Trapped at the Altar

It had not always been so. They were one of the oldest families in Somerset and one of the wealthiest in both estates and fortune, until Charles I had lost his head and Oliver Cromwell’s Protestant Commonwealth had ruled the land with a dour fist. The Catholic Daunt family had raised their standard for King Charles and lost everything back on that cold January day in 1649 when the King had been beheaded. They had barely escaped with their lives, and they had been revenged ever since upon all who they thought had betrayed them, on erstwhile friends and neighbors, indeed, on anyone who had bowed their heads beneath Cromwell’s yoke.

Outlaws, they had created their own land and their own laws in a valley of the River Wye, a place easily fortified and defended. And when it pleased them to create mayhem across the usually peaceful countryside, they did so. They terrorized the seaports of Devon and Cornwall, piracy and even the vile business of wrecking were not beneath them, and they amassed a fortune rumored to rival that of any of the great landed families of the realm.

And Gabriel Fawcett had fallen in love and lust with Lady Ariadne Daunt, the scion of one of the oldest and now the most loathed family in the West Country. And to his eternal astonishment, the lady loved him in return. It was an impossible match, an impossible relationship, and yet it was. An immutable, all-consuming fact, and as he watched her now, her light step springing across the mossy ground, her skirt hitched up to reveal slender ankles, her lovely long feet clad only in a pair of light slippers, he knew he would die for her if he had to.

He took a step out of the trees, and Ari saw him at once. She raised a hand in greeting and ran towards him, burying herself in his embrace. She felt the swift beat of his heart against her ear as she placed her head on his chest and inhaled the fresh rosemary scent of his linen.

“Oh, how I have missed you,” she murmured. “It has been such a dreadful time, Gabriel. I don’t know where to turn.”

He tilted her face and kissed her, his mouth hungry for the taste of her. The nosegay was crushed between them, but he didn’t even notice the thorn pricking his finger as he held her tightly against him. At last, his hold slackened, and she drew herself upright. Her body was tiny, seemingly fragile, but he could feel the strength and suppleness of her form as she stood so close to him. And he could see the deep shadows lurking in the usually clear gray eyes, the lines of strain around her wide, generous mouth.

“What has happened, my love?”

Ariadne took a step away from him. It was easier to keep her thoughts straight when she wasn’t within the circle of his arms. “My grandfather, Lord Daunt, died three days ago.”

He frowned, unsure how to respond. Ari had rarely spoken of her grandfather, her guardian since her father’s death ten years ago. Indeed, she almost never spoke of her life in the valley.

“What does that mean for you?” he asked hesitantly.

She gave him a twisted smile. “It means, my dear, that I am to marry my second cousin, Ivor Chalfont, as a way of uniting the fortunes of the two families and finally ending the enmity between Chalfonts and Daunts . . . as if such a thing was ever a realistic possibility,” she added bitterly. “The two branches of the family have loathed each other since before the Crusades.”

An exaggeration, perhaps, she reflected, but it might just as well have been true given the depths of their hatred and rivalry.

“I . . . I don’t understand.” Gabriel’s eyes had an almost hunted look as he gazed at her in shocked bemusement. The crushed roses slipped from his hand, and without thinking, he sucked at the bead of blood on his forefinger where the thorn had pricked him.

Ari bent to pick up one of the roses, a small white bud that had somehow escaped the massacre. She said dully, “Ivor grew up in the valley. We played together as children. We were betrothed first as infants and then formally a few days ago, as part of this plan to unite our two families.” She hesitated. Talking about her family never came easily to her, and she had tried instinctively to keep Gabriel untouched by her own history, as if in some way it would keep their love free of the taint of the valley.

But what did it matter now? After a moment, she continued, “Daunts are Catholic, Chalfonts are Protestant. My grandfather decided that if the two factions were joined as one tribe, then they would present a strong force to handle whichever political and religious faction finally ruled. The greater good of the united tribe would overcome individual family differences.” Her laugh was short and bitter. “So someone has to be sacrificed to this greater good, and that seems to be me.”

Gabriel shook his head as if to untangle his confusion. “But what of this . . . this cousin . . . Ivor? Is he not also to be sacrificed?”

She pushed the rosebud into a buttonhole on her shirt and said, “No, apparently, Ivor does not consider himself to be a sacrifice. He appears to find the idea a good one. It will benefit him, of course.” By marrying the heiress to the ill-gotten Daunt fortune, Ivor would become rich. But was that what motivated him? Somehow Ariadne didn’t think it was as simple as that. Ivor had never been particularly predictable, and he rarely followed a simple path. It was one of the things she liked most about him. It had always made him a fun and exciting playmate in their childhood. She had never thought about what kind of husband he would make; the fact of that childhood betrothal hadn’t impinged upon her thoughts until the last two weeks, when it had become a concrete reality. But by then, she had met Gabriel Fawcett, and she had looked at the world beyond the valley, and that concrete reality had become an impossible one.

“My family will gladly welcome you,” Gabriel said with passion. “Ari, you must come with me now. We will protect you.”

She smiled, somewhat mistily. “They will destroy your family and everything you hold dear if you dared to do such a thing. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“But I cannot lose you, Ari . . . my love, I will die without you.”

She regarded him steadily. “No, you won’t. But you may well die with me. We will find another way, Gabriel. I will not lose you, but for the moment, I must at least seem to be compliant. The marriage is not to take place for a week. I will think of something between now and then.”

He looked at her in horror. “A week . . . just a week.”

“Yes, but don’t worry. A week is a long time to come up with an idea.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth. “I should go. If I’m missed, they’ll send out the dogs.”

“Dogs?”

She laughed shortly. “Yes, they do have them, but I meant it metaphorically. I don’t want to arouse suspicions.” Except that Ivor knew the truth. He didn’t need suspicions. But he wouldn’t betray her, surely?

And with a sickening feeling, Ariadne realized she was no longer sure of that. He had discovered her liaison by accident when she had climbed the cliff one day a few weeks earlier to visit the secret place where she and Gabriel left messages for each other. It had been raining, and most of the valley’s inhabitants were within doors, no one watching the track she habitually took up the cliff. The rain had made the path slippery, and she had been concentrating on watching her step on the treacherous shale, peering intently at the ground from beneath the thick hood of her cloak drawn low over her forehead. She hadn’t been aware of anyone following her until she had reached the cliff top and was lifting the flat stone that revealed a small indentation in the earth.