“The pig’s?” Duncan muttered.
“The serf’s,” Simon corrected, deadpan.
“Ethelrod.”
“Ah, how could one forget?” Simon said. “Apparently the pig has acquired a taste for apples. By the bushel basket.”
“That is why pigs are turned loose to root in the orchard after harvest,” Duncan retorted. “Otherwise only the worms would fatten.”
“At present, the pig in question is underground, rooting in one of your cellars.”
“God’s blood,” Duncan said through his teeth as he strode out the door. “I told Ethelrod to build a pen stout enough to hold that clever swine.”
“Excuse us,” Amber said, trying not to laugh out loud. “I must see this. Ethelrod’s pig is a source of much amusement to the people of the keep.”
“Unless that swine is kept under control,” Simon said, “it will be the source of much bacon.”
Amber burst out laughing and hurried after her husband.
Simon’s quick eyes caught the shadow of a smile on Ariane’s lips. The beauty of it reminded him of the first instant he had seen the Norman heiress. He had felt as though the breath had been driven from his body by a mailed fist.
He had never seen a woman he wanted more. Yet she had been betrothed to Duncan of Maxwell, Dominic’s ally and Simon’s friend.
Now Ariane was betrothed to Simon, almost within his grasp, more beauty than he had ever expected to hold within his hands.
“Ariane . . .” he whispered, reaching out to her.
She blinked as though she had forgotten he was there. When his hand touched her hair, she flinched away.
Slowly Simon lowered his hand. The effort not to clench it into a fist was so great it left him aching. Yet he made the effort without knowing it, for he had vowed never again to let lust for a woman rule his body.
“We will soon be man and wife,” he said flatly.
A shudder went over Ariane.
“Do all men disgust you,” Simon asked, “or is it just me?”
“I will do my duty,” Ariane said in a low voice.
But even as she spoke, she was grateful that Amber wasn’t touching her, testing the truth of her words.
Ariane had just realized that she couldn’t force herself to submit to rape again. The realization had come too late. The wedding was set. The trap was sprung.
No way out.
Except one.
How can I kill Simon, whose only crime is love of his brother?
How can I endure rape again, and then again?
“My duty,” she whispered.
“Duty,” Simon repeated in a low voice. “Is that all you will be able to bring to the marriage? Is your beauty like the whore Marie’s, a lush fabric wrapped around a soul of ice?”
Ariane said nothing, for she was afraid if her mouth opened, a scream of rage and betrayal would be all that came forth.
“Your anticipation overwhelms me,” Simon said. “See that I don’t have to send a man-at-arms to fetch you to the altar. For by Christ’s blue eyes, I will do just that if I must.”
Simon turned and stalked from the room.
Ariane had no doubt that Simon would do exactly as he said. He was, in all things, a man of his word.
No escape.
Save one . . .
Death.
Without knowing it, her fingers closed around the harp strings. A despairing, dissonant wail was ripped from the harp.
It was the only sound Ariane made.
Too late.
No escape.
Save one . . .
The wedding would begin before the sun set, and end before the moon rose. Before the moon set once more, the bride must find a way to kill.
Or die.
Lover in the Rough Page 24
