Trapped at the Altar

“No,” he agreed. “There’s a lot more of the lioness about you, my dear.” He could read the near panic-stricken confusion in her eyes and understood that she had not expected to find herself responding to his kiss. It gave him a tiny smidgen of reassurance. Maybe there was hope that they could make more of this than a passionless and compulsory contract.

She shivered again suddenly as the sinking sun disappeared behind a cloud.

“Come . . . you’ll catch your death of cold.” Ivor took her hand. “Run, Ari.” He broke into a run himself, pulling her along with him, and she picked up her pace, racing along the bank, her wet hair streaming in the wind. They reached the cottage, and Ivor flung open the door, pushing her ahead of him into the warmth.

Tilly was rolling pastry at the table when the door flew open. “Lord love us,” she declared, her floury hands lifting in astonishment. “What’ve you been doin’, the pair of you?”

“Swimming,” Ivor said shortly. Tilly was treating him now with the same familiarity she used with Ariadne, and sometimes he wasn’t sure he cared for it. “Fetch dry clothes for Ari, and help her get dry and changed in front of the fire. I’ll see to myself above.” He issued orders briskly as he propelled Ari closer to the fire. “Come on, get out of those clothes.”

Tilly heard the note of authority and responded at once. “Aye, sir. I’ll just fetch Miss Ari’s things from above. Should I light the fire for you up there? ’Tis all laid.”

“No, I won’t need it,” he said, pushing aside Ari’s hands as she tried to unlace her bodice. Her fingers were numb with cold. “Just keep still, Ariadne, and let me help you.”

She obeyed, her teeth beginning to chatter. Why was she so cold when Ivor didn’t even seem to be aware of the fact that he was as wet as she was? It didn’t seem fair.

Tilly came down just as Ivor was pushing the opened gown off Ari’s shoulders. “I’ll take over now, sir.” Tilly set down a pile of clothes and towels on a stool by the fire. “You go on up and dry yourself.”

Ivor nodded and climbed up to the bedchamber. He was feeling the chill himself now and was grateful that Tilly had set a towel out for him on the chest at the foot of the bed and he didn’t have to rummage for one himself.

Ari tried to help as Tilly pulled away her wet clothes before swathing her in towels. Tilly just tutted and got on with the business at hand with matter-of-fact efficiency that Ari finally accepted. In a very few minutes, she was dry and warmly wrapped in a thick night-robe. Tilly took away the pile of wet clothes, dumping them in the wash tub in the scullery.

“I’ll wash ’em tomorrow,” she said, coming back into the room as Ivor came downstairs, dressed in dry shirt and britches. “I’ll fetch down your wet things, sir, and I’ll do ’em at the same time as Miss Ari’s.”

“My thanks.” Ivor was accustomed to his washing, such as it was, being taken care of in the communal laundry. Once again, he reflected that there were material benefits to married life.

Ariadne watched him as he took a flagon of brandy from the dresser and filled two cups. Something had happened after that moment on the riverbank. She was noticing him in a different way from before. He raised his head from the flagon and cast a glance over her as she sat ensconced in the rocking chair, and she was startlingly aware of the depth of his eyes, the line of his mouth, the sense of his physical presence in the small chamber.

He brought a cup over to her. Her hand was still shaking a little, and he placed his over it, steadying her grip as she took the cup. The firm feel of his hand, the scent of his skin, the tang of leather and sweat, of wind and sun burned into the tanned complexion as he leaned so casually over her sent a jolt deep into her belly. She noticed how the lamplight caught the chestnut glints in his dark hair. Of course, she’d noticed all these things before but not with such clarity.

“Drink this. It’ll warm you,” he said in his customary tones.

Was he oblivious to these strange new eyes of hers? Ari wondered, dazed.

She took the cup and responded in what she hoped was her own normal voice. “I’m a lot warmer already. I am so sorry about your rod and losing the pike. I don’t know how I could have been so clumsy.”

“You weren’t clumsy. Neither of us knew of that drop-off in the riverbed.” He stood with his back to the range and sipped his brandy. An imperative bang at the door startled them both. The door opened before the sound of the knock had truly faded, and Lord Daunt came in, his bulk seeming to diminish the room.

“My lord uncle,” Ari said in surprise, half rising from her chair. “Is something the matter?” Rolf wasn’t in the habit of performing his own errands. He always summoned those he wanted to attend him in the Council house.

“Yes, Ariadne. It is time you stopped running wild around the village like a gypsy girl, and you, Chalfont, you should have a firmer hold on your wife. I won’t have it.” His face was red with annoyance.

“I ask your pardon, my lord,” Ivor said smoothly. “May I offer you brandy?” He filled a cup and invited the irritable head of the Daunt family to come to the fire. “You must forgive our informality, but we had an incident at the river.”

“Incident?” Rolf took the cup, his small eyes sharpening. “Invaders from above?”

“No, uncle,” Ari said, heartened by the brandy and her spirit rising to the challenge of her irate relative. “Just a recalcitrant pike.”

“A what?” Rolf blinked suspiciously.

“Ivor . . . my husband,” she added with delicate emphasis. “My husband was trying to catch an old and wily pike, who has eluded every fisherman in the valley for years. He caught him this afternoon.”

Rolf’s expression changed. “You caught the old emperor?” Suddenly, he was a young man himself again, ready to try his hand with the legendary pike of the Wye. “Where is he? Must be at least fifteen pounds.”

“Alas, my lord, he got away,” Ivor said with a half smile. “And he took my rod with him.”

Rolf’s expression reverted to its customary disagreeable arrogance. “Indeed?” The single word implied that he didn’t believe a word of it. It was just another fisherman’s tall tale of the one that got away.

“Indeed, sir, it was my fault,” Ari said. “Ivor sent me to get the net. He was so close to bringing him in, and somehow I slipped into a drop-off, and my foot became caught in the weeds, and to save me, my husband was obliged to lose both the pike and his rod.”

“And that, niece, brings me back to why I’m here,” Rolf declared, dismissing fish from the conversation. “I will not tolerate your scrambling around riverbanks, let alone falling in. You are Lady Ariadne Chalfont, and you, Sir Ivor, need to take better control of your wife. You are no longer children, free to play as you please. From now on, Ariadne, until you leave for London, you will appear in the village properly dressed, and you, Sir Ivor, will ensure that she does.” He drained his brandy, regarding his empty cup thoughtfully, then said, “Which batch did this come from? ’Tis uncommonly good.”

“I believe it was in the latest Cornish package,” Ivor answered. “Ned Jarret can usually be relied upon for the best. He’s the canniest smuggler on the Cornish coast.” He took up the flagon in invitation.