by Jane Feather
But what had happened to the child? His father's papers had referred very clearly to Esther's child, fathered by Geoffrey's own brother Owen. A child that, on its father's death, Geoffrey had assumed responsibility for. But Simon couldn't remember his father ever referring to this unknown cousin. His own mother had never mentioned the child either. Was it a boy or a girl? Not even that simple fact had emerged from Geoffrey Hawkesmoor's cryptic papers.
Simon had discovered them only a few months ago, hidden beneath a false bottom of his father's desk. And that in itself was a puzzle. Why would such an act of family generosity have to be kept hidden, hidden from the world as if for all time? Did it have something to do with the child's mother? The papers referred obliquely to the woman's complete disappearance, to Geoffrey's several attempts to locate her.
But it was this unknown cousin who fascinated Simon. Why, if his father had assumed responsibility for the child, were there no provisions made in his will for his dependent? If this person still existed, Simon, his father's sole heir to a considerable estate, felt he owed him or her something. He didn't know why he should feel this obligation, but he did.
At the very end of his father's private papers, there was one reference to Ravenspeare. The only clue Simon had. I can only assume that the devil's brood have had a hand in her disappearance. It's not the Ravenspeare way to leave loose ends flapping in the wind, even though, in her present state, she's no threat to them. But they would have her somewhere under their eye, just in case that changed.
His own mother he remembered as a pale, shadowy-figure. She had spent her days lying on a couch. Everything about her was pale: her hair was so fair it was almost white, her eyes were the palest blue, her skin so thin it was almost translucent. She had worn pale clothes, the flowers in her boudoir had been as near to colorless as flowers could be, and the draperies had wafted in filmy bleached folds. She had been surrounded by hushed voices, hesitant movements, muffled footfalls.
Although he'd been a small child, he had always felt huge, clumsy, and bright-colored when he'd been taken to her. He had sat on the stool beside her couch, seeing his hands, dirty, ragged, rough, beside his mother's slender bloodless fingers. His feet in their great clumping boots had embarrassed him. His voice had been too loud, harsh, even when he'd tried to whisper. And she had tired of him so quickly. After a very few minutes, she would wave him away with a faint smile and his nurse would remove him without a word spoken.
He couldn't remember feeling much at all when she died. He'd attended the funeral, sitting solemnly beside his father in the carriage, standing at the graveside, throwing earth on the coffin. He remembered the darkness of the house, with the furniture and windows shrouded in black, his father's black presence, his own unrelieved mourning clothes. But when his father had come out of mourning, everything had changed. There was noise, laughter, company in the house. His father had taken him fishing and hunting. They had dined together whenever the earl was in residence at Hawkesmoor Manor, and his father had seemed a different man. A glowing, smiling, joyous man.
Until that dreadful day, when Simon was ten years old. That dreadful day when they'd told him that his father was dead. It was several years before he learned the truth of that death. That his father had been having an affair with the wife of the earl of Ravenspeare. That they had been caught in flagrante delicto. That the earl of Ravenspeare had killed both his wife and her lover in cold blood on a snowy London street.
Geoffrey Hawkesmoor had loved Margaret Ravenspeare. And now Geoffrey Hawkesmoor's son was fairly wed to Margaret Ravenspeare's daughter.
He realized he was frowning and noticed that his friends were all regarding him with a mixture of interest and concern.
"Something bothering you, Simon?" Peter asked.
Simon laughed, but without much humor. "You mean apart from being forced to accept the hospitality of a loathsome clan who won't settle for less than my blood?" He shook his head. "Come, let's join the sport."
It was late afternoon when Ariel heard the hunt returning-the clatter of iron-shod hooves and the shouts and bellows of servants and hunters alike as the riders dismounted, handing their horses to the waiting grooms before making their way into the Great Hall, where wine and food awaited them.
Ariel was sitting in the rocker, the dogs at her feet. Jenny had gone home long since, taken by Edgar after his fruitless search for the mysterious lad who'd brought him the poisoned chalice. The chamber was warm; the lamps threw a soft glow; a pot of fragrant herbs simmered on the trivet in the fire. A decanter of wine and a platter of savory tarts rested on the small table beside Ariel's chair.
As she heard the sounds from the court below, Ariel jerked out of her miserable reverie. She unwrapped the hot flannel from around her throat. The treatment had had some good effect. Her voice was less croaky, her throat less sore. But she was still fatigued after the night's fever and filled with a warm lassitude that dulled even her confusion of misery and anger. But she intended to go downstairs for dinner, so it was time now to throw off the lingering effects of her chill.
She had decided that she would say nothing to Simon about the mare's disappearance. Nothing either to Ranulf. She couldn't afford to give either of them an inkling of how important the horses were for her.
The dogs pricked up their ears and went to the door a good five minutes before Simon rapped once on the oak and immediately entered. He responded to their ecstatic greeting with a brief pat and a firm, "Down." When they'd retreated soulfully to their place on the hearth, he turned smiling to greet his wife.
"You look better. Are you?"
"Well enough to come down for dinner," she asserted. "Would you like wine?"
"Aye, I've a thirst on me to match a parched camel's." He brushed a finger lightly over her cheek, and to his surprise she seemed to draw back a little from his touch. He was reminded of Jenny's behavior to him that morning, and he frowned.
Ariel turned aside to pour wine into the two goblets on the tray. "Do you care for a cheese tart?"
"Thank you." He took one, then stood warming his backside before the fire, regarding her thoughtfully as he ate and drank. "Have you had a pleasant day?"
"Pleasant enough," she responded, not looking at him as she sipped her own wine. "Edgar says the roan is doing very well. I must go and see her tomorrow."
"Is it wise to go out in the cold so soon?"
"I shall be fine," she said, aware that her voice was toneless. "And there are things I need to do with my horses. Things Edgar isn't quite up to. He's very good at following orders, but he'd be the first to admit that he lacks initiative."
"A sterling fellow, in his way," Simon agreed. "A man one would appreciate having at one's back. He reminds me of a corporal I had in the army. Utterly trustworthy, absolutely reliable." He took another deep gulp of his wine. "Jackson pulled me off the battlefield at Malplaquet and then was killed himself as he knelt beside me, trying to staunch my blood with his bare hands."
His expression was bleak but there was a remembering fondness in his voice. Then he threw back the contents of his glass, and Ariel watched the long, sun-browned column of his throat working. And despite weakness and anger, desire prickled across her skin, tightened her scalp.
Simon set the empty glass down. "I must get out of my dirt before dinner. Are you certain it's wise for you to come down?"
"If I stay up here, I shall go crazy."
"I could keep you company?" He wondered why he felt tentative about the offer.
Ariel shook her head. "There's no need for you to isolate yourself either, my lord. We will go down together."
"Very well." He offered her a half bow and left the room.
Ariel rose from the rocker and moved with slow, lethargic step to the armoire. She was wearing one of her old gowns, comfortable, but dowdy even on the most generous assessment. Although it was tempting to stay as she was, a needle of pride pricked her to change into one of her trousseau gowns.
She need
ed something dramatic to add life to her pallid countenance and sluggish blood. Ranulf was expecting her to be wan, downcast, but Ranulf wasn't going to get that satisfaction. She would shimmer and stand out.
She felt a renewed surge of her customary energy when she surveyed herself in the mirror fifteen minutes later, in a gown whose scarlet overskirt, thickly figured with gold, was looped up at the sides to reveal a gold underskirt. The upper sleeves were banded in thick gold braid, with a cascade of white lace ruffles falling over her forearms.
She was twisting her hair over a comb on top of her head, trying to tease out a few side ringlets, when the door opened to admit Simon. As usual, he'd rapped sharply just the once and entered immediately. Now he stood in the doorway, watching her. She could see him behind her in the mirror. He was dressed in black velvet with a broad collar of silver lace; silver lace edged the deep turned-back cuffs of his sleeves and the pockets of his coat.
"It astonishes me that you don't need a maid to help you dress."
"I've always managed on my own." She twisted a ringlet tightly around her forefinger before releasing it to spring against her cheek.
"How do you lace yourself?"
Ariel shrugged, still without turning to face him. "I don't trouble overmuch about tight-lacing, and the hoop is easy enough to fasten for oneself at the waist."
He rested his cane against the wall and came up behind her, placing his hands on either side of her waist. He smiled slightly as his thumbs and forefingers met, forming a girdle. "No, you have little need for tight-lacing."
"You have very large hands," she returned, two spots of color high on her cheekbones. The warmth of his encircling hands was spreading through her body, sending the now familiar jolts of lust into her belly. Her feet in their dainty satin slippers shifted and tapped on the polished floorboards. She tried to move away but his clasped hands wouldn't yield. She put her own over them and tried to loosen his fingers. But he only laughed and tightened their grip.
He put his lips against the curve of her neck where it met her shoulders. His breath was warm, his lips firm, and when his teeth lightly grazed the soft creamy skin and his tongue traced the line of her shoulder to the collar of her gown, Ariel shuddered with pleasure.
"We should go down," she whispered, her voice sounding as hoarse and raspy as it had done when her throat was at its sorest.
He raised his head and looked into her eyes in the mirror. "Is something troubling you, Ariel?"
She stared back at him and read candid concern and the bright flickers of arousal in the blue eyes holding her own.
"No," she said. "Nothing… nothing at all. What could be troubling me?"
"I don't know." He loosened his hands from her waist, brought them instead to her upper arms, holding her lightly, still watching her in the mirror. "But something is."
"I'm tired and feeling a bit weak," she said, breaking his gaze by turning her head, stepping away from his hold.
"Then you should stay up here."
"No!" The negative was more vehement than she had intended, and she heard his swift indrawn breath. "I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to shout."
"It was certainly unnecessary," he remarked mildly. "Come, let us go." He gave her his arm.
Ariel glanced again at the mirror. They made a startling pair, his somber black velvet against the vivid brilliance of her scarlet and gold; his towering frame, the rippling strength in the rock-hard muscles, against her own slenderness; the smooth pallor of her cheeks, the soft regularity of her features, against the harsh lines of his countenance, the dramatic twisting scar, the prominent spur of his nose.
A startling pair-a deeply contrasting pair. And yet they seemed to fit in some way. Simon had once talked disparagingly of Beauty and the Beast, but the pair she saw in the mirror were unusual, different, and yet they fitted like the two pieces of a jigsaw you'd never have thought to put together.
Simon followed her eyes to the mirror as she hesitated. But it seemed that he didn't see what she saw, because his face closed suddenly, his eyes hardened, and with his free hand he almost compulsively touched the scar, then he turned his arm beneath hers and his fingers slid around the underside of her wrist as if he was afraid she was going to move away from him. He reached for his cane against the wall and limped with her from the room.
As they descended the staircase to the Great Hall, Ranulf came to the foot to greet them. He had a glass in his hand and his narrowed eyes were filled with malice. "That gown must have cost me a pretty penny, sister."
Ariel dropped him a mocking curtsy. "Are you regretting your bride gift, brother?"
His hand shot out, caught her wrist where the serpentine bracelet glittered. The silver rose chinked against the emerald swan as he raised her hand to the light and the deep ruby in its furled center glowed through the silver like the coals of a brazier. "I expect bargains to be kept," he said. "And where they are not, then I demand redress."
Still holding her wrist, he examined her intently, and when he spoke, it was in a different tone, a smooth, slippery voice. "You appear a little wan despite your finery, my dear. Still a little chilled, perhaps? I trust you haven't ventured outside today."
"No," Ariel said. "I remained withindoors."
"Ah." He nodded. "Then perhaps something else has made you a little peaked." He raised an eyebrow.
"No," Ariel said, consideringly. "I don't believe so." She smiled, and no one could tell what an effort it cost her. "I daresay it's because I've been withindoors, Ranulf. You know how I hate to be confined."
Ranulf frowned and her heart leaped.
When he'd whipped her as a child, it had infuriated him that she wouldn't cry, wouldn't show him that he had hurt her, and she felt that same grim determination now.
The lethargy fell from her like a sloughed skin. She turned a radiant smile upon Simon, announcing gaily, "I'm hungry. Let us sit at the board, husband. I had no dinner last night, and I've had little appetite throughout the day, but now I find myself famished." It was her turn to lead him forward, her small hand closing over his fingers, tugging him toward their seats at the top table.
Simon watched how Ariel chattered with Jack Chauncey about the stag hunt, appearing to eat with indiscriminate gusto of everything that came her way, except that the quantity of food on her plate didn't diminish. She was also drinking her wine rather faster than usual, Simon noted.
"Are you not hungry, husband?" She forked a piece of roast pork onto his plate from the serving salver. "This is most succulent. Shall I find you a piece of the crackling? There." Triumphantly she put a crisp golden chunk of crackling on his plate. She smiled, peeping up at him from beneath her long, curling lashes. "You do like it, don't you?"
He took the offering between finger and thumb and bit it. Ariel's fingers suddenly closed around his wrist, diverting his hand with the last half of the treat to her own mouth. He found himself fascinated by her little white teeth as they took the morsel from his fingers, the moistness of her lips, the little flicker of her pink tongue over her lips to catch any unsightly spots of grease. Her fingers tightened around his wrist for a minute, and her great gray eyes were filled with lascivious promise.
Simon gave up wondering what was behind Ariel's sudden animation. Only a fool would refuse to enjoy it. "Just what are you up to?" he murmured, smoothing his thumb over her mouth. Her tongue darted and her lips closed over the very tip of his thumb.
At any other dining table, outside a brothel, such behavior would be the height of indelicacy, Simon thought. He should be shocked at his bride's immodest behavior, even though he knew it would pass unnoticed in the general drunken depravity around them-except of course by the jealous eyes of her brothers and Oliver Becket. But instead it made him smile. And that shocked him more than anything.
He glanced across the table. His friends were deeply engaged in conversation.
He slid his free hand under Ariel's bottom on the bench. Her muscles beneath the heavy figured silk of h
er gown clenched against his palm. He went to work quietly, intently, until she ceased her mischievous play with his thumb and whispered, "Don't."
"I thought you wished to play," he returned with an innocent smile.
"It was just a tease."
"So is this. Raise yourself and part your thighs a little."
Her teeth caught her bottom lip, her brow dampened with a little bead of moisture, but she shifted on the bench as he'd directed. His fingers slid deeper against her. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed upon her plate.
Simon grinned and with his free hand nonchalantly picked up a chicken drumstick. He ate it with every appearance of enjoyment, entering into a lively conversation with his other neighbor on the kinds of flies best used for trout fishing in the Ouse.
Ariel couldn't believe he was doing this to her. She heard his voice carrying on his conversation with careless ease while an intensity of pleasure flowed from his fingers. His pleasure in what he was doing swept into her own, became inextricable from her own, and as she fought to control the inevitable, a bubble of laughter grew in her chest. This staid Puritan husband of hers was as capable of outrageous behavior as any rampant Cavalier had been in the debauched court of Charles II.
When it happened, as it had to, she clung to reality as if it were a piece of driftwood in the storm-tossed waters of bliss. She had to keep quiet even as her body exploded and a passing thought for the moisture dampening her gown flitted through her brain. Then the tension left her body, her muscles relaxed, and he slid his hand from beneath her with a final Angering squeeze of her bottom.
With unsteady hand, Ariel reached for her goblet of wine. Were her eyes heavy, her cheeks flushed? She raised her eyes from their studious contemplation of her plate and met Oliver's dark gaze. He knew. He knew because he knew her. She forced herself to keep her eyes steady, to stare him out of countenance, even as her heart pounded and the glass nearly slipped from her suddenly clammy fingers.
