Trapped at the Altar

“No, sir, I’ll be havin’ mine in the kitchen with Mistress Danton and her man.”

“If you’re sure,” Ari said. “But you’ll make up a bed in here on the settle.”

“Aye, that’ll be fine, miss. When you’re ready to go to bed, just call me, and I’ll bring some water up.” Tilly bustled off, her numerous petticoats rustling around her.

Ari yawned deeply as she dipped a crust into the last mouthful of pheasant stew. Punch followed by several glasses of a very fine burgundy, combined with a bellyful of cabbage soup and rich, gamey stew, was sending her to sleep on her stool.

“Go on up to bed,” Ivor said. “I’m just going to talk to Jake.” He paused by her stool and lightly passed a hand over her black curls. “I’ll be up shortly to chase away the fleas.”

“Don’t be long.” She gathered up the plates and carried them into the kitchen as Ivor went out into the storm.

“I would have fetched ’em, Miss Ari,” Tilly protested as she came into the kitchen. Tilly was sitting comfortably by the fire with the landlord and his wife. Both Master and Mistress Danton were contentedly smoking corncob pipes.

“No trouble, Tilly. I’m going to bed now.”

“I’ll bring some hot water up for you. Kettle’s just boiled. You’ll be glad to wash the dirt of the road off you, I reckon.”

“Thank you. I bid you good night, Mistress Danton . . . Master Danton.”

They nodded in return, and Ari took an oil lamp and went up to the loft. The fire still burned, and she put more wood on it before taking her night shift from the cloak bag. The green glass vial was tucked in the folds, and she swallowed what she assumed was a spoonful and put it away again. Tilly came up with a jug of hot water and a warming pan as she was taking off her clothes.

“Anything else, Miss Ari?” Tilly set the jug on the rickety dresser and went to insert the pan of hot coals beneath the covers.

Ari shook her head. “No, I can manage, thank you, Tilly. Sir Ivor has gone to the barn. He’ll be back shortly.” She stepped out of her petticoats and unlaced her chemise. “You don’t think the warming pan will encourage the fleas?”

“Lord, no, miss. They’d never chew their way through those sheets, even if they had a liking for basil and cloves and such,” Tilly responded comfortably. “I’ll say good night, then.” She went away, bearing the warming pan.

“Good night, Tilly.” Ari dropped her night shift over her head and hitched the chamber pot out from beneath the bed. She used it quickly, thrust it back into the accumulation of dust, and slipped into bed. It was warm, and despite the coarseness of the sheets and the lumpiness of the mattress, it felt like heaven to her weary body.

She was asleep before Ivor came up to the loft. He stood for a moment looking down at her curled figure, her head cradled on her palm, her long black lashes fanned against her pale cheeks. So much for a night of riotous passion, he thought with a smile, stripping off his clothes, draping them over a stool in front of the fire in the hope that they would dry before sunup. Assuming the sun would show itself after this storm.

He climbed into bed, sliding an arm beneath Ari’s sleeping form and rolling her against him, before his own eyes closed.





FIFTEEN





A door from the kitchen below opened and closed with a bang as the wind snatched it from the hand that opened it. Ivor stirred, his eyes fluttering. Someone visiting the outhouse? Silence fell again. He slipped back into sleep.

The innkeeper moved down the path through the vegetable garden, a dark shadow among the darker shadows. The rain came down in sheets, and he shielded his flickering lantern light within the fold of his cloak. Behind him the cottage was in darkness. Tilly slept soundly on the settle wrapped in her sheepskin jacket and thick cloak. The innkeeper’s lad dozed by the fire in the range, and his wife lay wide awake under the greasy coverlet of the bed in the alcove beside the bread oven. Waiting.

Ari didn’t know what had awoken her, but she lay in the darkness for a few minutes listening to the silence of the house around her and Ivor’s deep regular breathing, feeling the warmth of his naked body through the thin muslin of her night shift. Tentatively, she reached out a hand and let it rest on his belly. His breathing continued undisturbed. She let her hand slide farther down, her fingers slipping through the wiry tangle of hair at the base of his belly. She felt the soft flesh of his penis nestled between his thighs. Her fingertips moved over it, and it twitched a little. Ari smiled, an idea occurring to her as she remembered the previous night. If he could give her so much pleasure with his mouth, then maybe she could return the favor.

She slid down the bed, pulling the covers over her head, inhaling the warm, humid scent of his skin as she moved down his body. The even rhythm of his breathing continued undisturbed. She lifted his penis, and it twitched again. Then, as she enclosed it in her palm, she felt it thicken and harden. With a deft wriggle, she moved far enough down so that she could take the corded shaft of flesh into her mouth.

She could taste salt on her tongue, like seaweed, and instinctively, she grazed her teeth along the length of his penis, delicately touching the tip with her tongue, tasting the drop of moisture there. She could feel now that his whole body was awake, even as his sex quivered against her lips. She felt his hands curling into her hair, his fingers tracing the whorls of her ears under the covers. He seemed to grow even harder and thicker in her mouth, and she slid her hands beneath him to cup the hard round sacs.

Ivor groaned as the pleasure awakened his body, set his skin singing. Ariadne emerged laughing, pink-cheeked, from the covers. “Am I doing it right?”

“You know damn well you are,” he said, pulling her up roughly with his hands under her armpits until she was lying on top of him. He hauled the hem of her shift up to her waist and ran his hands over her bottom and the tops of her thighs. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“You taught me.” She laughed, lying along his length, propping herself on her elbows on either side of his body. “I think I’m an apt pupil.”

“More than apt,” he said, smiling, his hands still resting on her backside. “Lift your hips a little, and draw your knees up.”

She obeyed with alacrity and then bit her lip with sudden surprise as he twisted his hips and entered her from below in one smooth movement. “It feels different,” she said.

“There are many different ways to enjoy this particular activity,” he said, watching her face in the faint light from the fire’s embers as he moved his hips upwards. “Use your body to find the position that pleases you most. You’re in control of your own movements now. I’ll follow your lead.”

It was a heady thought, but as she experimented, circling the hardness within her, first one way, then the other, feeling how the sensation changed, grew more intense, she closed her eyes, letting the feeling grow until she sensed the chasm opening beneath her, and her body tightened in anticipation, and when she fell, it was as if she’d broken apart in a million pieces.

She fell heavily onto his chest, and Ivor stroked her back, his hand pushing up beneath her shift, his other hand twisting in the unruly tumble of black curls falling onto his shoulder. He had no idea what time it was, but the fire in the grate still smoldered, and the wind still howled and rattled the ill-fitting window shutter.