Trapped at the Altar (14 page)

She stalked away, leaving Ivor clutching his jacket, watching her retreating back, and cursing his insensitivity. He had thought he should assert himself. It was what was expected of him, and yet all he'd done was make a pompous fool of himself. Anger and frustration had driven him to the whorehouse, and he had wanted Ariadne to know it. But now, looking through Ari's eyes, he saw it as an act of childish spite.

They knew each other too damn well. He would never have behaved in such a way with someone he hadn't grown up with, didn't feel was almost a part of himself, another limb in some ways. A stranger or a mere acquaintance could not possibly hurt him the way Ariadne could. And, he realized belatedly, the same applied to her. No one could hurt her as he could. Not even her poet. The love affair between Gabriel and Ariadne wasn't founded upon the depths of the years that formed the base of his own relationship with Ari. Her love affair with her poet could only be superficially threatening to him.

Ivor turned his steps to his cottage. Ari had been going in the opposite direction, but the cold would bring her in soon enough. And he would set a very different tone for this evening.

Tilly was putting knives and spoons on the table when he entered the cottage. “Oh, there you are, sir. Miss Ari didn't find you, then?”

“I'm not sure she was looking for me, Tilly,” he said pleasantly, hanging his jacket on the wooden hook by the door. “Something smells wonderful.” He went to the stove and poked at the contents of the cauldron with a wooden spoon. “You found the venison?”

“Aye, sir. It was just ready for the pot.” Tilly put a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table.

“Yes, I thought it would be. I'll catch trout tomorrow. They were rising well this evening. I should hook enough for a decent supper.” He licked the spoon before returning it to the cauldron. “I'll wash at the pump.”

“There's hot water there, sir, if you prefer.” Tilly gestured to a copper kettle. “I'll fetch a basin if you'd like.”

“I can fetch it myself, Tilly.” Married life had something to recommend it, Ivor reflected, filling a basin with hot water and carrying it into the tiny scullery off the main room. As a bachelor, he had fended for himself domestically, when he didn't join in the communal meals with the other single men in the refectory, and he'd generally washed at the end of the day, when he'd troubled to do so, with the other men at the village pump. He stripped off his sweaty shirt and splashed water on his chest, face, and neck.

“Here's a clean shirt.” The soft voice behind him was Ari's. She laid a fresh homespun shirt over the rough wooden rail on the scullery wall. Her expression was calm, her eyes containing none of the hostility of their
last meeting, a mere half hour before. “Would you like mead, cider, or wine with your supper?” She opened a cupboard by the door that led to the outhouse in the small vegetable garden beyond.

“Which would you prefer?” He toweled himself dry roughly and pulled the shirt over his head.

“Tilly's cooking generally warrants wine,” Ari said, taking a leather flagon from a shelf. “And with well-hung venison, a good, rich burgundy.” She uncorked the flask and inhaled deeply, then tilted it to her lips, tasting it. “This will do nicely. It was one of my grandfather's favorites. He liked the fruits of the Burgundian routes when the smugglers came in.”

“I share his enthusiasm,” Ivor responded, combing his hair with his fingers. He wondered whether to refer to their quarrel or simply follow Ari's lead. She seemed prepared to put acrimony aside, and an evening of harmony was appealing. In truth, he felt too exhausted to step onto the tournament ground again today. If she was willing to put up her lance, then he was equally so.

He followed her back to the living room. Tilly was filling bowls from the cauldron, and the rich, gamey aroma filled the room. Ivor took down two pewter goblets from the dresser and put them on the table, then used his knife to cut the bread while Ari filled the goblets.

“Tilly, you will join us?” he inquired pleasantly as he took his place at the table. He knew that Tilly frequently joined Ariadne at her evening meal.

“No . . . no, thank you, sir. I'll eat with the other women.” Tilly unhooked her shawl from the peg by the
door. “There's a damson pie in the bread oven, and I'll be back later to clear up the dishes.”

“There's no need for that, Tilly,” Ari said swiftly. “I will see to it. There will be no need for you to return until the morning.”

Tilly hesitated, then gave a small smile and nodded. “Aye, I expect you'll be glad of your privacy, Miss Ari. Just leave them dishes for the morning. I'll see to 'em then.” The door closed behind her.

It was obvious what the girl was thinking, Ari thought. She was discreetly leaving the newly married couple to a night of unbridled passion. Her eyes caught Ivor's across the table. He looked pensive and then speared a piece of bread on the point of his knife and passed it across to Ari.

She took it with a murmur of thanks, and for a while they ate in a silence that was almost awkward. After a moment, Ari said, “Do you know how long this journey to London will take?”

“Hard to say, exactly.” Ivor rose to refill his bowl from the cauldron on the range. “It should be a journey of some four or five weeks by coach, and we must complete it by the beginning of November, before the weather makes the roads impassable. Did Lord Daunt say anything when you saw him this afternoon?”

“Very little,” she responded tartly. “My uncle was good enough to inform me that from now on, anything I wish to communicate to him has to go through you, and any information I want I have to seek from you.” She planted her elbows on the table, propped her chin in her cupped
hands and regarded him quizzically. “You are to be postman, apparently.”

He grimaced. “A role I little relish.” He held out his hand. “May I give you some more stew?”

“My thanks.” She passed him her bowl. “Four or five weeks by coach will be insupportable. Surely on horseback we can do it much faster. Sphinx can easily manage twenty miles a day.”

“Maybe so.” He set her refilled bowl in front of her. “But not every day. The horses will need to rest every few days. And we will need a coach for all the luggage. You cannot travel such a distance with nothing but a side pannier or a pillion bag. The coach will slow us up.” He sat down again and took a draught of wine. “The one thing we cannot afford, Ari, is to look like vagrants. We must travel in a degree of style.”

She nodded. “The fact that we come from a line of bandits and brigands, outlaws in every respect, must be forgotten. I understand that.” Her smile was caustic. “Maybe we should change our names.”

“That would defeat the whole object,” Ivor pointed out. “Our task, as I understand it, is to rehabilitate the names of Daunt and Chalfont, to return them to the noble status they once held.”

“No easy task,” she responded, crumbling bread into her stew. “Are we to court the Duke of York or the King, do you know?”

“Both. Play up the Catholic allegiances of your family while hinting delicately at the Protestant loyalties of mine. We are to straddle two stools, my dear.”

“Well, since I have no feelings one way or the other, that shouldn't be too difficult to manage convincingly.” Ari scraped her bowl and pushed back her chair. “I'll fetch the pie.”

Ivor watched her as she slid the pie out of the bread oven on the flat paddle. She was such a little bit of a thing; she could so easily get lost, diminished, by the grandeur of the King's court. The clothes themselves could overwhelm her physical presence. He smiled inadvertently at the thought. No amount of grandeur and ceremony could diminish Lady Ariadne Daunt . . . Chalfont, he corrected. She punched way above her weight, as anyone attempting to discount her or put her in her place would soon discover.

“What are you smiling at?” She slid the pie onto the table and reached for a jug of rich golden cream from the dresser.

“Oh, just a random thought,” he responded.

She contented herself with a raised eyebrow and cut the pie.

A knock at the door interrupted them. “Who the hell could that be?” Ivor pushed back his chair. He went to open the door, and a blast of cold air set the candles flickering. He peered down at the small boy standing on the threshold.

“You're wanted in Council, sir. Right away, sir.”

“All right. Off you go.” He shooed the lad away, closed the door, and came back to the table.

“Shouldn't you be answering the summons?” Ari inquired casually. “A royal command, surely?”

“I'll go when I'm good and ready,” Ivor returned. “More wine?” He lifted the flagon in invitation.

“Thank you.” She pushed her goblet across, taking pleasure in Ivor's assertiveness. Things had changed in the valley since her grandfather's death, and the only positive change she could see was that Ivor was no longer one of the youths, the young men whose opinions held no sway. The new position seemed to suit him; he seemed broader and more powerful in some ways, which was, of course, ridiculous. Physically, he hadn't changed in the least. But his bearing had changed, and the look in his eye. He was a match for Rolf now, she thought, and the knowledge pleased her. It compensated in some way for her own lack of influence. She had been able to sway her grandfather when she wanted to, and everyone in the village had known it. It had given her a certain status. But that status had gone with her grandfather, so she would now have to execute her influence through Ivor, who had never previously proved resistant to her plans and opinions. That surely hadn't changed?

It was an interesting question, but she kept it to herself. When he had finished his pie in leisurely fashion, he said casually, “My compliments to Tilly on her pastry. I'll go to Council now.” He slung his cloak around him and went out into the night, leaving her to clear away the dishes. When he hadn't returned after more than an hour, she tamped down the fire for the night, extinguished all but one candle, and went up to the bedchamber.

It was less awkward this way, she reflected, undressing swiftly and climbing into the cold bed in her shift. If
she was abed and asleep by the time he came back, there would be no need for difficult conversations.

She blew out the candle and lay shivering in the bed, wishing she'd had the sense to put a warming pan through the sheets, wishing she'd set a flame to the fire laid in the small grate, wishing she had something warm in the bed beside her.

She was still wide awake when she heard the door below open and close. She curled more tightly under the covers, where she was at last creating her own warm trough in the feather bed. Ivor's footfall was soft on the stairs; obviously, he had taken his shoes off below. The glow of his candle shone behind her tightly closed lids.

She could feel him standing beside the bed, holding up the candle so that it threw a pool of light on her curled figure beneath the coverlet. Then he turned aside, taking the light with him. She tried to regulate her breathing, to keep it smooth and even, as if she were deeply asleep. The candlelight was extinguished, and the bed dipped as he put a knee on the edge, before sliding gingerly beneath the cover. For a moment, she could feel his breathing as if it were her own, so close beside her, the warmth of his body filling the space between them. Then he moved his arm, and his hand rested for an instant on the turn of her hip. She barely breathed, and then he muttered an imprecation, reached up behind his head for the bolster, and shoved it roughly under the covers between them.

Ivor turned on his side, facing away from her, and soon his deep breathing filled the chamber.

A
riadne had been aware of the nagging pain in her belly since she had woken that morning. She felt cross and out of sorts and found herself snapping at the seamstresses, whose hands were constantly upon her as they pinned and tucked. The traveling wardrobe was almost complete, and Tilly was fussing with the set of the shoulders on one of the two riding jackets deemed necessary for the journey.

“Oh, Tilly, I have had enough,” Ari said impatiently. “Leave it now. It feels perfectly comfortable.”

Tilly set another pin and cast her mistress a knowing glance. “The flowers, I suppose,” she said confidently. “ 'Tis about your time. You go on home now, Miss Ari, and I'll bring you some chamomile tea and a hot bottle for your belly.”

Ari could think of nothing she wanted more than her own bed and Tilly's ministrations. She offered a wan
smile to the women with their pincushions and scissors, needles and thread, and went out into the brisk chill of the morning. Autumn was definitely in the air, the leaves beginning to turn on the trees along the riverbank, the nights drawing in. She crossed her arms over her breasts beneath her shawl, feeling chilled to the bone, as she hurried back home, hunched a little over her aching belly.