Trapped at the Altar

It could be argued.

She drained her wine cup and stood up. “Tilly, we should go to bed.”

Tilly, who was dozing happily in the warmth, soothed by a tankard of beer, blinked and nodded, hauling herself to her feet. “Right, Miss Ari.”

Ivor stood up. “Are you going to bed?”

“It’s time,” Ariadne said. “And we should make an early start.”

He nodded. “I’ll sleep down here with the men tonight. We should be safe enough, but we’ll set a guard anyway.” He moved to the ladder, holding it steady for her as she stepped onto the bottom rung. “I’ll call you at dawn.”

She nodded. “Good night, then.” Her tone was bleak, but she turned her face away from him and climbed up into the loft, Tilly following behind.

Ivor stood for a moment, his hand on the ladder. He ached to go up to her, ached to hold her again, just to feel her warm against him as she slept. But there was a coldness in his breast that wouldn’t melt. He knew he was punishing them both with this restraint—or rejection, he wasn’t sure what to call it—but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

He couldn’t let down his guard and simply enjoy what she would give him. It wasn’t enough. Long ago, he had believed that the people who cared for him, who told him they loved him, had meant it. He had believed their caresses were true expressions of love and protection. At the age of six, he had discovered the lie, abandoned with no warning among hostile strangers by the people he had trusted. He wasn’t prepared to make the same mistake twice. He could not trust Ariadne to be true to him; she had told him as much. He needed to know that she was bound to him not by duty or the need to make the best of the situation but because she wanted to be, needed to be. Because she loved him truly and not just in the ways of friendship.

He would not love alone. He could not afford to be so vulnerable again.





EIGHTEEN





They approached the city just before dusk on a mild November day by the road to New Gate. The road was wide enough for two-way traffic, and the Daunt party met a stream of carts, carriages, and horsemen leaving the city for the evening before the gates were closed at curfew.

Tilly sat wide-eyed on her seat on the box by the coachman as the procession of folk of every class and creed flowed past them. Merchants in fine linen jostled with barrow boys in filthy jerkins, farmers drove empty carts, their day’s produce sold, and milkmaids drove cows and goats back from the city, where they had been selling fresh milk to the city’s inhabitants.

The stone edifice of New Gate reared up before them, their entrance through the city walls into the strange and unknown life within its warren of lanes and alleyways, busy markets, and quieter green spaces through which the mighty River Thames flowed, as bustling a thoroughfare as any of the main London streets.

Ariadne was too busy for a few moments calming Sphinx, who was objecting vigorously to the crowds around him, to take much stock of her surroundings as they passed through the double roadway of the gate. She was aware of the foul stink, however, emanating from the grim buildings of the prison piled atop the gate and stretching to either side. And she could hear the mournful wails of the prisoners drifting from barred windows onto the fetid air of the late afternoon.

Ivor rode just ahead of her. His back was ramrod straight, his eyes everywhere. He spoke to the watchmen in the gatehouse, showing the safe conduct pass that Lord Daunt had given him, one of a package of letters of introduction intended to smooth their path in this alien land. The watchmen waved them through, the last travelers to enter the city before they closed the gates in the wall until daybreak.

The street that took them within the walls was teeming with activity, even though the gates were now closed. Sphinx bridled and pranced as an iron-wheeled carriage pulled by a team of great cart horses emerged from an alleyway. The coachman cursed as he saw that the gates were closed, a fluent stream of violent language pouring from his lips. Tilly cowered, pulling the hood of her cloak tighter over her head.

“I suppose you know where we’re going?” Ari asked, bringing Sphinx up beside Turk.

Ivor shot her a look that in a previous life would have made her chuckle. But they didn’t do much laughing these days. “Holborn,” he said shortly. “Close to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. An inn, which your uncle says is commodious and will make a decent base until your wardrobe is completed and we can find suitable lodgings closer to Whitehall.”

They threaded their way through the streets, through men spilling from taverns on either side, past two men brawling in a fetid courtyard surrounded by a crowd of cheering boys. Both Turk and Sphinx reared as a dancing bear was led past them on the end of a chain, and Ari turned her head aside. There were cruelties aplenty in the countryside, but somehow in these stinking, mean lanes they seemed worse.

After what seemed endless twists and turns, a green space opened up in front of them, a white-plastered building at its corner. A cluster of gray stone buildings ranged along two sides of the space, and men in the somber black gowns of the legal profession crossed the green between the buildings. The sign of the King’s Head hung from the plastered building, and it seemed to be doing a vigorous trade with both the black-clad lawyers and the well-dressed ladies and gentlemen gathering on the forecourt. Ivor gestured to the coachman to drive through the archway to the stable yard beyond, and he drew rein at the front door. He turned to give his hand to Ariadne to help her dismount.

She was about to slide to the ground unaided but saw his warning look. She dismounted decorously, her hand in his, and shook down the skirts of her red velvet riding habit, conscious with some satisfaction that she was every bit as richly dressed as the inn’s other customers. Up-to-the-minute fashion was perhaps not as important as the luxury of the materials, she reflected. She ignored the curious looks directed at the newcomers, handed her reins to a groom, who had appeared instantly, and placed her hand on Ivor’s arm as they went into the inn.

The landlord stood bowing in the square hall. “My lord, my lady, welcome to the King’s Head. I trust I may be of service.”

Ivor smiled, guessing that the innkeeper was aware of the carriage, the outriders, the mountains of baggage that had accompanied these potential customers. “I require a bedchamber for Lady Chalfont and myself and a private parlor, accommodation for her maid and for our men. Stabling for the horses, of the best kind, you understand.” This was accompanied with a fierce frown that despite everything brought an involuntary smile to Ari’s lips. She turned her attention hastily to a dim oil painting on the wall beside her.

The innkeeper bowed and squeezed his hands together and promised that all would be provided exactly as his lordship required. If his lordship would be pleased to follow him, he would show his lordship and her ladyship the accommodation he had available.

“You may show Lady Chalfont. She will decide whether it will suit our needs. We shall be staying for several weeks,” Ivor declared. “I shall see to the disposition of our baggage.”

Ari followed the innkeeper up the stairs. The place was by no means immaculate, but she hadn’t expected it to be. Inns in general didn’t pride themselves on cleanliness, but there was a faint smell of beeswax and a hint of lavender in the air, despite the dust on the stairs. She would set Tilly to work directing the inn’s maids to scour their accommodation. Tilly would be in her element.