Trapped at the Altar

by Jane Feather

  Ivor was about to dismount to help Ari onto her horse, but if she saw him make the move, she ignored it, mounting without his help. Ivor wondered wryly why he’d even thought to help her. It was not his usual practice. Ari had been climbing on and off horseback without assistance since she’d first learned to ride. But he supposed she was going to have to learn to accept help ordinarily offered a lady in polite society, so it was probably as well to get some practice in before they reached London.

  He took his place in the procession ahead of the coach and behind the armed outriders, expecting Ari to come up beside him. Instead, she chose to ride beside the coach, talking cheerfully to Tilly. He supposed it was right that she should be making an effort to distract the girl from her fears, but nevertheless, he missed her company.

  As the morning wore on, it became clear that something was occupying her mind. Even when she abandoned the slow-moving coach and moved up beside him, she seemed preoccupied, responding absently to any conversational sally, so that after a while he gave up.

  When the sun was at its zenith, he called a halt. “We’ll stop here for a half hour to take some refreshment and rest the horses. There’s a mere just over there.” He dismounted. “Release the horses from their traces, Willum, and water them.” He glanced at Ariadne, who had dismounted, but she moved past him with that same air of distraction, leading Sphinx to the small pond a few yards distant.

  “Is something troubling you, Ari?” he asked directly, as they stood side by side, their horses drinking at the mere, where tall marsh willows swayed at the edge, throwing the shapes of their elegant wavery strands onto the still surface.

  “Why should anything be troubling me?” She stroked Sphinx’s bent neck, gazing absently across the pond, noticing that as her eyes grew accustomed to the vast loneliness of the plain, she was less alarmed by the sense of space.

  He gave an involuntary chuckle. “Oh, come now, Ari, you sound just like a woman.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? I am a woman, aren’t I?” She was genuinely surprised at his comment.

  “Your great appeal, my dear girl, is that you have never put on any of the airs or affectations of your sex,” he informed her crisply. “Prevarication doesn’t suit you. I know something’s troubling you, so what is it? How can I put it right if I don’t know?”

  This surprised her, too. Did Ivor really think it was his responsibility to put right whatever was disturbing her? He hadn’t felt that sense of responsibility in all the years of their growing together. Did he now think he had to be her protector, her guardian in every respect? It was a novel thought, and Ariadne wasn’t at all sure that she liked it. She was responsible for herself and always had been.

  “It’s not your place to put things right, Ivor, not when they don’t really have anything to do with you.”

  He frowned. “I can’t help feeling that it is my place, Ari. You are my wife. Husbands protect their wives.”

  “I’m not your usual kind of wife,” she declared.

  He laughed with rich enjoyment. “Indeed, you’re not, dear girl. And thank the good Lord for that.”

  Ari grinned reluctantly. “I am just feeling a little out of sorts,” she said, before adding deliberately, “And perhaps I’m tired after last night.”

  At that, he smiled, a long, slow, and utterly sensual smile. He caught her plaits in one hand, bunching them at the nape of her neck so that her face lifted towards him, and he bent and kissed her mouth, a hard, swift kiss of possession. “That is a reason for being out of sorts, my sweet, that I find eminently acceptable,” he murmured as he lifted his mouth from hers, releasing his hold on her plaits. “Later I will do what I can to help you recover your usual good humor. But for now, let us go and eat before there’s no food left.” He gave her braids a playful tug and slung an arm around her shoulders, urging her back to their companions.

  FOURTEEN

  They rode mostly in silence for the rest of the day. Ivor was watchful, his eyes everywhere, scanning the countryside. They presented an inviting target for brigands and highwaymen, although such groups were less likely to be roaming the open spaces of the Levels. Once they reached the Polden Hills, there would be more possibilities of ambush. There were lawless folk everywhere, and the counties of the West Country were fiercely independent. Smuggling was rife along the extensive coastline, piracy and wrecking common pursuits, and bands of highwaymen lurked in the dark shadows of the hills and across the moors of Devon and Cornwall.

  But they reached the lower slopes of the Polden Hills without seeing another soul on the track. “Now we look for a hostelry of some kind.” Ivor glanced with some anxiety up at the long shadows thrown by the hills. The horses were tiring now, and the team pulling the heavy coach was breathing heavily as they hauled their burden up the sloping track.

  “There should be a farming village close to the base of the hills,” Ari suggested. “They farm the Levels in summer, and it would make sense to be relatively close to their fields.”

  Ivor nodded, wishing he knew more about this landscape. They were out of Daunt territory now, and he had never ventured farther afield than Taunton, which they had left far behind them. He called to the outriders a short way ahead of them, “One of you ride on and see where the next village is.”

  One of the two raised a hand in acknowledgment and galloped up the narrowing track. “Why don’t we go ahead?” Ari asked. “Our horses are faster.”

  “We don’t want to find ourselves attacked without support,” Ivor responded shortly. “With the men we have, we can hold off an ambush, but I don’t give us much chance with just the two of us . . . however handy you are with that knife,” he added with a half smile. He turned to look at her. “Are you tired?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “But more hungry than anything else. A chicken pasty at noon doesn’t last very long.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t hold out too much hope for a decent supper around here,” he advised. “There’s not enough traffic on this track to encourage lavish hospitality in any hostelry, assuming we find one.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “We’ll get permission to bed down in a barn. We’ve provisions enough for the horses and for ourselves. Hard rations, certainly, but it will have to do.”

  Ariadne grimaced. It wasn’t an inviting prospect. They pressed on, the path growing steeper as they entered the hills. “Oh, he’s coming back,” she said suddenly, pointing with her whip at the horseman coming down the track towards them. “What did you find, Jake?”

  “An inn of a kind, under the sign of the Fallow Deer,” he said as he reached them. “About a mile up. They’ve a loft for you and Miss Ari, Sir Ivor, and a good barn for the rest of us. They’ll sell us hay for the horses, straw to bed down in. Plenty of ale and scrumpy, from their own orchards, and they’ll sell us eggs and bread, and if we want to kill a couple of chickens, they’re happy enough for us to make a fire in the forge.”

  “Could be worse,” Ivor muttered.

  “It’s an adventure,” Ari said. “Don’t sound so gloomy.”

  He laughed. “Then let’s go adventuring, my dear.” He turned in his saddle, calling back to the coachman. “About a mile farther, and we’ll stop for the night. We’ll go on ahead and see you at the sign of the Fallow Deer. Stay with the coach, Jake. Miss Ari and I will go on ahead.”

  Ari gave a little whoop of pleasure, nudged her weary horse into a canter, and pulled away from the procession.

  “Ari, wait for me.” Ivor’s voice was sharp as he came up to her. “You are never to ride ahead of me. Do you understand?”

  She frowned at him. “It’s only a mile.”

  “That’s as may be, but this is a rule you must always obey. Is that clear?”

  She wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to in such a tone. Until the world had changed after her grandfather’s death, it had been generally assumed that she was her own mistress and able to look after herself. That was certainly the attitude the old Earl had
taken, and Ivor had never presumed to question her actions. But there was something in the deep blue eyes that told her she would be wise to accept the injunction. Besides, they were away from familiar territory where she was well-known, so maybe he had a point. She swallowed her moment of irritation and responded with mock humility. “Very well, sir. Anything you say, sir.”

  He wondered whether to press his point further in the face of her lighthearted response and then decided to leave well enough alone. If she left him behind again, it would be a different matter. But for all her easygoing mischief, Ariadne was no fool. She knew the dangers of this journey as well as anyone.

  The inn was little more than a slate-roofed cottage set a little way back from the track. A low stone wall separated it from the path, and the patch of ground before the front door was just scraggly grass and bare earth. The sign of the Fallow Deer swung rather forlornly and somewhat crookedly above the front door. A few outbuildings were clustered close by, and beyond them, a few fields, now shorn of the wheat harvest, showed only turned brown earth. The inn stood on the outskirts of a small hamlet, a mere scattering of cottages with small vegetable plots. Chickens wandered the track among the cottages, scratching in the earth, and one or two dogs roamed at will.

  The sun was now very low in the sky, and the shadows were creeping across the ground. A brisk wind had got up, and there was the promise of rain in the heavy gray overhang of cloud. Ivor dismounted and went to the door, which opened just as he reached it. An angular man, a corncob pipe in his mouth, surveyed the riders with an air neither welcoming nor otherwise.

  “You the lot wantin’ a bed for the night?”

  “Beds and supper,” Ivor stated, drawing a leather purse from inside his coat. He was not about to waste time with the landlord. “I understand you can provide both.”

  The man regarded Ivor, eyes suddenly narrowed. “T’other fellow said there was a coach an’ horses, an’ men.”

  “They’re coming up behind,” Ivor said briskly. “I came ahead to make the necessary arrangements.” He opened the drawstring neck of the purse and took out a guinea. The gold flashed in the dimness. “You’ve a loft where my wife and myself can have a bed. We will need supper for the two of us. My men will take care of the horses and their own needs in the barn. I believe you can supply them with whatever’s necessary for their comfort and that of the horses, for the right price.” He rolled the guinea between his fingers.

  The innkeeper’s eyes were riveted on the glittering coin. “For another one o’ them, sir, they can ’ave whatever they want.”

  Ivor nodded. “And you can provide a decent meal for my wife and myself?”

  “Aye. The wife’s a dab hand with a Cornish pasty, there’s a flitch of bacon an’ a couple of partridges ready hung. If that’ll do you.”

  “Amply, I thank you.” Ivor placed the coin into the man’s outstretched hand. “I’ll pay the rest of the reckoning when we leave in the morning.” He glanced over his shoulder at sounds on the track. “And here, I believe, are the rest of our party.” He dismounted, turning to give a hand to Ariadne, but she was already on the ground, loosening Sphinx’s girth strap, looping the stirrups up onto the saddle.

  At some point, that was another conversation they were going to have to have, Ivor reflected. But while they rode through the wilderness, it was probably best to leave Ari to be self-sufficient, as she knew so well how to be.

  A woman appeared in the open doorway, her none-too-clean apron dusted with flour. She nodded at the new arrivals before saying, “Well, if you’re comin’ inside, best get on wi’ it. The rain’ll start soon enough.” It was a typical country welcome, not much of one at all. Folks in these hinterlands tended to keep themselves to themselves and look with suspicion at strangers.

  “Thank you, mistress.” Ari took charge, moving past Ivor to greet the woman with a smile. “I’ll own we’re all very weary after a long day in the saddle.” She stepped past the landlady into a taproom, from which a rickety staircase rose in the far corner. It was not unlike her own cottage, except that the taproom floor was matted with clotted sawdust, and the air, reeking of ale and tobacco, was thick enough to coat a spoon. A long, stained slab of pine served as a bar counter, a wooden settle stood to one side of the fireplace, where a fire smoldered rather than blazed, and a few scattered stools provided the rest of the seating. Cheerless was the word, Ari thought, but at least it was shelter, and there was a strong sense of a storm brewing. The wind banged the open shutters against the outside walls.

  “Tilly needs to be in here with us,” she said softly to Ivor, who had stepped in after her.

  “Of course,” he agreed instantly. “Forgive me for not thinking of it earlier.” He turned to the woman, who stood now at the bar counter, wiping ineffectually at the stains with her apron. “My wife’s maid will need accommodation within, mistress. And she will sup with us.”

  “Lor’, Miss Ari, ’tis beginning to rain.” Tilly’s voice came opportunely from the door to the taproom. She stood swathed in her many garments, looking around the room with some disfavor. “Looks like a proper storm is brewing.” She spied the landlady at her dusting and stepped in. “If you’ve the makings for a punch bowl, mistress, Sir Ivor and Miss Ari would be glad of it, I’m sure. Show me where to find it, and I’ll have it ready in no time. An’ if you’d like a bit of help with supper, I’d be glad to give a hand. ’Tis hard, I know, to have folk drop by when you’re not prepared for ’em.”

  The landlady looked at Tilly closely and instantly recognized her for what she was, a West Country lass with the same broad Somerset dialect of her own speech. “I’ll not say no to a bit of help,” she said. “Kitchen’s this way.”

  Tilly discarded her cloak over a stool and unfastened the sheepskin jacket. “Keep an eye on these, Miss Ari,” she instructed, dropping the jacket over the cloak. “Rob you blind soon as look at you, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “She may have a point,” Ivor said with a chuckle. “But at least in Tilly’s hands, we’ll have an edible supper.”

  “Yes, let’s go and look at this loft.” Ari started for the stairs. She climbed up into a sleeping loft similar to her own. It was very sparsely furnished. A straw mattress on a rough bedstead and little else. “Where’s Tilly to sleep?”

  Ivor came up behind her and looked around. “You and she take the bed. I’ll get some straw and bed down on the floor.”

  Ari stared at him. “I don’t think that will be in the least satisfactory, husband.”

  He shook his head, half laughing. “My dear, a night of unbridled passion in a wayside loft is hardly practicable.”

  “Maybe not. But I intend to have it, nevertheless,” she said with the stubborn lift of her chin that he knew so well. “We will make a bed for Tilly downstairs on the settle in the taproom, near the fire. She will be perfectly content.”

  “We’ll talk about that later.” Ivor unfastened his cloak and turned his attention to the fireplace, where a few bits of kindling lay on a bed of old embers. “Wonder when they last lit a fire in here.” He picked up the poker and stuck it up the chimney, rattling it against the sides. “Well, that’s something . . . no birds’ nests, at least.” He disappeared down the stairs, and Ari heard him giving brisk instructions.

  She unfastened her own cloak and went to the small round window under the eaves. The sky was a purple-black color, and the trees were beginning to sway as the wind blew strong, gathering speed as it came from the distant sea across the flat plain of the Levels. There was no sign of moonrise and not a glimpse of the evening star.

  She did want a night of lovemaking with her husband. The memories of the previous night were fading, and she needed to repaint them. Somehow she had to work through this confusing tangle of feelings. Why was it possible to feel such needful lust for one man when the memories of what she believed to be an eternal love and passion for another were still so bright? Perhaps last night had not been as wonderful as she remembered. Maybe
her relief that the obstacle of consummation was overcome without any of the discomfort or downright repulsion that she had expected had colored the experience. But Ariadne didn’t think it was that . . . not in her heart of hearts.

  Footsteps clattered on the stairs, and a young boy of about ten came in bearing a basket of wood on his back. “The gennelman says I’m to light the fire, mistress.”

  “Thank you.” Ari pulled back the covers on the bed. The straw mattress was lumpy and probably jumping with fleas. She went to the staircase and called down for Tilly, who came to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Yes, Miss Ari . . . punch is almost ready.”

  “We brought some of that extra-thick coarse sheeting, didn’t we?”

  “Oh, aye.” Tilly came up the stairs and examined the straw with a wrinkled nose. “Fleas and lice, too, I’ll be bound. The sheeting’s in one of the bags in the coach. I told ’em to pack it on top of the rest so we could get at it easily.” She retreated downstairs again.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Ivor reappeared on the stairs. “The punch is ready.”

  “But the bed isn’t,” she said succinctly. “Not unless you want to wake up covered in flea bites.”

  “It’s a hazard of travel,” he observed. “What are you doing about it?”

  “Tilly’s gone to fetch the sheeting. It’s thick and coarse enough to stop them getting through.” Smoke billowed into the chamber from the newly lit fire, and she coughed. “We could always smoke ’em out, I suppose.”

  “Well, leave that to Tilly, and come down and drink your punch.”

  Ariadne complied, eager to escape the still-billowing smoke. The outside door opened on a violent gust of wind as Tilly struggled in, her arms so full she could barely see over the top of her burden. Ivor leapt forward, yanking the door open as the girl fought her way into the taproom. “Lor’, that’s some storm a-brewin’. The horses are mighty restless.”