by Jane Feather
Esther. Somewhere on Ravenspeare land there was-or had been-a woman called Esther. A woman who had born a child to a Hawkesmoor.
Chapter Five
Probably she shouldn't have laughed, but it had seemed so absurd. Ariel frowned unconsciously at her image in the cheval glass, unaware of the distorted reflection thrown back at her by the flickering candle on the dresser.
That same look of uncertainty, of self-deprecation, had crossed his irregular features, and for a moment he had looked emotionally stripped bare, his eyes suddenly vulnerable as she stood there convulsed with amusement. She hadn't been laughing at him exactly, it had been more with pleasure at her own secret life. But how could the Hawkesmoor know that?
She chewed her lip crossly. There was no reason for him to have been hurt at her laughter, surely? Annoyed, perhaps, but not wounded. And yet wounded was how he had looked. What on earth had he thought she was laughing at?
The dogs began to whine and scratch at the door, and she returned to the room with a shake of her head. The dogs had been confined since noon and needed to go out. She contemplated her image in the glass, tousled from the dance, the lace of her wedding gown torn, the silk skirt covered in muddy paw prints. There was nothing to save by changing before she ventured out into the night.
She took a heavy velvet cloak from the armoire and slung it around her shoulders, drawing the hood up over her hair and the bridal bands at her forehead. The dogs barked excitedly at this evidence of their impending release.
"All right, all right… patience." She pulled on gloves, clasped the cloak at her throat, and opened the door. The hounds bounded ahead of her toward the stairs down to the Great Hall but stopped when she called them sharply.
"We're not going that way," she told them, turning aside to take the narrow stair that led through the kitchens. They jostled her on the stairs in their eagerness to get outside, and she nearly tripped down the last three steps.
The kitchen was quiet and surprisingly orderly. Two potboys slept almost in the embers of the hearth, a footman sat nodding over a tankard of ale, and a lone scullery maid scrubbed at blackened pots in the long trough in the scullery.
"Leave that, Maisie, and get you to bed." Ariel stood under the arch that separated the massive kitchen from the scullery.
"Mistress Gertrude said as 'ow I mun' finish up tonight, m'lady," the girl said, wiping her brow with a chapped hand. "Seein' as 'ow I 'ad special leave to visit me ma yesterday when all the preparations was goin' on."
"Was your mother sick?"
"Oh, no, m'lady. She 'ad a bonny babe." The girl's tired face lit up. "Suky, they're goin' to call 'er."
"In the morning I'll send a birthday gift for your sister," Ariel told her, smiling. "But get you to bed now. I'll make matters right with Mistress Gertrude."
The girl dropped the pot she was scouring with a clatter and wiped her hands on her apron as she bobbed a curtsy. "Thank you, m'lady." She scurried away in the direction of her own narrow pallet in the attic with the other maids.
Ariel wondered if Maisie would stop to think it strange that her newly wedded mistress was roaming the house on her wedding night instead of securely abed with her bridegroom. Then she shrugged the question aside. What did it matter what the household thought? They were all accustomed to the eccentricities of their Ravenspeare masters. If it weren't for the fact that Ariel held the household reins firmly in her own hands, the lords of Ravenspeare would have a hard time finding local people to serve them.
The dogs were barking at the closed kitchen door. When she opened it, they bounded out into the night, streaking across the yard toward the stables, where Ariel's nightly habit would take them.
Edgar looked up from the charcoal brazier he was tending as his mistress entered the Arabians' stable block. "Eh, I weren't expectin' ye tonight, m'lady."
"It would take more than a wedding to keep me from my rounds," Ariel said soberly. "How's the colt?" She unfastened the half door of one of the stalls and slipped inside. "Oh, he's so beautiful. I shall miss him." She stroked the white blaze on the colt's nose. "But can you believe that someone's willing to pay a thousand guineas for him?" Her voice was awed as she gently pulled the colt's ears.
"Anyone what knows their 'osses, m'lady, would pay that an' more for such a beauty." Edgar leaned over the half door, sucking a straw, his gaze sharp yet benign.
"I still think it's amazing. If I could just sell two more, I'd be ready to set up on my own." She moved back out of the stall, Edgar stepping aside for her and pulling the half door closed behind them.
" 'Is lordship was down 'ere yesterday," Edgar observed with seeming casualness.
Ariel stopped. "Doing what?"
"Jest lookin' around, I reckon."
"Did he say anything?"
"Not so's you'd notice." Edgar bent over the brazier again, warming his gnarled hands.
Ariel frowned. "He couldn't know about the colt. The negotiations have been so secret."
"Oh, I 'spect he was jest nosy," Edgar responded.
"But Ranulf never bothers with my horses. None of them do. They're only interested in hunters."
"Per'aps 'e was lookin' to see if n ye 'ad a likely 'unter among this lot."
"Perhaps." But Ariel was uneasy. If Ranulf suspected that instead of a harmless hobby his sister had a money-making business going, he'd have his hands on the proceeds before she could blink an eye. In the morning she would casually mention his visit and see how he reacted. He might demand one of the stud, but with luck she could persuade him that none of them was up to his weight.
Her mouth tightened. The lords of Ravenspeare rode their horses viciously hard. She would shoot one of her animals rather than let any one of her brothers own it. She turned back to the yard. "Good night, Edgar. I'll leave the dogs loose tonight. There are so many strangers around, I'll sleep better if the hounds are roaming."
"Aye," the man agreed. "And I daresay I'll sleep in the tack room, jest in case any of 'em gets restless with the noise." He jerked his head speakingly toward the stableyard, where the row from the hall could be heard spilling around the castle.
"Thanks." She smiled at him in the dim light and left the stable block. There was no sign of the dogs, and if she didn't call them, they would enjoy a night's freedom after a day's confinement. Judging by the racket, the night's sottish revelries, in the absence of the bride and groom, would continue until dawn, and it wouldn't be the first time if some of her brothers' guests decided to go for a moonlit ride. She wanted no drink-sodden rider throwing his leg over one of her horses.
She went back through the kitchen, throwing the bar over the door behind her. It would keep any drunkenly wandering guest from blundering into the stableyard through the kitchen. She had eaten very little at the feast and was suddenly aware that she was hungry. In the pantry she piled chicken legs, a large slice of veal and ham pie, and a bowl of syllabub on a tray, together with a tankard of mead from the keg, and hurried up the inside stairs.
She closed the door of her own chamber and leaned back against it with a sigh of relief. The sounds from downstairs were muted and her own room seemed a haven of peace and privacy. She set her supper on the side table and tossed aside her cloak, before throwing fresh logs on the fire and trimming the lamp. Then, satisfied that all was as cozy as she could make it, she sat before the fire, kicked off her shoes, and took the tray on her knees.
She was gnawing happily on a chicken leg when the door was suddenly thrown open. Oliver Becket stood there, two goblets in his hand, a twisted grin on his face.
"Eh, bud, we must drink to your wedding night." He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. The kick wasn't strong enough and the heavy oak merely swung against the frame.
"Go away, Oliver." Ariel kept her seat and continued to eat her chicken, hoping that a cool and sober response would penetrate her unwelcome visitor's stupefied condition.
"Don't be unfriendly, bud," he chided, placing the goblets with
exaggerated care on the bedside table. "You were not wont to be unfriendly before." His skewed grin intensified as he came toward her, hands outstretched. "Come, you can't spend your wedding night alone."
"You're drunk, Oliver."
He threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Of course I am, bud. What man would stay sober on such a night? Unless, of course, it be your husband. Old sobersides!" He leered and bent over her, whisking the tray from her knees and putting it aside without so much as a fumble.
Ariel felt the first stirring of alarm. His eyes, while unfocused, were bright with malice and purpose. It had never occurred to her that she couldn't make her own wishes perfectly plain in these matters regardless of whatever scheme her brothers had concocted with Oliver.
"Come now, sweetheart." He took her upper arms and pulled her to her feet. "Still in your bride dress, I see. Waiting for the bridegroom? How sad to be neglected on such a night. We must show Lord Hawkesmoor the way to his bride's bed, I swear."
"No!" She pushed at him, struggling to turn her head as he brought his mouth to hers. "For God's sake, Oliver, leave me alone. I don't want this."
"Nonsense," he mumbled against her mouth. "When have you not wanted it, my passionate flower?" He held her now against him with one ironbound arm while his free hand pulled at the laces of her bodice.
Why, tonight of all nights, had she not kept the dogs with her? The pointless question battered against her brain as Ariel struggled in a grip that drink seemed only to have made stronger. He didn't seem to feel her pinches and scratches as she pushed at his face with her flat palm. She tried to kick at him, but he scissored her legs between his and then fell with her to the floor. She thumped her head hard on the wooden boards and saw stars. In the moment of confusion, Oliver had swung himself over her. He was laughing, but there was nothing pleasant about his expression. There was a grim predatory triumph and she knew with a sick tremor in her belly that her resistance was exciting him. He had pushed a leg between her thighs, one hand now held her wrists above her head, the other pushed and scrabbled at her skirts.
"No!" she screamed at the top of her voice, drumming her bare heels on the floorboards, fighting to twist her body free.
"Be still, bitch!" Oliver was no longer amused. His face was tight, his mouth a thin line. She could feel his flesh against her thigh as she tried to keep her legs closed, to draw her knees up.
She screamed again. And then suddenly Oliver was hauled off her. She lay looking up into the closed dark face of Simon Hawkesmoor. "Cover yourself," he said coldly.
Ariel pushed her skirts down over her exposed thighs, feeling as soiled as if she had initiated and enjoyed that horror. She pulled herself upright
Oliver stood leaning against the bedpost. He was breathing heavily. His mouth was bleeding and he held a hand against his cut lip. His eyes were black with fury and confusion, his britches unbuttoned, his shirt untucked.
"You'll find that your bride enjoys a little rough-and-tumble, Hawkesmoor," he said thickly. "I've noticed she grows more passionate with a degree of forceful persuasion. Isn't that so, my bud?"
Ariel, with an inarticulate cry of outrage, launched herself at him and was unceremoniously thrust into a chair with a flat palm against her chest. Her husband didn't so much as look at her as he pushed her out of the way and she fell back in a disorderly tangle of ivory silk and vanilla lace.
"Get out of here before I unman you," Simon said quietly to Oliver Becket. Oliver laughed, but it was an uncertain sound as his eyes fixed on the small knife that Simon held in his hand.
"You think I'm no match for a cripple?" he demanded, but he was already making his way to the door.
"Yes, I think that," Simon said evenly. "And if you wish to try the case, then I am more than willing."
Oliver laughed again with a drunken bravado and then he was gone. Simon closed the door and turned the key in the lock. He withdrew the key and stood thoughtfully, tossing it from palm to palm as he gazed at the girl still sprawled in the chair, her honeyed hair a tangled river flowing down her back, her great gray eyes haunted and anxious. There was no sign now of the girl who had so lately mocked him with her laughter.
But no wonder she had laughed. He had assumed her to be an innocent, ignorant maid. When all the time, this experienced young woman had been intending to cuckold him on his wedding night with her brother's best friend.
Fool! He dropped the key into the pocket of his chamber robe. "How long have you and Becket been lovers?"
Ariel sat up, brushing her hair away from her face. "A twelvemonth."
"And is it true that you enjoy rough play?" he inquired with a sardonic lift of his eyebrow.
Ariel flushed scarlet. "How could you think that?" she whispered.
He shrugged. "What am I supposed to think when I find you tangling on the floor, shrieking with passion?"
"No!" She sprang to her feet. "How could you think I was enjoying that? I was fighting him. I didn't want him here. Surely you must believe that." She looked at him in horror.
Simon shrugged. "It matters little whether you wanted it or not. It's clear to me what his intention was, presumably with the encouragement of your brother. My supposedly indisposed bride was to spend her wedding night with her lover under the same roof as her bridegroom."
When Ariel made no response, he shrugged again, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "I assume you are not indisposed?"
She shook her head.
"Umm." He turned to the bed and threw back the covers. "Well, while I'll not oblige you to consummate this marriage, I don't intend to be made a laughingstock. Only you and I will know that you remain unbedded. If you cannot agree to the subterfuge, then I'm afraid I must finish what your lover began." He pushed the key beneath the bolster before turning to look steadily at her.
"I don't understand."
He gave a short, impatient crack of laughter. "It's perfectly simple, girl! You and I will spend every night under this roof in the same chamber like any normal bridal pair. It will be assumed that all is as it's supposed to be, by the guests, by your brothers, and by your erstwhile lover." His eyes held hers. "Is that now quite clear?"
"Yes." Ariel nodded.
"And do you agree to play the game?"
"Yes."
"Then I see nothing further to discuss this night." He shrugged out of his chamber robe, and before Ariel could fully absorb the sight of his nakedness, he had slipped into her bed.
"You're sleeping in my bed," she said stupidly.
"I have no objection to your sharing it," he returned. "You need not fear to be molested."
"But it's my bed," Ariel protested.
"If you prefer to cross the corridor to my chamber, then I will sleep in my own bed and you may sleep wherever you please, so long as it's in the same chamber," he replied in the same level tones.
Ariel was momentarily struck dumb. This husband of hers appeared to have swept the ground neatly from beneath her feet and those of her brothers. She knew she had nothing to fear from him, so long as she kept her side of the bargain, but it was astonishing that in a few short hours this lame man had limped into a trap designed to humiliate him beyond bearing and had turned the tables while barely moving a muscle.
She sat down by the fire again, a considering frown on her brow. Oliver Becket was a young, agile, supple man. But he had been physically mastered by an older man suffering from a disabling wound. Of course, Oliver had been caught in somewhat awkward circumstances. She looked curiously around the room and could see no sign of Simon's cane. It would seem he could walk unaided when necessary.
"I should be grateful if you would turn out the lamp," her husband remarked in his calm voice. "I find it hard to fall asleep in the light."
"I was hoping to finish my supper."
"Then do so by firelight. If you're going to share this bed, pray tell me now so that I ensure I sleep tidily."
For answer, Ariel got up and pulled the truckle bed from ben
eath the fourposter. "You may sleep as untidily as you please, my lord."
"Good." With a contented groan, he rolled onto his belly, flung both legs wide apart under the quilts, and settled into the feather mattress.
Ariel looked disdainfully at the narrow straw pallet on the truckle bed. There was no pillow and the only cover was a thin blanket. Hardly adequate on a damp and freezing winter night.
"Is there a hot brick in my bed?"
"How would I know?" came a pillow-muffled mumble. "But there's definitely one in mine." His toes wriggled pleasurably around the blanket-wrapped brick, and Ariel ground her teeth.
Very funny, my lord. She fetched the velvet cloak she'd been wearing earlier and tossed it on top of the blanket. It wasn't much help, but it was better than nothing.
She turned out the oil lamp and stood by the fire to warm herself before venturing into her icy little bed. Deep, rumbling, rhythmic breathing emanated from the fourposter behind her. The earl of Hawkesmoor was clearly a swift and sound sleeper. She glanced at her neglected supper tray in the firelight but found she'd lost interest in its contents. She picked up one of the fragrant goblets Oliver had brought in and sipped at the warm spiced wine. That at least had been a good thought, she reflected sourly. Mulled wine to accompany rapine adultery. Was there nothing Ranulf wouldn't stoop to?
Ariel shrugged. It was a rhetorical question. Huddling closer to the fire, she began to undress, casting aside her wedding gown with a grimace of disgust. This morning she had thought it pretty; now it seemed a tawdry garment to trick out a deceitful charade. She dragged her shut over her head, took a deep breath, and dived across the room, slithering under the covers before the cold air could chill her skin too much. But in no time her once-warmed flesh was as cold as the coarse sheet she lay upon. Her teeth began to chatter and she rolled onto her side, drawing up her knees, dragging the cloak over her head to keep the cold from her ears.