by Jane Feather
An icy blast hit her naked skin when the covers at the bottom of the bed were suddenly lifted. "You have more need of this than I." The hot brick, blessedly warm, was thrust up against her bare feet and the covers tucked tightly in again.
Ariel rolled onto her back, stretching her feet around the glorious warmth. She blinked at the shadowy figure standing at the end of the truckle bed. He had a blanket drawn around his shoulders. "My thanks, sir."
"I'm loath to part with it, but I'll get no sleep with your teeth chattering like a pair of castanets," was the amused response. Simon turned back to the fourposter, dragged off the top quilt, and tossed it over the slender frame in the truckle bed. "Now perhaps we may both get some sleep. This has been one of the most tedious days I have spent in many a long year. I'll be right glad when it's over." So saying, he dropped the blanket from his shoulders and swung himself up into his own bed, his lame leg following more slowly than the rest of him so that Ariel caught a glimpse in the shadows of an ugly red rawness snaking up his inner leg.
She closed her eyes tightly. "I could say the same, my lord."
"No doubt."
There was silence in the chamber now, except for the crackle of the fire, but beyond the locked door the sounds of merriment still rose faintly from the Great Hall. Ariel felt curiously secure tucked up in her little servant's bed at the foot of the fourposter, while the shouts, the rocking laughter, the bangs and crashes came from below.
She'd lain listening to such riotous celebrations many a wakeful night in her twenty years, and even behind a locked door, even with the dogs beside her, she hadn't felt truly safe from the wildness. And she had never been able to sleep until the abrupt silence that always fell at dawn. But she was very sleepy now, deliciously languid as the warmth crept through her. So why, even after Oliver's assault, did she know herself tonight to be immune from danger?
The only possible answer lay breathing sonorously above her. She snuggled further down, curling her toes over the hot brick. Her unbedded husband was ugly and lame and a
Hawkesmoor, but it seemed he possessed the most comforting qualities of strength and dependability.
It was past dawn when she awoke to short, soft barks and scratching from beyond the door. The dogs would start quietly, but if she didn't respond at Once, they'd be baying in full cry in no time. Ariel didn't trust the tempers of her brothers or indeed of any of the other heavy-headed guests, who presumably had not been long in their beds, if they were woken by such a racket. Ranulf was as likely as not to burst from his chamber with a pistol in hand to put a summary stop to the noise.
She slid out of the truckle bed, pulling the velvet cloak around her shoulders, and ran to the door. "Hush. Wait a minute," she called urgently, hearing the escalating shrillness in the renewed barking.
She turned back to the room. The Hawkesmoor was still asleep. She remembered that he'd put the key beneath the thick bolster. She flew across to the bed and tried to thrust her hand beneath the bolster on which lay his heavy sleeping head. "Oh, wake up," she muttered. "Or move over." Her fingers slithered under the starched linen.
"Goodness me, has my wife decided to join me in the marital bed after all?" Simon murmured. She hadn't felt him move, but her wrist was caught in the vise of his fingers, and she was aware of their strength as something frightening. She could almost see the fragile bones snapping beneath the pressure.
"I need the key to the door." Something told her that it would be unwise to pull at her imprisoned wrist.
"But if I'd wished you to leave the chamber without my knowledge, I wouldn't have taken the key," he pointed out in tones of sweet reason.
"I have to let the dogs in before they raise the roof," she said urgently. "Please let me have the key. Otherwise they'll wake everyone up and then God only knows what will happen."
Simon released her wrist and sat up, feeling beneath the bolster for the key. "Here." He tossed it to her. She missed the catch and the iron key fell to the floor with a clatter. "Butterfingers," he accused with a lazy grin.
Ariel glared at him, picked up the key, and dived for the door, flinging it open just as Romulus threw back his head and bayed in full throat.
The hounds leaped into the chamber and Ariel slammed the door behind them. They raced and snuffled around the room, jumped up at her with their great paws resting on her cloaked shoulders, smothering her face with sloppy kisses, before turning their attention to the stranger in the bed.
Simon was sitting up against the carved headboard. The quilts lay over his thighs, his torso was bare. "Down," he commanded in his soft voice as the dogs both jumped as one onto the bed.
Ariel waited to see what would happen. The man didn't move, merely repeated his command, and after an instant's hesitation the hounds jumped back to the floor. They sat beside the bed, their heads resting on the quilt, their eyes fixed adoringly on the man.
"Very impressive," Ariel declared, her voice a little thick. She stroked the dogs' heads for something to do with her hands, something to take her eyes off Simon Hawkesmoor's upper body-an overwhelmingly powerful triangle formed by the broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The muscles rippled smoothly beneath the taut skin, darkly tanned, as if he had spent much time shirtless under a summer sun. His nipples were small and hard, his navel a tight whorl in the hard flatness of his abdomen. It was almost impossible to believe that this man dragged himself around on a cane.
She thought of Oliver's torso. Pale, slender, taut-skinned too, but it lacked the hardness of a man accustomed to using his muscles in heavy physical labor. She had the feeling that this man could as easily turn his hand to a plowshare as wield a massive broadsword. And he would consider neither task inappropriate.
The silence was suddenly oppressive in the dimly lit room. Simon's sea blue eyes rested quizzically on Ariel's face, and Ariel found that she was blushing. She turned away abruptly and went to the armoire.
"How convenient for Becket that the dogs were not with you last evening when he came a-calling."
There was an edge to the voice that sent a shiver down her spine. Did he still then believe that she had invited Oliver to her bed? That she had been a willing partner in the attempt to cuckold her husband?
"Convenient for Oliver, perhaps," she said stiffly, pulling out her riding habit and boots from the armoire. Her husband said nothing. Ariel found hose and a clean shift in the dresser drawer. Then she glanced toward the bed. The man still sat serenely against the bolster as if that taut exchange had not taken place. "I must get dressed and see to my horses," she said.
"Oh? What horses?" He seemed quite unaffected by the overwhelming intimacy of the atmosphere.
"I have horses," she mumbled, bending to rake the ashes and throw fresh kindling on the dying fire.
"We all have horses," he commented dryly.
"Yes, but mine are special." She stuck the poker into the embers until a spark flared.
"In what way special?" His tone was curious, but he still hadn't moved from his casual half-naked position in the bed.
What would it hurt to tell him? If Ranulf had his way, Simon Hawkesmoor had very little time left to live. She caught her breath on the thought. She could not be party to murder, even if she disliked her husband as heartily as she had expected to. Somehow she would circumvent her brothers' evil.
And where would that leave her? Securely married to the earl of Hawkesmoor, of course. She thrust the thought from her; it only made her head ache.
"Special?" he prompted.
No, she could not tell him the whole truth. Not if he was to continue as some kind of force in her life. "It's a hobby of mine. I breed them," she said carelessly. "My brothers pay little heed, and I would prefer it to stay that way. They're brutal riders and I don't want them commandeering my animals."
Simon inclined his head in interested acknowledgment. "You need have no fear I'll blab."
"No," she said, turning suddenly to look at him. "I know that."
"W
ell, get dressed and go about your business, then. And don't mind me."
Ariel was blushing again. "Would you leave me now?"
He shook his head. "No. I have no bloodstained sheet to wave from the window as triumphant evidence of consummation, but I do intend to broadcast to the world that I spent the night in my wife's bed."
Ariel bit her lip. "Then would you please turn your face to the wall?"
"Forgive me, but on your own admission you have little to be modest about. And I am your husband when all's said and done."
"Do you mock me?" Ariel demanded, her voice somewhat stifled.
"A little, perhaps. But then I believe in turn and turnabout. Do you not, madam wife?"
This was not a man to go into the ring with, clearly. Ariel made no answer, but turned her back to him and reached for her stockings, pulling them on beneath the cover of the cloak. It was harder to put on her shift without dropping the cloak, and she knew there was a moment when the curve of her buttocks and the backs of her thighs were revealed to the man behind her, but she gritted her teeth and refused to think about it. In shift and stockings she felt decently enough clad to abandon the cloak completely, and putting on her riding habit went all the quicker. Finally, and with heartfelt relief, she turned back to the room.
"I can't imagine why you would wish to hide your charms," Simon observed. "From the little I saw, they are well worth displaying."
"You are ungallant, sir." Angrily she began to twist her hair into a thick rope around her head.
Simon merely laughed. "I hardly think a husband's compliments could be considered ungallant, my dear."
Ariel stuck pins in her hair with vicious jabs. Simon watched her, his mouth quirked in a crooked little smile. As she stalked to the door, he said, "I trust you can see your way to performing the more mundane of your wifely duties."
Ariel stopped, her hand on the door. She frowned at him. "Like what?"
He passed a hand over his chin. "I have need of hot water to shave and wash. And I should like to break my fast with ale and meat while I ready myself for the day."
"I will tell them in the kitchen," she said.
Simon shook his head. "No, my dear, it would be most wifely for you to see to your husband's needs yourself. I don't, of course, expect you to struggle upstairs with jugs and bowls of hot water, but all should be at your ordering, and I would have you pour my ale yourself."
Maybe, Ariel thought, she would not attempt to circumvent her brothers' schemes. This husband was all too sure of himself. And he seemed to know how to play this little game he had invented to the letter.
"We have a bargain, I believe," he reminded her gently when she stood clearly wrestling with herself at the door.
Ariel turned on her heel and marched out of the room. They had a bargain and she would honor it. He had rescued her from Oliver, and he was perfectly entitled to refuse to be made a fool of. And in truth, the idea of seeming to frustrate her brothers' nasty little schemes was far from unappealing.
The kitchen was astir, Gertrude and her staff already busy with preparations for the breakfast that would appear in the Great Hall at midmorning. For any who were clearheaded and sufficiently quiet-stomached to enjoy it, Ariel reflected.
"Gertrude, will you prepare a tray for my husband? He would break his fast with ale and meat. Timson, would you take hot water to my chamber? His lordship wishes to shave." Stupidly she again felt herself blushing as she saw how these instructions were received in the kitchen. The little nods and smiles as the folk hurried to do her bidding.
She took a fresh-baked cheese tartlet from the paddle that one of the maids was withdrawing from the bread oven set into the stone wall of the range, then strolled into the pantry for a dipper of new-drawn milk from the churn. It was her usual way of starting the day, since she tended to be up and about long before the main breakfast was eaten.
Then she walked ahead of Timson and the maid who carried the earl of Hawkesmoor's breakfast tray, up the main staircase toward her own chamber. Ranulf's door opened as the little procession approached along the corridor. He stood, disheveled, red eyed, in just his shirt, his long shanks exposed to the cold air whistling along the passage.
"What's that you're doing?" he demanded irritably. "Isn't it bad enough that a man can't get a wink of sleep without those damn dogs of yours bellowing?"
"The dogs are outside now," Ariel said. "And I am taking my husband his shaving water and his breakfast. He finds himself in need of sustenance after such a long and… fruitful… night." She grinned at her brother, unable to help herself, as she saw the chagrin race across his bloodshot eyes.
Ranulf glared, seemed about to say something, then caught the eye of the manservant. With a vile oath he turned back to his own chamber, slamming the door behind him.
Ariel smiled sweetly at the slammed door and thought with pleasure of how furious her brothers were going to be at the assumption that their sister was now truly the wife of
the earl of Hawkesmoor. That satisfaction more than made up for the tedious business of having to go through the motions of performing her wifely duties, Ariel decided, dancing lightly back into her own chamber, where her husband still lay abed.
Chapter Six
Ariel directed the maid to place the tray on the side table. "Will you drink now, my lord?" She turned to the bed, her hand on the ale jug.
Simon nodded. "Thank you." Then he turned to the manservant. "In my chamber you will find my razor and strop on the washstand. Be so good as to bring them in here."
"Aye, my lord." Timson bowed and went off, returning in a minute with the required articles. He set them down beside the hot water. "Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"No, thank you." Simon drank from the tankard Ariel had placed at his hand. "You may go."
"Does that apply to me also, my lord?" Ariel inquired demurely as the door closed behind the servants. "Or is there some other way in which I can serve you?"
"Pass me my chamber robe, if you please."
Ariel handed him the robe he'd been wearing when he'd entered her chamber to tangle with Oliver. Simon shrugged into it, pulling the sides closed over his torso. Then he said with sudden and unusual sharpness, "You had business in the stables, I believe."
Ariel curtsied with more than a hint of irony and left the chamber. Simon pushed aside the covers and slowly swung his legs over the end of the bed. He had not been self-conscious about his unsightly scars in the firelit night, but in the harshness of broad daylight, he found he needed to hide them from the clear gray eyes of his bride. He was always stiff in the morning, too, and he couldn't bear that Ariel, so light and supple herself, should see his grimacing, dragging progress as he forced feeling and movement into his knotted muscles and aching joints.
He had felt no need to hide his weaknesses from Helene, he reflected, swinging his lame leg from the hip, ignoring the screaming pain of his stiffened muscles, knowing that only thus would he restore any fluidity to the limb. But then Helene loved him. She was his friend, closer to him than any battlefield companion, the most beloved of lovers.
Once he'd removed his nighttime stubble, he hobbled across the corridor to his own chamber. He had not stopped for his cane last evening, when he'd heard the sounds from Ariel's chamber. It astonished him now to remember how he'd sprung from his own bed and how rapidly he had managed to get to Ariel's chamber. He had given his body's frailty no thought as he'd snatched up his robe and the small, deadly knife he wore always at his belt, and he'd laid hands on Oliver Becket with a strength born of fury. His responses had been utterly instinctive, just as they were in batde, and not once had he questioned his body's ability to obey those instincts.
It was the first time he had moved with such mindless ease since he'd been so dreadfully wounded at Malplaquet. Even now, he could remember as vividly as if it were still happening the icy dread that had tormented him when he lay in his fever in the hospital tent, surrounded by the screams of the dying, the ste
nch of blood and death, the agonized shrilling of those under the surgeons' knives. His dread had been that he would not die but would live the rest of his days a one-legged cripple, dependent on the charity and kindness of others.
He had refused to allow them to take off the leg, had screamed that he would prefer to die than live unwhole. And because he was the close friend and companion of the duke of Marlborough, they had not dared to gainsay him. He had lived. And he had kept his leg. It was scarred, useless, a dragging pain most of the time, but he still felt himself to be whole.
And somehow, last night, his leg had responded to urgent need and had supported him uncomplaining into the fray.
He was paying for it now, though, he reflected with a grimace, as he dressed laboriously. The limb hurt today almost as much as it had done when he lay bleeding on the battlefield.
Had he stopped a rape last night? Or merely interrupted some mutually enjoyable rough foreplay? He twisted the ends of his cravat loosely and tucked them into his shirtfront in the Steinkirk style. It was a simple fashion that he preferred to the more customary falls of ruffled lace. In essence, it didn't matter what had been going on. What mattered was that he had stopped it, taken the play into his own hands.
He drew a comb through his close-cropped hair. What else did the Ravenspeare brothers have planned for him? He had foiled one humiliation, but there might be other unpleasant surprises in store for him. A month was the devil of a long time to have to spend in the enemy's lair. Yet he could see no way to leave earlier in the face of two hundred guests without appearing a discourteous coward. To the queen it would seem a deliberate rejection of Ravenspeare's lavish gesture of friendship, and that would be handing a neat victory to the enemy.
And just what line was he to take with his bride? She was an intriguing creature. Her air of cool detachment from her surroundings made her seem older than her years, but when she'd danced that wild tarantella with Oliver Becket, she had been all fire and life, a sensual, passionate whirl of flame. An intriguing paradox, and one he had better figure out sooner rather than later.
