Trapped at the Altar (15 page)

Ivor would know soon enough, of course, and then, when she was no longer bleeding, he would expect to consummate the marriage. And the thought of that filled her with sick panic. These last days, she had been able to push the prospect of that act of consummation to the back of her mind. But now she must finally face it. How could she give herself to Ivor with wholehearted desire when she felt such passion for another man and when she knew that Ivor was blisteringly aware of those feelings and would not be able to forget them? How could it be anything but a cold, practical union that would destroy their friendship while putting nothing in its place?

She let herself into the cottage and huddled in the warmth of the range, stroking her aching belly, waiting for Tilly. Only Tilly knew how to ease the pain of this monthly inconvenience. She had a collection of herbs and vials of remedies for most everyday ills, her knowledge gleaned from her own mother, who had been the nearest to an apothecary the valley could produce.

Tilly hurried in, the door banging shut behind her. She regarded Ari's hunched figure sympathetically as she hung her cloak on a hook. “Now, you get on upstairs and
sort yourself out, Miss Ari, and I'll just put the warming pan through the bed. Then I'll fill a bottle with hot water for your belly and make you some tea.”

Ari nodded and dragged herself up the stairs. She found the thick cloths she needed in the dresser and her warmest night shift. Tilly came in with the copper warming pan and energetically ran it beneath the covers to create a nest of soothing heat.

“In you get, now.” She turned back the coverlet. “I'll fetch up the hot water bottle and the tea directly.”

Ariadne inserted herself into the warmth and felt her limbs instantly begin to relax. Tilly was back in a few moments with an earthenware cylindrical container, its neck stuffed tightly with an oil-soaked rag. Ari took the container, which was filled with hot water, and rested it on her belly. The warmth was instantly soothing.

“Now, here's your tea. Got a few bits and pieces in it to help you sleep.” Tilly held out a steaming mug. “There's chamomile and valerian and just a tincture of poppy juice with a touch of honey.”

Ari took a sip. Valerian had an unpleasant smell, but she knew its good properties well, and the honey masked the taste. “You are wonderful, Tilly. I don't know how I'd go on without you,” she said with a grateful smile.

“You want me to tell Sir Ivor the flowers have come, when he comes in for his supper?” Tilly sounded a little tentative now.

Ariadne sipped her tea. Tilly, of course, would be assuming that Ivor would not be pleased at the news that his wife was not pregnant. The girl would assume that he
had hoped to sire a child quickly, as, in normal circumstances, perhaps he would.

She shrugged. “It matters not, Tilly. He'll know soon enough.” She handed Tilly the empty mug and slipped down into the welcoming warmth of the feather bed, and soon enough, her eyelids felt heavy, and the strange trancelike sleep of valerian and poppy juice enveloped her.

Ivor was in the stables inspecting the horses. Ariadne's Sphinx was a beautiful strawberry roan gelding, her sixteenth-birthday present from her grandfather. He was strong and fast and would carry Ari's light weight for many miles without tiring.

“He's in right good condition, sir,” the stableman said, watching Ivor checking the animal's hocks for strains. “Nothin' wrong with 'im at all.”

“No, I'm sure not. But we've an arduous journey ahead of us, and I want to be sure there are no signs of possible trouble.” He patted the animal's withers as he walked around his rear, stroking the muscular neck as he lifted the velvety lips to check for sores or canker.

“I take care of the horse meself, sir.” The stableman sounded a little put out. “You'll find nothing wrong with 'im.”

Ivor nodded. “I know, Judd, but I need to satisfy myself. Let's take a look at Turk.”

Judd whistled to a boy who came running. “Put Sphinx in his stall, and bring out Turk.”

Ivor performed the same inspection on his own gigantic black. Turk blew through his nostrils and bared his teeth, stamping a hoof impatiently on the hard-packed earth. “He needs a gallop,” Ivor commented.

“Aye, sir, but he'll take no one but you on his back,” Judd pointed out. “Any of the others I could exercise meself. But not this one.”

“No. And I've no time today. Let him loose in the paddock. He can kick his heels up there for an hour or so.” He blew gently into the horse's nostrils, which seemed an incongruously intimate gesture with this stomping beast, but the animal merely whickered and pressed his nose into Ivor's shoulder.

“What about the carriage horses? We'll need two pairs so that we can run them on alternate days.”

“Aye, Sir Ivor. I've selected the four I think'll do the job best.”

Ivor followed him into the stable building. The coach that would carry their luggage stood in one corner. It was a cumbersome vehicle with huge iron wheels, and it would be hell on earth to ride inside it over the deeply rutted cart tracks that formed most of the roadways between Somerset and London. They could expect the way to get a little smoother as they drew close to the city, but they had more than two hundred miles to do across rough and desolate country before that.

Fortunately, Ari was a fine horsewoman, he reflected. And she had considerable powers of endurance. She would need them in the weeks ahead.

Once he'd satisfied himself that the carriage horses
were up to the journey and that the wheelwright had attached a spare coach wheel to the rear of the vehicle for when the inevitable happened and they lost a wheel somewhere along the way, he left the stable yard.

It was mid-afternoon, and his mind turned to supper. It was his responsibility to provide the food for the table in his little household, and he mentally ran through the supplies of game hanging in the shed. Tilly always found something succulent there, but the image of fresh-caught brown trout sizzling in butter sharpened his appetite.

He made his way back to his cottage for his fishing tackle. Ari would still be enduring the ministrations of seamstresses, he assumed. She found it tiresome, and it tended to make her poor company for the first half hour after her release. On impulse, he turned his step towards Ari's old cottage. If the women were still at their work, he would give her a welcome early release. She loved to fish, and it was time they recaptured some of their old friendly ease, doing the things they had always enjoyed together.

There had been too much stress since their marriage on preparations for the upcoming journey. It had been much harder for Ari than for him. He at least could escape with his gun into the fields or with his rod along the riverbank. They would fish for brown trout together.

His step quickened as he imagined her ready smile, the shine in her eyes at the prospect, and just the thought of having her beside him, quietly casting into the smooth brown waters of the Wye, a companionable silence between them, filled him with a deep sense of pleasure.

He opened the door to her cottage and found it deserted.

He poked his head around the door of his own cottage, expecting to see Ari at the table or helping Tilly with supper. Instead, he saw only Tilly, sitting by the range plying her needle. The fire burned brightly, and a bubbling cauldron sent aromatic steam to the rafters.

“Where's Ariadne?” Ivor inquired, stepping into the room. “I thought she'd still be busy with the dressmaking.”

“Not feeling too well, sir. She's abed and asleep.” Tilly set aside her sewing and stood up. “Can I fetch you something?”

Ivor shook his head. “No, thank you. I had it in mind to fish for some trout for supper. I thought Ari might care to join me. What's the matter with her?”

“Oh, 'tis nothing serious, sir. Just the flowers.” Tilly turned to stir the cauldron on the range. “It takes her bad some months. I'm just making her some soup.”

Ivor said nothing. Tilly would have no idea of the significance this month of that regular event. With a distracted frown, he went to the dresser for the flagon of ale. He filled a tankard and took a thoughtful draught. Now their marriage could start in earnest.

Abruptly, he set aside his tankard and started up the stairs to the bedchamber. He stood at the top of the stairs. Ari was a small, hunched ball under the covers. He watched for a moment to see if she gave any indication of being awake and then climbed back down. “I'll eat in the refectory tonight, Tilly. No need to disturb Ari.”

“Right, sir. If you're sure you don't want supper. I've soup for Miss Ari here, but I can whip up a meat pasty for you easy.”

Ivor shook his head. “No need. Look after Ari. I won't be back until late.” He went out into the early dusk and walked along the riverbank until the village was behind him. He sat on a rocky outcrop and considered his next step. It would be a few days before the bleeding stopped and they could finally consummate their marriage. But he couldn't imagine a silent, hasty coupling. There had to be some ceremony, some acknowledgment of what it meant. And yet why should he think so? His wife loved another man and would not welcome any physical union with her husband, however willing she was to accept its necessity.

He jumped to his feet. He was in the mood to drink and eat in congenial and uncomplicated company, and he would find that in the refectory with the young men of the village. The pitch torches were already alight, and light spilled from the building with the sounds of merriment as the kegs of beer were broached and the flagons of wine opened. Legs of lamb and shoulders of pork turned on spits over the open fire of the kitchen attached to the rear of the refectory, and the succulent smells of roasting meat and hot bread filled the air as he went into the building.

Men sat on benches running along the tables, sprawled at ease, tankards at hand, laughing over ribald jokes. Ivor was greeted with a chorus of unquestioning welcome and took a place on one of the benches, accepting a brimming
tankard and a few minutes later a loaded platter of roasted meat and potatoes. For now, he let his personal puzzles lie dormant and returned to bachelorhood with remembered ease.

It was long past the midnight hour when Ivor made his way back to his cottage. He didn't think he was drunk, but he was happy to admit that he wasn't as steady and as sober as he preferred to be. He let himself into the cottage. The fire was tamped down for the night, and a single candle burned for him on the mantel. He took up the candle and climbed upstairs as softly as he could in his slightly unsteady state.

He could hear Ari's deep breathing as he entered the chamber and shielded the candlelight with his cupped hand to keep it from shining on the bed. She was still a tiny curled mound on her side of the bed, leaving a large expanse on the far side. He hesitated, wondering if he would risk waking her if he slipped into that inviting space. He'd intended to sleep downstairs tonight, unsure what degree of privacy she would need in present circumstances, but now he wondered if it was necessary.

He set the candle on the mantel and perched on the windowsill to remove his boots. His movements were clumsy, and the boot slipped from his hand with a thump on the floorboards. The mound in the bed stirred.

Cursing under his breath, Ivor tackled his other boot and managed to set it down with exaggerated caution beside its mate and turned his attention to rolling down
his stockings. He stood up gingerly to remove his belt and britches and yank his shirt over his head, all the while keeping an eye on the sleeping form in the bed. He couldn't see his nightshirt anywhere and debated opening the linen press, but the hinges needed oiling, and it sometimes squeaked like a mouse in a cat's jaws.

He gave up the idea and blew out the candle before creeping naked into bed. He was asleep almost instantly, and within minutes, the stertorous snores of a man sleeping off a night's drinking filled the chamber.

Ari lay listening. She had been awake from the moment Ivor had set foot in the chamber and had waited, keeping silent, hoping he would assume she was asleep and not start a conversation she didn't want tonight. It didn't take her long to realize that he was rather the worse for wear, and the thought brought an unconscious affectionate smile to her lips, one that if Ivor had been awake would have presaged one of her teasing comments. Ivor almost never let himself go. He had a horror of losing control, a feeling they both shared. It was with some relief that she felt him slide into bed beside her. At least horizontal, he couldn't come to any harm.