by Sahara Kelly
“I truly don’t know,” he finally answered with a slight shrug. “I would not foist myself upon a man who might not even know of my existence. He could have a family…there could be any number of situations that would be adversely affected by the arrival of a fully-grown bastard child.”
“True,” she agreed.
“Besides, how would I prove anything? Even had my mother named this man, it would be slim evidence of my paternity.”
Ariadne grinned and daringly reached out to touch his chin. “Well, this would help.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“Your chin, sir. Your decidedly strong cleft. Dimple. Whatever you wish to call it.”
“What about it?”
“It’s hereditary, I believe. From father to son. You have one. Therefore, the odds are good that your father has one as well.”
His eyes widened. “I was not aware of that. An interesting point.” Then he chuckled. “So I’ve probably ruled out all the Barons in England with smooth chins.” He turned his smile on her, his eyes alight with laughter. “That only leaves a hundred or so, would you say?”
“Pshaw,” she waved her hand, laughing with him. “A matter of a few years and you’ll find him.”
“But do I want to? To what end?”
Ariadne sensed the question had been directed more to himself than to her. In fact, this entire conversation had drifted past the polite and ordinary and into one where thoughts could be spoken aloud, ideas and suggestions exchanged; she sensed a growing comfort between them that—given the mere hours they’d spent together—should have surprised her more.
But it didn’t. It was as if she’d known him for years.
“I believe you will be able to answer that someday, Mr FitzDoone.” She met his eyes, saw the sadness he tried to conceal. “I truly do.”
“I find myself moved by your convictions, ma’am.” He gently touched the back of her hand, a brief pat of his fingers on her skin. “I’d be honoured if you could bring yourself to call me Michael? ’Tis a name I will answer to more readily than FitzDoone.”
She tried to ignore the shiver of excitement that had radiated from his touch. “A name you chose for yourself, I take it? The Fitz part…a well-known device for indicating one of lineage stemming from the wrong side of the blanket…”
He nodded in acknowledgement. “I would not trumpet my status for all to observe, but I cannot hide it, either.”
“In that case, Michael, I’d be equally honoured if you would call me Ariadne. In truth, the Wilton name is one that I came to despise several years ago.”
He straightened. “Forgive me…Ariadne.” His hand went to hers once more, lingering as he once again touched her fingers. “I’ve rambled at length about my sad lot, yet not once have I inquired as to your situation.”
She swallowed. “Well, my situation is pretty much what you see around you. This house is slowly dying, crumbling into dust.” She dropped her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. “As am I.”
*~~*~~*
A log cracked in the fireplace, the sharp sound breaking the silence that had fallen after Ariadne’s dramatic words.
Michael didn’t jump, but it was a close thing. The wind had picked up to a howl and the house creaked in response, reminding him where he was and that it had grown late. The woman next to him held herself straight, but her eyes told of inner exhaustion.
“I would hear your story too, Ariadne, but I fear the hours have passed too quickly. It must be nigh on midnight and you’re tired.”
Her hair reflected the firelight as she nodded. “I’m sure the same could be said for you.” She slowly stood. “I have taken the liberty of assuming you’ll remain with us for the night?” She winced as another gust rattled the building. “The weather is bad, and at least here you’ll have a warm dry bed.”
He rose too. “I am most grateful. To have found shelter on a night such as this is a blessing indeed.”
“It’s not luxurious…” Her face betrayed her worry.
“Stop.” This time he took her hand in his without hesitation. “I did not expect luxury, nor did I expect such kindness. You are offering more than I could have hoped for and it’s difficult to find the words to express my gratitude.”
“In that case, I hope you will find your room to your satisfaction.” She gathered her skirts and—it seemed—reluctantly released his hand. “There is only myself, my maid and Rodney at the moment. A small enough group to survive, but not to offer much in the way of conveniences. Rise when you will, Michael, and you will find me in the small parlour in the morning. We have little in the way of schedules or routines…”
“Which suits me perfectly, having none of my own.” He took her hand in his once again, and this time raised it to his lips. “I will bid you goodnight and offer my thanks once again for your kindness.” He kissed her knuckles, intending to merely brush them with his lips as was the custom. But he breathed in…the scent of her skin climbing up his nostrils and flooding him. He touched her with his mouth and for a brief second he felt a rush of heat and desire the likes of which nearly took his knees out from beneath him.
“I…I…”
Her voice recalled him from the strange sensations. She stared at him, her eyes gleaming gold in the firelight, shadows dancing around her as the candles began to gut.
“Goodnight, Ariadne,” he said, his voice lower than he’d expected, his throat rough with some odd yearning he’d not put a name to. Not when she was there, in front of him. “I trust you will sleep well.”
With difficulty, he let her go, seeing her throat move as she swallowed. “Thank you, sir.” The slight curtsy seemed a bit wobbly, but then again Michael wasn’t sure he could trust his eyes. He merely nodded and headed for the door, hating to leave her side but almost desperate to be alone so he could breathe again.
Although there were few candles burning to light his way, he found his chamber without a problem, noting that the fire was still alight and there were logs he could use to bank it up for the night.
There was a rug on the floor, and a place for his clothing, along with the necessities of a guest chamber. Nothing was new, elegant or fancy. But it was all sturdy and functional, and more than that he would not ask.
There was even a nightshirt, somewhat musty, and a robe laid on the bed, that might have once been very tasteful, but now was simply a bit moth-eaten.
None of which concerned him as he sank into the mattress, weary to his very soul. He tried to remember the last time he’d slept in such comfort, and couldn’t. All his mind would allow him to do was think about a pair of dark eyes that glowed in candlelight and skin that tasted of heaven.
He slid easily into a deep sleep, scarcely moving at all.
It must have been more than a few hours later when a sound woke him.
His toes were warm; the fire barely flickered, and for a few seconds he couldn’t even remember where he was.
Then he heard it again—a muted cry.
Leaping from his blankets, he grabbed the robe and struggled into it, fighting with the tie as he opened his door and rushed into the hallway, pausing, listening…
There…a down the corridor…a sound…
A door opened and he sucked in a breath as a figure emerged, white and barely visible in the darkness. It turned toward him and he could feel his heartbeat in his throat and his ears as it drifted softly over the worn carpet.
Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he saw the long dark hair as she neared him, her hand outstretched, her gaze oddly vague.
She was sleepwalking.
He couldn’t let her reach the head of the stairs—she’d take a tumble that might do some serious damage. So he carefully walked toward her, letting her fingertips touch him before he did anything else.
She paused when she encountered the softness of the robe over his chest.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she whispered. “Do you have Joshua?”
“Ariadne,” he said quietly. �
�Ariadne, my dear, wake up…” He gently put his hands on her shoulders.
He felt the shivers begin, and she trembled, her eyes widening and focusing on him and the darkness of the hallway.
“What the…” She stumbled. “Oh dear God.”
“You’re all right, it’s all right…” he soothed, taking her weight as she fell against him. With scarcely a thought he picked her up in his arms and cradled her, much as he would a child with a bruised knee.
“I dreamed,” she whispered. “Oh ’twas a terrible dream.”
“And you were looking for someone. You were looking for…Joshua.”
She stifled a sob. “Yes, I was looking for Joshua.” Her head moved as she turned her face into his chest. He felt the anguish she tried so hard to conceal. Icy hands clutched at his and she shivered all the way to her toes.
“It’s all right, Ariadne. You’re safe here now.” He took her back to her room.
It was familiar—the mirror standing atop her bureau, a window in the wall to the side.
It had been Ariadne he’d watched in the gypsy’s tent. It had been Ariadne that he’d seen with his heart, not his eyes.
Her bed linens were askew, as if she’d kicked them violently away from her. He freed an arm to stoke up the fire, then grabbed a quilt and wrapped it around the two of them, knowing his body heat might help ease the tremors that racked her frame. The most appropriate solution lay in front of him, so he tucked them both into the well-worn chair that sat on the hearth.
The blaze caught and soon the warmth penetrated their private cocoon making her sigh with relief. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered.
He had to lean down to catch her words. “There is no reason to apologise for what one cannot control, Ariadne. Sleepwalking is not an unusual thing, you know.”
“It is for me. It only began a few years ago…”
“Can you tell me? Here? Tucked up as we are in a warm little nest in the deepest reaches of the night? Or would you rather I pop you back into your bed and make sure you’re comfortable?”
He would have sat there for a week if she’d asked it of him, he knew. So although he’d have obeyed her wishes, he was glad she shook her head and snuggled deeper into his arms.
He pulled the quilt up over her toes and settled himself to listen.
Chapter Five
“I see I must tell you something of my past. ‘Tis as ugly a tale as yours, I fear.” She gulped. “I am a whore, sir. Mother of a bastard child, myself. So you can see that naught you have revealed in relation to your own history has shocked me, since mine is ten times worse.”
He tipped his head to one side. “You may be many things, Ma’am, but whore—I doubt that. I doubt that most strongly.”
She looked away. “What else would you call a woman who gives herself before marriage to an unsuitable man who leaves her with child?”
“Unlucky?” he quipped. “Oh, and I’ll shoot the miserable swine who deserted you, with great pleasure, if you’d like.”
She couldn’t help her answering smile. “That will not be necessary, since he departed this life not long after our…our encounter. But thank you for the offer.” She let herself lean against him, staring into the fire. “You of all people can understand my situation. My mother was the daughter of a gypsy, and she died immediately after she learned of my predicament. My father swore I was to blame. My logic tells me I am not, of course, but you probably know how much damage such words can inflict.”
She took a ragged breath. “I am shunned, and yet I have to try to raise my son to be a normal, decent young man. My nightmares…and I suppose the occasional bit of sleepwalking…have been getting worse since he has grown. There are so many questions I cannot answer yet, not until he’s older. And I have a fear he’ll be taken from me.”
“That’s why you asked if I had him,” said Michael. “When you were dreaming…”
“Did I? It’s possible.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t remember what happened. Once I found myself in the kitchen, and another outside by the front door. Luckily Rodney locks everything tightly now and I cannot reach the keys unless I make a conscious effort to do so. Thus far, it’s kept me in the house at night.”
“Oh Ariadne,” he whispered over her hair. “You poor dear.”
His hug warmed her every bit as much as the quilt. “I live here on sufferance, Michael. ‘Tis an uncle’s estate—he permitted me residence until a certain time and under certain conditions. He told me he felt it was his Christian duty to do something for his niece, since his brother wouldn’t, even though he would have preferred to burn the place to the ground rather than give it into my hands.”
“Tell me about it?” He kept his gaze on her face.
“I was evicted from the bosom of my disapproving family and interred in this—this place—nearly seven years ago, not long after I learned of my condition. At that time, my uncle was living, but upon his death his will specified the conditions relating to myself and my son. If he reached the age of seven and I had not found a gentleman of good birth willing to wed me and accept him as his own, then I was to leave the premises and never return.” She paused. “He believed he had fulfilled his Christian duty to a fallen and damaged member of the family. I was blessed with a wonderful son, born here in this house, with only my two dear friends Winnie and Rodney to help me. But we managed.”
She dredged up a smile as she turned her head on Michael’s shoulder. “He was a wonderful baby and I am utterly devoted to him. I thought we could make a life for ourselves here for at least seven years. Unfortunately, my uncle’s wife was a hard woman with little compassion, and she made clear the nature of my situation to those who live hereabouts and might have offered to help a poor woman and a baby. Instead, I found they viewed me as little better than a gypsy whore. No man hereabouts will pass the time of day with me. Except for those who—”
“Who would like to test the veracity of that rumour.”
“Exactly. They certainly weren’t gentlemen in the true sense of the word.” He’d hit the nail on the head. She’d turned away the drunken louts who’d assumed she would spread her legs and lift her skirts for a few coins. One of them had left with a load of pellets in his backside and the tales he’d spread around hadn’t exactly helped matters along. She’d dealt with them, but there was still one threat she’d yet to vanquish. That story had no place in this room on this night.
“Since I proved to be less than welcoming of any such attention, I finally discouraged those idiots. This is a quiet place, so I’ve been left pretty much alone for a couple of years now.”
Michael kept his arms around her, listening. “Has there been nobody, Ariadne? No friends? Nobody you can talk to?”
“No. I’ve seen nobody for quite some time. And I’m not actively seeking a husband.” She turned. “I should not care if that means my son and I will have to leave here and wander the world. My mother had gypsy blood—my son’s father was a gypsy and I loved him, worthless though he was. Wandering is not an alien concept, nor is it something I’m afraid of.”
“But…”
“But I must consider Joshua first. He may not take to life on the road. He does not know what it will mean. The ostracism, the slights and slurs. He has a birthright, such as it is, here in this house. This property. It would become his should I fulfil the dictates of that dratted will. He should be permitted to claim it. He’s only six, Michael—I wish he didn’t have to learn that such hate is out there. Too innocent to understand it and too young to face it.”
“Where is he now?”
“He’s with a friend of my mother’s. She has a kind heart, several children of her own, and has persuaded her husband that no harm will come to them if she includes my bastard son for the holidays. Naturally, all on the condition that I not accompany him, since her husband believes I might contaminate the more tender of her guests…” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. That was wrong of me. I am very grateful to Beryl, since because of he
r Joshua will at least experience something good this Christmas. She has done what she can. I must accept my lot.”
Michael was quiet, the room fell silent, the fire barely crackled. She wondered how he would respond to her sad story. Would he understand her bitterness? Or was he even now looking for a way to excuse himself and be on his way first thing in the morning? After all, who would want an unmarried woman with a bastard son who was part-gypsy as well? The house was decaying, there were few funds to go along with it—truthfully, there was no solid incentive for him to stay.
“Ariadne.” His gaze locked with hers. “You must get some rest.” He paused. “And I must…I must do some thinking.”
Her heart sank. He was going to find a way to politely leave her, she knew. One man, one chance that he might have viewed her situation with kindness…but it looked as though even that would be denied her.
She nodded and untangled herself. “Thank you, Michael. I am sorry I woke you, but your attentions have been very welcome.” Easing her way back to her bed on legs that were shakier than they should have been, she knew he followed her. “I will be fine now. Thank you.”
Silently he tucked her in, then brushed his hand over her cheek.
He left, closing her door behind him. She wondered if that was the sound of her last hope fading away into nothing.
*~~*~~*
Michael slid back into his own bed, shivering a little as the sheets were a lot colder than a quilt and a warm armful of woman in front of a fire.
He was tired; he would like to have closed his eyes and drifted off into a restorative few hours of deep sleep. But that was not to be. He tried, but his mind was still turning over the story Ariadne had told him, and would not let it go.
He knew only too well the stigma of illegitimacy.
His mother had held their family together in spite of it, raising him with laughter and love, and hiding her sorrow from all but the most observant eyes. His father had had little to do with either of them, barely taking the time to make sure they were fed and he was educated as befits the son and heir of an estate.
