Trapped at the Altar (17 page)

And Ari? Did she have an opinion? They had both been groomed for this play, and only now did it occur to Ivor that they did not have to allow themselves to be manipulated on Lord Daunt's chessboard. Once they were
free of the valley, they could actually play the game any way it suited them. Lord Daunt's reach was a long one but surely not long enough to extend into the royal court at Whitehall. News traveled slowly; if his pawns decided to play by their own rules, it would be a long time before Rolf realized it. And by that time, who knew what the power play would be?

Old Lord Daunt, Ari's grandfather, had left out of his calculations the consideration that maybe his chosen players might decide to act according to the dictates of their consciences rather than the dictates of pragmatism. Ivor was by no means sure what his conscience would dictate once he was immersed in the tangled manipulations and deceptions of political life, but he intended to discover and make his own choices accordingly. And from what he knew of Ariadne, she would feel the same way.

Ariadne stood patiently as the final pinning and tucking took place. She had no mirror long enough to see how she looked in her new finery but could imagine from the way her carefully fitted garments felt. She was aware of a sense of elegance, a very new feeling for one who was accustomed to tumbling about the countryside, concerned only that her clothes should not hinder her movements.

“Very handsome.”

Surprised, Ari looked towards the door. Ivor stood there with an appreciative gleam in his deep blue eyes. “Oh, do you think so?” She turned with a swish of her
skirts, a little movement indicative of feminine vanity that brought a smile to his lips.

“Most certainly.” He came into the room, letting the door close behind him. She looked enchanting, he thought, in a deep red velvet riding habit, her tiny waist accentuated by the long braided jacket. The high collar of a ruffled white shirt seemed to lift her small and very determined chin, and the rich folds of her velvet skirts shaped the soft curve of her hips.

Ivor was startled by a sudden surge of desire. He had shared a bed with Ari but he had kept himself scrupulously separate, in both mind and body. Now there was no reason he should not anticipate losing that division. Now he could look at his wife with the eyes of a desiring husband, not just those of a disappointed friend.

Ariadne felt the change in his eyes, the sudden jolt of awareness. And it set up an answering awareness in herself. Her skin tingled, and she straightened her knees as if they were buckling beneath her. Something seemed to be shifting; the safe ground on which she had always trodden with Ivor had grown untrustworthy. It threatened to move beneath her at any moment. He had looked at her countless times over the years, made teasing comments on her appearance, and she had never responded in this strange nervous fashion. She swallowed and said with a little laugh that sounded false to her ears, “You should see the hat. It is a positive confection. Pass it to me, Tilly.”

Tilly lifted the wide-brimmed black felt hat, resplendent with gold braid and three white plumes, and arranged it carefully on Ari's dark head. She tilted her head
for Ivor's inspection. “What do you think? Will it not make me the talk of London?”

“I rather suspect you won't need a hat to do that,” he commented. “Just be yourself, and you'll set the town on its ears.”

“I am not sure that's a compliment,” she said.

He laughed. “Well, it was not intended as an insult, let's put it that way.” He crossed the room to the table, where the dressmakers' work was piled in an overflowing cascade of rich velvets, embroidered silks, and figured damasks. “Dear God, this lot is considered merely a traveling wardrobe?” He lifted a gown of bronze silk, the bodice embroidered with seed pearls. “I can't see you wearing this in a country hostelry . . . assuming we're lucky enough to find one and don't have to bed down in a hedgerow ditch,” he added.

“Lord, Sir Ivor, what do you know about what a rich lady needs?” Tilly demanded. “There's nothing here that Miss Ari won't be needin' on such a long journey. Lord Daunt said no expense to be spared. Miss Ari's to hold her own with any other rich lady traveling the same road.”

“I stand corrected,” Ivor murmured, laying the gown back on the table.

His eye was caught by a flimsy mound of cambric, silk, and lace. Petticoats, shifts, chemises, stockings. Rolf was generally known as something of a skinflint, but he clearly did not deserve the sobriquet on this occasion.

“Well, I've a mind to go fishing, so if you've a mind to join me when you can escape, Ari, I'll be trying the deep water beyond the bridge. There's a big pike in that water,
and he's defeated me time and time again, but I'm in the mood for battle.”

“Oh, help me out of these clothes,” Ari said impatiently as the door closed behind Ivor. “If I have to stand still another minute, I shall scream.” She tugged at the braided fastenings on the jacket of the habit.

“Oh, let me do it, miss.” One of the dressmakers pushed her hands aside. “If you tear the braid, it'll take hours to repair.”

“Forgive me, Daisy.” Ari was instantly contrite and stood still as a post while the woman delicately divested her of the riding habit and the white ruffled shirt. Stripped to her chemise, she rolled her shoulders with a sigh of relief and grabbed up the woolen homespun gown she'd been wearing before. She slipped it on, fastening the laces of the bodice with quick fingers, and gave another sigh of relief.

“That's better. Now, where are my shoes?”

“By the door,” Tilly informed her, heating a flat iron on the range. “I'll finish pressing this linen now, and then I'll be along to make your supper.”

Ari left the women to their work and went out with a jaunty wave, picking up her skirts to run along the riverbank towards the bridge. No one paid her any attention. They were accustomed to her headlong progress through the village, and she didn't notice her uncle standing in the doorway of the Council house, tankard in hand, watching her with a disagreeable frown on his brow.

She found Ivor where he'd said he'd be, in the water, just up from the bridge, his britches rolled up to his knees, casting his rod into a deep pool formed by a curve in the bank. Ari didn't speak, afraid a sound would scare off the pike. She sat down and took off her shoes, hitching her skirts up above her knees with an expert twist of material at her waist, securing the folds with her hair ribbon. The dark curly locks tumbled around her face, and she tucked them behind her ears with impatient fingers.

“You do look a regular urchin,” Ivor remarked softly as she slid down the bank into the water, barely disturbing the surface.

“May as well make the most of the freedom while I have it,” she responded in a whisper. “Where is he?” She peered at the dark, weedy water of the pool.

“Under a stone about five feet away.” Ivor withdrew his rod, checked the bait, and cast again, letting the weighted hook sink below the surface. “He's a crafty bugger. I can't count the number of times he's led me on, sometimes just takes the bait right off the hook and then vanishes somewhere into the bank. This is my last shot at him.”

“Will you miss the valley?” Despite her earlier protestations, Ari had wondered herself if she would miss the only life she'd known. She wouldn't miss Rolf and the elders in the least, but there was no denying that the freedom from social constraints would be hard to give up.

“Some of it,” Ivor said. His line jerked suddenly. He leaned back, his rod bowing as he began to reel it in.

“You've got him,” Ari said excitedly. “Ivor, you've got him.”

“Perhaps. Sweet heaven, he's a fighter. Get the net, Ari.” His line was jerking madly, the rod deeply bowed. The fish was trying to drag him into the pool as it fought to escape, and he set his feet more firmly into the mud of the riverbed, leaning his weight back against the fish, his arms straight as he played the line.

Ariadne scrambled up the bank and grabbed the net. She slid back into the water, took a step towards Ivor, and her foot disappeared into an unexpectedly deep drop in the riverbed. She lost her balance and slipped, the water closing over her head. She fought her way up and then realized her foot was caught in the weeds at the bottom, and she couldn't get her head out of the water.

Ivor swore and dropped the rod, splashing to where Ari had disappeared. He could see her hair floating just below the surface and realized what had happened. The weeds were treacherous in this part of the river, which was what made it such a treasure trove for the secretive pike. He took a breath and ducked beneath the surface, grabbing Ari around the waist. He pulled hard, and they both came up, breaking the surface in a fountain of spray.

Ari gasped for breath, blinking water out of her eyes. “That was scary. I couldn't free my foot.”

“No, I realized.”

“You dropped your rod?” She wrung water out of her hair between her hands.

“Yes,” he agreed, watching its rapid disappearance up the river as the pike took off with it. “I hope he gets rid of the hook. He deserves better than that.”

“I'm sorry.” She looked regretfully at the vanishing rod.

“Hardly your fault.” Ivor looked at her closely. She was rather pale, and her eyes were still frightened. He could only imagine the panic one would feel trapped beneath the water like that, even for such a short time. “Let's get you onto dry land.” He lifted her easily out of the water and set her on the bank, jumping up beside her.

“I was so frightened,” Ari said, almost in wonder. She didn't think she'd ever been really scared before. “What would have happened if you hadn't been here?”

“You wouldn't have been in the water in the first place,” he pointed out in a rallying tone. “You're shivering.” He took her hands, chafing them, and then he wrapped his arms around her. He was as wet as Ari was, but he thought only of imparting some of his body warmth to her. She clung to him, and without thought he tilted her chin with one finger, and as she turned her dark, wide-eyed gaze up to him, he kissed her. It took him by surprise, and yet as soon as their lips met, he realized how much he had been longing to do just this.

Ariadne couldn't think. She was too numb to think. She felt his mouth on hers, soft, pliant, yet firm and warm. She didn't move, just stood still against him, her arms clinging around his waist as if to a lifeline, and when his tongue demanded entrance, she parted her lips for him, tasting the sweet essence of his mouth, feeling a rush of warmth pulse through her blood, making her heart beat faster, bringing a flush to her cheeks.

Ivor raised his head finally and looked down at her from his greater height, a slightly surprised look in his eyes. “Well, now,” he murmured. “I've been wanting to
do that for a very long time, but somehow I didn't think my first marital kiss would be like embracing a half-drowned kitten.”

Ari just shook her head. Why hadn't she pushed him away? She had told herself she was resigned to the fact of their marriage, to acceptance of its consummation, but her heart was not involved in this arrangement. And yet, instead of pushing him away, she had clung to him, parted her lips for him, invited him to deepen the kiss. Had she yielded simply through surprise and the shock of her immersion in the river?

Of course, that was all it had been. It was best forgotten, considered nothing more than an aberration. She declared, “I am not remotely like a kitten, half-drowned or not.”

“No,” he agreed. “There's a lot more of the lioness about you, my dear.” He could read the near panic-stricken confusion in her eyes and understood that she had not expected to find herself responding to his kiss. It gave him a tiny smidgen of reassurance. Maybe there was hope that they could make more of this than a passionless and compulsory contract.

She shivered again suddenly as the sinking sun disappeared behind a cloud.