Trapped at the Altar

Tilly hesitated, then gave a small smile and nodded. “Aye, I expect you’ll be glad of your privacy, Miss Ari. Just leave them dishes for the morning. I’ll see to ’em then.” The door closed behind her.

It was obvious what the girl was thinking, Ari thought. She was discreetly leaving the newly married couple to a night of unbridled passion. Her eyes caught Ivor’s across the table. He looked pensive and then speared a piece of bread on the point of his knife and passed it across to Ari.

She took it with a murmur of thanks, and for a while they ate in a silence that was almost awkward. After a moment, Ari said, “Do you know how long this journey to London will take?”

“Hard to say, exactly.” Ivor rose to refill his bowl from the cauldron on the range. “It should be a journey of some four or five weeks by coach, and we must complete it by the beginning of November, before the weather makes the roads impassable. Did Lord Daunt say anything when you saw him this afternoon?”

“Very little,” she responded tartly. “My uncle was good enough to inform me that from now on, anything I wish to communicate to him has to go through you, and any information I want I have to seek from you.” She planted her elbows on the table, propped her chin in her cupped hands and regarded him quizzically. “You are to be postman, apparently.”

He grimaced. “A role I little relish.” He held out his hand. “May I give you some more stew?”

“My thanks.” She passed him her bowl. “Four or five weeks by coach will be insupportable. Surely on horseback we can do it much faster. Sphinx can easily manage twenty miles a day.”

“Maybe so.” He set her refilled bowl in front of her. “But not every day. The horses will need to rest every few days. And we will need a coach for all the luggage. You cannot travel such a distance with nothing but a side pannier or a pillion bag. The coach will slow us up.” He sat down again and took a draught of wine. “The one thing we cannot afford, Ari, is to look like vagrants. We must travel in a degree of style.”

She nodded. “The fact that we come from a line of bandits and brigands, outlaws in every respect, must be forgotten. I understand that.” Her smile was caustic. “Maybe we should change our names.”

“That would defeat the whole object,” Ivor pointed out. “Our task, as I understand it, is to rehabilitate the names of Daunt and Chalfont, to return them to the noble status they once held.”

“No easy task,” she responded, crumbling bread into her stew. “Are we to court the Duke of York or the King, do you know?”

“Both. Play up the Catholic allegiances of your family while hinting delicately at the Protestant loyalties of mine. We are to straddle two stools, my dear.”

“Well, since I have no feelings one way or the other, that shouldn’t be too difficult to manage convincingly.” Ari scraped her bowl and pushed back her chair. “I’ll fetch the pie.”

Ivor watched her as she slid the pie out of the bread oven on the flat paddle. She was such a little bit of a thing; she could so easily get lost, diminished, by the grandeur of the King’s court. The clothes themselves could overwhelm her physical presence. He smiled inadvertently at the thought. No amount of grandeur and ceremony could diminish Lady Ariadne Daunt . . . Chalfont, he corrected. She punched way above her weight, as anyone attempting to discount her or put her in her place would soon discover.

“What are you smiling at?” She slid the pie onto the table and reached for a jug of rich golden cream from the dresser.

“Oh, just a random thought,” he responded.

She contented herself with a raised eyebrow and cut the pie.

A knock at the door interrupted them. “Who the hell could that be?” Ivor pushed back his chair. He went to open the door, and a blast of cold air set the candles flickering. He peered down at the small boy standing on the threshold.

“You’re wanted in Council, sir. Right away, sir.”

“All right. Off you go.” He shooed the lad away, closed the door, and came back to the table.

“Shouldn’t you be answering the summons?” Ari inquired casually. “A royal command, surely?”

“I’ll go when I’m good and ready,” Ivor returned. “More wine?” He lifted the flagon in invitation.

“Thank you.” She pushed her goblet across, taking pleasure in Ivor’s assertiveness. Things had changed in the valley since her grandfather’s death, and the only positive change she could see was that Ivor was no longer one of the youths, the young men whose opinions held no sway. The new position seemed to suit him; he seemed broader and more powerful in some ways, which was, of course, ridiculous. Physically, he hadn’t changed in the least. But his bearing had changed, and the look in his eye. He was a match for Rolf now, she thought, and the knowledge pleased her. It compensated in some way for her own lack of influence. She had been able to sway her grandfather when she wanted to, and everyone in the village had known it. It had given her a certain status. But that status had gone with her grandfather, so she would now have to execute her influence through Ivor, who had never previously proved resistant to her plans and opinions. That surely hadn’t changed?

It was an interesting question, but she kept it to herself. When he had finished his pie in leisurely fashion, he said casually, “My compliments to Tilly on her pastry. I’ll go to Council now.” He slung his cloak around him and went out into the night, leaving her to clear away the dishes. When he hadn’t returned after more than an hour, she tamped down the fire for the night, extinguished all but one candle, and went up to the bedchamber.

It was less awkward this way, she reflected, undressing swiftly and climbing into the cold bed in her shift. If she was abed and asleep by the time he came back, there would be no need for difficult conversations.

She blew out the candle and lay shivering in the bed, wishing she’d had the sense to put a warming pan through the sheets, wishing she’d set a flame to the fire laid in the small grate, wishing she had something warm in the bed beside her.

She was still wide awake when she heard the door below open and close. She curled more tightly under the covers, where she was at last creating her own warm trough in the feather bed. Ivor’s footfall was soft on the stairs; obviously, he had taken his shoes off below. The glow of his candle shone behind her tightly closed lids.

She could feel him standing beside the bed, holding up the candle so that it threw a pool of light on her curled figure beneath the coverlet. Then he turned aside, taking the light with him. She tried to regulate her breathing, to keep it smooth and even, as if she were deeply asleep. The candlelight was extinguished, and the bed dipped as he put a knee on the edge, before sliding gingerly beneath the cover. For a moment, she could feel his breathing as if it were her own, so close beside her, the warmth of his body filling the space between them. Then he moved his arm, and his hand rested for an instant on the turn of her hip. She barely breathed, and then he muttered an imprecation, reached up behind his head for the bolster, and shoved it roughly under the covers between them.

Ivor turned on his side, facing away from her, and soon his deep breathing filled the chamber.





TEN





Ariadne had been aware of the nagging pain in her belly since she had woken that morning. She felt cross and out of sorts and found herself snapping at the seamstresses, whose hands were constantly upon her as they pinned and tucked. The traveling wardrobe was almost complete, and Tilly was fussing with the set of the shoulders on one of the two riding jackets deemed necessary for the journey.