by Jane Feather
She set her burden on a stool and felt in her apron pocket, taking out a small muslin bag. “I’ll sprinkle this first, then we’ll put down the sheets, an’ then we’ll sprinkle some more. Should do the trick.” She was still talking as she went back upstairs.
Ivor was stirring a punch bowl over a trivet in the hearth. “What is she talking about?”
“Oh, a mixture, garlic, cloves, mint, basil, I think, and some other things no one else knows about that keep fleas away.” Ari came to sit on a stool by the fire. “Tilly has remedies for everything. Her mother was a renowned herbalist and taught Tilly all she knew.”
“Useful,” Ivor said, ladling the pungent, steaming liquid from the bowl into a tarnished pewter cup. “Try that.”
Ari took a sip, and the heady mixture of rum, brandy, hot water, and butter, with a liberal dash of nutmeg and cloves, seemed to invigorate her tired limbs. “Oh, that is good.” She listened to the rushing sound of the wind, the rattling of the shutters now closed against the battering. “Will they be all right in that barn?”
“It’s sturdy enough. Besides, they’ve all known worse weather,” Ivor responded, sipping from his own tankard.
Tilly came back downstairs for the sheets, and Ari rose to help her. “No need, Miss Ari.” Tilly waved her away.
“Nonsense. It’ll be quicker with the two of us.” Ari grabbed the pile and headed up to the loft. “I’m sure Tilly would be glad of a cup of that punch, Ivor, when we’re finished.”
Ignoring Tilly’s objections, she helped her sprinkle some of the herb mixture onto the straw and then smother the whole with the thick, coarse linen. More of the herb mixture went over the sheets, and then Tilly shook out the blankets and covers and threw them back onto the bed. Ari wondered whether she and Ivor would be sprouting sprigs of basil and mint in the morning, but at least they wouldn’t be covered in itchy lumps.
“You’ll sleep on the settle below, Tilly,” she said.
“Lord, Miss Ari, there’ll be men drinkin’ at the bar, like as not.”
“No, you’ll be quite undisturbed.” Ari laughed. “Sir Ivor has paid for the inn for the night, just for us. It won’t be open for anyone else . . . not,” she added, “that there’ll be many out in this storm looking for a pint of ale. Let’s see what we can do about supper.” She went down to the taproom and found it empty. Ivor’s cloak was no longer on the stool, so he must have gone out.
The punch bowl still sat on the trivet, and she refilled her own tankard and filled another for Tilly, who took it and drank it down in one long gulp. “Thank you, miss. I’ll go an’ help out with supper now. Her pastry looks light enough, but there’s no knowing what she’ll be doin’ with those pheasants.”
Ariadne sat down by the fire, stretching her booted feet to the andirons, listening to the roaring wind. However primitive their accommodations, they were a lot pleasanter than a night outdoors in the storm.
The door opened and slammed as Ivor came in, shaking water from his hat and cloak. “The horses are bedded down snug enough. Sphinx isn’t too happy, but he’s safe. The men have a keg of scrumpy, so they have no complaints.” He draped his wet cloak over a stool close to the fire, where it steamed gently. “By the way, the outhouse is foul, way at the back of the kitchen garden. If you’ve any sense you’ll use a chamber pot tonight.”
Ari grimaced but made no objection. Privacy was a lost cause on a journey such as this.
Their host came in from the back and set two crusted bottles on the bar counter. “These do ye? You said wine with your supper.”
Ivor took up one of the bottles and examined the color in the lamplight. “Let’s try it.” He poured a small quantity into a cup and sipped. “Good . . . very good,” he pronounced. “You’ve obviously got a good supplier, Master Danton.”
The landlord looked as pleased as he was capable of doing. “Aye, our band look after us well enough.”
The landlady, her cheeks flushed from the range, emerged from the kitchen with a tureen. “Cabbage soup,” she declared, setting it down on the counter. “That girl of yours is takin’ some out to the barn. I told her the wind’d knock her off her feet . . . took no notice.” Muttering, she fetched two bowls from a dresser beside the fireplace, thumped them onto the table with a pair of spoons, and returned to her domain.
“Tilly’s carrying a tureen of soup to the men?” Ivor asked in astonishment. “In this weather . . . what the hell’s the girl thinking of?”
“Other people who’ve been on the road as long as we have and are probably chilled to the bone,” Ari retorted, her tone a little tart. She took her bowl back to her stool by the fire. “She’ll probably eat with them herself.”
Ivor frowned but accepted the reproof. “The lad could have taken it, if she’d said.”
“You don’t know Tilly very well, do you?” Ari observed, sipping her soup hungrily. “This is very good, but of course, it has Tilly’s magic touch.”
“Indeed,” he agreed with a dry smile. “I shall go in search of bread.” He ventured into the kitchen regions and came back triumphant with a loaf of oat bread. He set it down on a stool between them.
It was Tilly who brought in a pheasant stew and a Cornish pasty. “Here you are, then. All’s well in the barn. Sphinx has settled now, Miss Ari, thought you’d like to know. The men are snug, but Jake wants to know if you want one of ’em to stand guard, Sir Ivor.”
Ivor considered. The wind howled, the rain beat against the shutters. No one in their right mind would stage an attack on a night like this. And in truth, he didn’t have the heart to instruct one of his exhausted retinue to stand watch throughout the night. Not in the light of Ari’s sharpness on the subject of Tilly and the welfare of his men.
“I’ll go out and see them when I’ve finished supper, Tilly. You eat yours now. Come to the fire.”
“No, sir, I’ll be havin’ mine in the kitchen with Mistress Danton and her man.”
“If you’re sure,” Ari said. “But you’ll make up a bed in here on the settle.”
“Aye, that’ll be fine, miss. When you’re ready to go to bed, just call me, and I’ll bring some water up.” Tilly bustled off, her numerous petticoats rustling around her.
Ari yawned deeply as she dipped a crust into the last mouthful of pheasant stew. Punch followed by several glasses of a very fine burgundy, combined with a bellyful of cabbage soup and rich, gamey stew, was sending her to sleep on her stool.
“Go on up to bed,” Ivor said. “I’m just going to talk to Jake.” He paused by her stool and lightly passed a hand over her black curls. “I’ll be up shortly to chase away the fleas.”
“Don’t be long.” She gathered up the plates and carried them into the kitchen as Ivor went out into the storm.
“I would have fetched ’em, Miss Ari,” Tilly protested as she came into the kitchen. Tilly was sitting comfortably by the fire with the landlord and his wife. Both Master and Mistress Danton were contentedly smoking corncob pipes.
“No trouble, Tilly. I’m going to bed now.”
“I’ll bring some hot water up for you. Kettle’s just boiled. You’ll be glad to wash the dirt of the road off you, I reckon.”
“Thank you. I bid you good night, Mistress Danton . . . Master Danton.”
They nodded in return, and Ari took an oil lamp and went up to the loft. The fire still burned, and she put more wood on it before taking her night shift from the cloak bag. The green glass vial was tucked in the folds, and she swallowed what she assumed was a spoonful and put it away again. Tilly came up with a jug of hot water and a warming pan as she was taking off her clothes.
“Anything else, Miss Ari?” Tilly set the jug on the rickety dresser and went to insert the pan of hot coals beneath the covers.
Ari shook her head. “No, I can manage, thank you, Tilly. Sir Ivor has gone to the barn. He’ll be back shortly.” She stepped out of her petticoats and unlaced her chemise. “You don’t think the warming pan will encourage the fleas?”
“Lord, no, miss. They’d never chew their way through those sheets, even if they had a liking for basil and cloves and such,” Tilly responded comfortably. “I’ll say good night, then.” She went away, bearing the warming pan.
“Good night, Tilly.” Ari dropped her night shift over her head and hitched the chamber pot out from beneath the bed. She used it quickly, thrust it back into the accumulation of dust, and slipped into bed. It was warm, and despite the coarseness of the sheets and the lumpiness of the mattress, it felt like heaven to her weary body.
She was asleep before Ivor came up to the loft. He stood for a moment looking down at her curled figure, her head cradled on her palm, her long black lashes fanned against her pale cheeks. So much for a night of riotous passion, he thought with a smile, stripping off his clothes, draping them over a stool in front of the fire in the hope that they would dry before sunup. Assuming the sun would show itself after this storm.
He climbed into bed, sliding an arm beneath Ari’s sleeping form and rolling her against him, before his own eyes closed.
FIFTEEN
A door from the kitchen below opened and closed with a bang as the wind snatched it from the hand that opened it. Ivor stirred, his eyes fluttering. Someone visiting the outhouse? Silence fell again. He slipped back into sleep.
The innkeeper moved down the path through the vegetable garden, a dark shadow among the darker shadows. The rain came down in sheets, and he shielded his flickering lantern light within the fold of his cloak. Behind him the cottage was in darkness. Tilly slept soundly on the settle wrapped in her sheepskin jacket and thick cloak. The innkeeper’s lad dozed by the fire in the range, and his wife lay wide awake under the greasy coverlet of the bed in the alcove beside the bread oven. Waiting.
Ari didn’t know what had awoken her, but she lay in the darkness for a few minutes listening to the silence of the house around her and Ivor’s deep regular breathing, feeling the warmth of his naked body through the thin muslin of her night shift. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and let it rest on his belly. His breathing continued undisturbed. She let her hand slide farther down, her fingers slipping through the wiry tangle of hair at the base of his belly. She felt the soft flesh of his penis nestled between his thighs. Her fingertips moved over it, and it twitched a little. Ari smiled, an idea occurring to her as she remembered the previous night. If he could give her so much pleasure with his mouth, then maybe she could return the favor.
She slid down the bed, pulling the covers over her head, inhaling the warm, humid scent of his skin as she moved down his body. The even rhythm of his breathing continued undisturbed. She lifted his penis, and it twitched again. Then, as she enclosed it in her palm, she felt it thicken and harden. With a deft wriggle, she moved far enough down so that she could take the corded shaft of flesh into her mouth.
She could taste salt on her tongue, like seaweed, and instinctively, she grazed her teeth along the length of his penis, delicately touching the tip with her tongue, tasting the drop of moisture there. She could feel now that his whole body was awake, even as his sex quivered against her lips. She felt his hands curling into her hair, his fingers tracing the whorls of her ears under the covers. He seemed to grow even harder and thicker in her mouth, and she slid her hands beneath him to cup the hard round sacs.
Ivor groaned as the pleasure awakened his body, set his skin singing. Ariadne emerged laughing, pink-cheeked, from the covers. “Am I doing it right?”
“You know damn well you are,” he said, pulling her up roughly with his hands under her armpits until she was lying on top of him. He hauled the hem of her shift up to her waist and ran his hands over her bottom and the tops of her thighs. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“You taught me.” She laughed, lying along his length, propping herself on her elbows on either side of his body. “I think I’m an apt pupil.”
“More than apt,” he said, smiling, his hands still resting on her backside. “Lift your hips a little, and draw your knees up.”
She obeyed with alacrity and then bit her lip with sudden surprise as he twisted his hips and entered her from below in one smooth movement. “It feels different,” she said.
“There are many different ways to enjoy this particular activity,” he said, watching her face in the faint light from the fire’s embers as he moved his hips upwards. “Use your body to find the position that pleases you most. You’re in control of your own movements now. I’ll follow your lead.”
It was a heady thought, but as she experimented, circling the hardness within her, first one way, then the other, feeling how the sensation changed, grew more intense, she closed her eyes, letting the feeling grow until she sensed the chasm opening beneath her, and her body tightened in anticipation, and when she fell, it was as if she’d broken apart in a million pieces.
She fell heavily onto his chest, and Ivor stroked her back, his hand pushing up beneath her shift, his other hand twisting in the unruly tumble of black curls falling onto his shoulder. He had no idea what time it was, but the fire in the grate still smoldered, and the wind still howled and rattled the ill-fitting window shutter.
And then there was the first shout of alarm, and he caught a flicker of flame through the cracks in the shutter, the faint smell of smoke growing stronger.
He swore a barnyard oath and pushed Ari off him as he leapt to his feet. She lay shocked out of her afterglow, wondering what on earth had happened, and then she smelled the smoke, heard the shouts. “What’s going on?” She struggled up.
Ivor already had his shirt on and was tugging on his britches and his boots. “Attack,” he said curtly, buckling his belt. He grabbed his sword and took up the two flintlock pistols he had placed beside by the bed earlier, thrusting them into his belt. “Stay here. If you value your hide, Ariadne, don’t move.” And he was gone, his boots clattering on the stairs.
Ari tugged on the leather britches she wore beneath her riding skirt and tucked her chemise into the waist, then thrust her feet into her boots. She pulled on her riding jacket; the skirt was surplus to present requirements. Her knife went into the waistband of her britches, and she half tumbled down the stairs in her haste.
Tilly was standing wide-eyed in the middle of the room. “What’s happening, Miss Ari? Is it an ambush?”
“Something of the sort.” Ari yanked open the door. “Stay here, put water on to boil, and see if you can find anything to serve as bandages, in case anyone gets hurt.” Judging by the noise that greeted her, the latter was inevitable, she reflected grimly. The mayhem was in the yard in front of the barn. She could hear the high-pitched whinnying and stamping hooves of the terrified horses as the smoke filled the air.
She ran around the cottage and paused at the entrance to the barnyard, taking stock. It was hard in the smoky, flickering light of the fire to distinguish one man from another, but as far as she could see, the six Daunt men were hard pressed, fighting back a group of about ten. She saw Ivor, his sword slashing as two men attacked him from either side. Other shadowy figures were hauling trunks out of the burning barn, the trunks that contained all the wealth that was to set them up at court. The jewel casket was safely under the bed; Ivor had stowed it away as soon as they’d arrived. But the rest of it, the rich materials, the provisions, the silver chalices and gold-rimmed platters that were to furnish a home fit for a wealthy noble couple in London, were all stacked in the barn.
Someone had betrayed them. Ari hesitated, then made up her mind. The screaming horses were defenseless, Ivor was not, and possessions were not irreplaceable. She raced for the barn, hauling on the double doors as smoke billowed out at her. Coughing, covering her mouth and nose with her arm, she ran bent double into the smoke, flinging back stall doors, leaping to one side as panicked horses stampeded for the outdoors. They would scatter far and wide in their terror, but they could be rounded up later.
She ran for the pump in the middle of the yard and filled a bucket. Darting around the battlegrou
nd, she hurled the bucket of water at the nearest brigand, who was hauling one of the trunks to a wagon waiting at the entrance to the yard. The man yelped as the icy water hit him. Dripping, he spun around, but Ari had ducked out of sight beneath the belly of the horse in the traces. Deftly, she released the cart horse from the traces and gave him a sharp slap on the flank. The smoke and noise had spooked him sufficiently to kick up his heels and make his own escape.
Ari grinned. Without a horse, they couldn’t get away with their treasure. She looked around to see where else she could usefully enter the fray. Her breath stopped in her throat as she saw that Ivor had been driven against the fence, his two attackers pressing him hard, swords in hand. The sound of a shot from a flintlock pistol spun her around on her toes. Jake had fired, and one of the enemy was on one knee, clutching his chest, before he slowly crumpled to the hard-packed earth. She looked back at Ivor. The loud report had had no effect on his assailants. His sword flashed from side to side, but she could see he couldn’t get at his own pistol with both men pressing him against the fence.
She took her knife from her waistband, her breath very still now, forcing her mind to focus, to close off the sounds around her, the sights, the smells, concentrating only on the target she had chosen. She held the knife lightly between forefinger and thumb, drawing back her arm, her eyes fixed on the point between her quarry’s shoulder blades. Then she threw. The blade left her fingers, flew through the smoke, and buried itself deep into the man’s back.
He gave a cry of surprise and pitched forward. His companion, startled, took a step back, and in the same instant, Ivor’s sword took him under the arm, and he fell to the ground.
Ivor looked across the chaotic scene. He saw Ari standing still a few feet away, her knife hand held loosely at her shoulder. And then she ran forward, bending to retrieve her weapon. Where next? Her eyes raked the yard, but Ivor had already plunged back into the fray, his bloodied sword slashing.
