good case
To come and take share of a tankard of ale,
La ra la la, la ra la la,
La ra la la, ra la la, ra la la,
I saw by his face that he was in good case
To come and take share of a tankard of ale.”
“It’s gin you’ve had, Major, and too much of it,” Martin chuckled as he brought Gareth by the open window to the kitchen door. “Easy now. You wouldn’t want to fall again. A man can’t enjoy his honeymoon with a broken crown, now can he? Need your wits about you.”
“What I need is m-m-more gin,” said Gareth as he slid from the horse and crumpled to the ground despite Martin’s outstretched hand.
Anne threw open the door in horror. “What is going on here?”
“Jus’ what you think, my love,” Gareth said, looking up at her with a crooked grin. “I’m well and tr-truly foxed. Last night of f-freedom, what? Y-you’ve bought me, lock, stock and b-barrel. T-taught me my place in the sc-scheme of things, Lady Anne. Tomorrow I’ll put my head in the n-noose and you can lead me ’round like a beaten pup. But tonight, I’m all dog. Big
bad
dog.” He gave a gruesome baying howl that woke the chickens in their henhouse and then broke into laughter. Between the hysterical clucking and Gareth’s own cackling, Anne thought she might go mad.
“Sorry, Mrs. Mont,” Martin said as he pulled Gareth up. “Found him at the Silver Pony like this. Lost his horse, he did, then spent all day making the assembly room fit for the wedding.”
“M-made paper garlands. Not an easy thing with one hand. Give us a kiss, Annie. Hell, give old Martin one, too. Saved my life.” Gareth lurched toward her, reeking of spirits.
“I can’t even make coffee to sober you up,” Anne said tartly.
“Praise God. N-no more of your coffee, I beg you. And anyway, whose fault is that, sw-sweeting?
I
didn’t wreck the stove.
“The widow that buried her husband of late,
She’s scarcely forgotten to weep or to wail,
But thinks every day ten till she’s married again,
When once she shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
“That’s just what you need, my little widow. Some ale. But then you’d probably b-burn the whole place to the ground and take me with it!” He cackled again at his wit.
Anne bit her tongue almost bloody. She was not going to give Martin a show on the kitchen doorstep. But, oh, she was aching to reach for a frying pan and beat
The Tankard of Ale
lyrics right out of Gareth’s head. “Can you help me get him upstairs to his room, Martin?”
“Aye.”
Gareth had other thoughts. “No. Wanna go to Annie’s room and tie her up. H-have my wicked way with her. Show her who’s boss. Sp-spread her legs so wide—”
“Gareth!” This was insupportable in front of Martin, of all people. The groom gave her a leering smile and she knew what she must do. “Never mind. I’ll take care of him.”
“Are you sure? He’s a right handful like this.”
Anne had never seen Gareth drunk in quite this way. When she’d first met him, he’d been surly and morose. Depressed and drowning himself. Now he was as cheerful as could be. He was happy—too happy—but she was about to change that.
“Perfectly sure. Thank you for bringing him home.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Mont. Heard you had a mishap in the kitchen again today.”
“I bloody well did not,” Anne muttered. “Thank you, Martin. That will be all.”
He tugged an imaginary forelock and left her alone with her singing sack. At his departure, Gareth most inadvisably began another verse of his song.
“The old parish vicar, when he’s in his liquor,
Will merrily at his parishioners rail,
Come pay all your tithes, or I’ll kiss all your wives,
When once he shakes hands with a tankard of ale.
“Do you think Ian m-might soil his lips with Mrs. Chapman’s finest tomorrow, my dear? ’Twould be worth getting hitched every day to see my righteous cousin under the hatches.”
“We are not getting married tomorrow, Gareth.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t be s-silly. There’s a cake. I’ve seen it. Licked the frosting, too, before Mrs. Chapman gave me what-for.”
“I will not marry you tomorrow,” Anne repeated. She wasn’t sure she meant it, but the words served as cold ice water. Something had to get through to him in his current state.
His jaw slackened. Not an attractive look. “But—but why? We—damn it, Annie, we love each other.”
This was a fine time for his protestations of love. He’d said the words before, of course, to tease her into bed. Even if
in vino veritas
was true, words were not enough. “You’ve broken your promise to me. I cannot marry a man who will turn to drink when he’s too sad or even too happy.” And she planned to make him happy, in every way she knew how. This marriage might have once been based on cold convenience, but it had strayed into much hotter territory.
“T-turn to drink? By God, you’re enough to make the soberest Methodist tip the bottle! You almost died today, minx—do you remember? If I hadn’t come home when I did, who knows what would have happened? Another dead woman on my conscience.”
“And that’s another thing. I have told you again and again I had nothing to do with the fire. Do you know what I found in the oven?” She went to the sideboard and slapped the scorched pan on the table.
He swayed and squinted. “What is that?”
“Damned if I know.
I
did not put it in the oven. Nor did I put the tablecloth in next to it. A
tablecloth,
Gareth.
In the oven.
Do you really think I would be so stupid?”
“All right, all right so you didn’t set the fire.” He spoke to her as if she were a child. Humoring her. She’d used just the same tone with him this morning and had gotten nowhere.
“I am going to bed. Maybe when you come to your senses we can continue this discussion.”
“Talk is o-overrated. I am a man of action. A soldier.” He pounded his chest, nearly knocking himself on his arse. “A
man,
Annie, not some lapdog that does everything his mistress says for a b-bit of bone or a pat on the head. ‘Do this, don’t do this, Gareth,’ ” he said in a falsetto. “Just because you’ve got all the money. Well, you’ve pulled my strings long enough. If I want to drink with my friends, I shall drink with my friends.”
She had
never
lorded the differences in their stations over him. Not once. His resentment came as an unpleasant surprise. “I wish you the joy of your friends, then. Consider the strings snipped.” She made a scissoring motion with her fingers that was probably lost on him. “Good night. I’ll make arrangements to leave in the morning.”
“The hell you will! We are to be married tomorrow! I m-made paper garlands!”
“And I hear there is cake. Nevertheless, we are done.” Anne was as angry as she’d ever been with anyone. Were all men doomed to disappoint her? It was one thing to raise a glass or two, but Gareth had gone far beyond that.
She tried to cut across the kitchen to her room but he reached for her. For all that he was drunk, his grasp was strong and his breath stronger. “I’ve dreamed about you all day, minx. How I would tame you. Tie you. Show you who’s master.”
Ice settled in her heart. “You think you’ll be more of a man if I am rendered helpless?”
“I don’t need two arms to hold you, now, do I?” The look in his eyes was wild, desperate, as though he knew he’d gone too far but couldn’t for the life of him find his way back behind the line. “I love you, Annie. Let’s not fight.”
She gazed up at him, feeling sure her heartbreak was plain on her face. Even Gareth in his drunken state must see how this was all so wrong. “I am not fighting, Gareth. I am too tired to fight. We can talk about this in the morning.”
But she wouldn’t be here when he woke up. She’d need to go into Llanwyr early, see Ian and Mrs. Chapman. She would not begin her marriage on such a fractured foundation. They could wait until they hashed out whatever gloom was between them. No one would think less of a young woman who married for money and security. Why should it be different for Gareth? He had other things to contribute to this union.
If they decided they still suited, they could stand before God in an empty chapel without people and a party afterward. They would still be as married when it was done.
It was not her fault that she was the one with the money, although she’d have less of her little nest egg once she paid for all the futile wedding preparations. It was a waste, to be sure—but far worse to marry Gareth and then regret it the next time he decided to show her who was “master.”
Anne could not help but think that somehow Bronwen was to blame for Gareth’s sudden display of inferiority. That the loss of his arm lessened his manhood, which was sheer nonsense. Gareth had proved he was an honorable man time and time again. Anne knew she could be bossy on occasion, but she had presumed they were tethered together in partnership. Gareth seemed to think he was tethered outside to a tree at her whim. In a thunderstorm. The dog references were a little hard to overlook.
What had happened to him tonight? He’d left thinking she was absentminded, and returned all but calling her a controlling bitch.