The Silver Rose (3 page)

She saw the troop of horsemen against the lowering skyline as she reined in her horse. Her brothers were immediately recognizable on the causeway leading across the fens to Ravenspeare Castle. Ariel muttered under her breath. She turned in the saddle to look over her shoulder, then put her fingers to her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. Her groom was a distant figure on his sturdy mount, but at least he was visible, and in response to the urgent whistle he put his horse to a canter.

Ariel snapped her fingers, bringing the dogs to the flanks of her horse, then she nudged her mount toward the party on the causeway.

They had drawn rein and were waiting for her, hunched in their caped riding cloaks against the biting wind blowing from the River Ouse across the flat fens.

“I give you good day, my brothers.” Ariel drew rein on the far side of a dike that ran beside the causeway. “You’re returning early from London. I didn’t expect you before Christmas.”

“We have business that concerns you.” Ranulf scrutinized his sister, who smiled serenely from beneath her tricorn hat. “Where’s your groom, Ariel?”

“Within sight,” she responded. “Always within sight, sir.”

“He’s just coming.” Roland gestured with his whip to where the elderly groom approached.

Ranulf grunted. He didn’t believe that Edgar had kept his
mistress within sight all afternoon. The stallion and the wolfhounds, given their head, would have outstripped the groom’s cob within minutes. And it was inconceivable to imagine that Ariel had not given the beasts free rein. But the groom was here and Ariel was still smiling, a picture of innocence, her gray, almond-shaped eyes as clear and cloudless as a fresh-washed dawn sky.

“Come.” He nudged his horse forward. Ariel jumped Mustapha over the dike and fell in beside him, the dogs trotting placidly on the stallion’s flanks, tongues lolling.

“Ralph will be pleased to see you,” Ariel remarked. “He’s been spending a deal of time in Harwich. Difficulties with the shipyards.”

“What kind of difficulties?”

“He wouldn’t confide in me, brother. Ralph doesn’t believe that women could or should have opinions on business matters,” she said sweetly.

Ranulf made no comment. Privately he considered his youngest brother a fool. Ariel was as quick and knowledgeable as any of them when it came to estate matters or the family shipyards. But fraternal solidarity wouldn’t permit him to criticize a brother in front of their younger sister.

The gray mass of Ravenspeare Castle rose from the flatlands, towers and buttresses blending with the low clouds, its parapets hanging over the broad river that wound its way through the fens to the Atlantic Ocean.

The party of riders clattered over a drawbridge, now more ornamental than defensive, and into the inner court. Once it had been a gloomy spot with high, moss-covered walls and ground perpetually damp from the oozing wetlands, and even now, with a lush green lawn surrounded by a gravel path to provide a garden atmosphere, and the castle windows glassed and sparkling, it retained some of its past menace. The creepers that covered the forbidding walls did little to soften the effect of the numerous arrow slits.

They dismounted and Ranulf said brusquely to his sister, “I would discuss this business that concerns you immediately.”

Ariel felt the first flicker of apprehension. Only something of far-reaching importance would have brought her brother back from court before his appointed time. She didn’t trust any of her brothers, Ranulf least of all. He was utterly ruthless when his own interests were at stake, and if she was somehow bound up in those interests, then she could be facing trouble.

None of this showed in her face, however, as she handed her horse to Edgar and followed her brothers into the castle, the wolfhounds at her heels. They were like small ponies, their heads on a level with her waist, and they went nowhere without her, as their mistress went nowhere without them.

Two fires burned in massive fireplaces at either end of the Great Hall, but it did little to take the damp chill off the air in the cavernous vaulted space. Ranulf, pulling off his gloves, led the way into a smaller room, where the stone walls were covered with wood paneling, tapestries atop that, and the roaring fire had a chance against the raw damp of the fens.

“Bring mulled wine,” Ranulf threw at the footman who had followed them into the room and now stood bowing in the doorway. The earl tossed his gloves and whip on a chair and bent to warm his hands at the fire. Roland joined him and they stood side by side in silence.

Ariel kept her gloves on, since it seemed she was to be excluded from the fire. But she was accustomed to her brothers’ lack of chivalry. “What is this business, Ranulf?”

“Why, you are to have a bridegroom, my dear little sister.”

Ranulf spoke without turning from the fire. Ariel felt a cold shudder along her spine. “Oliver, you mean?”

A sharp crack of scornful laughter greeted this. “Oliver is very well as a lover, my dear, but he’ll not make you a husband.”

The dogs, who’d been sitting quietly at their mistress’s
feet, rose with lifted hackles as they sensed her bewildered apprehension.

She quietened them with a hand on their heads. “And who is this husband to be?” Her voice was perfectly steady; she had long ago learned to show neither weakness nor dismay with her brothers.

“Why, our neighbor, the earl of Hawkesmoor, of course.” Both brothers began to laugh, and the harsh, unmirthful sound was as raw as an open sore.

“You would ally me with a Hawkesmoor?” Ariel said in disbelief. “Our blood enemy?”

“At the queen’s behest, my dear.” Ranulf turned then and she saw the malicious glitter in his eyes, the sardonic quirk of his mouth. “Her Majesty has hit upon a solution to this little land dispute we have. The land will form part of your dowry.”

“And all will be sweetness and light between the warring factions and in the queen’s council chamber,” Roland put in with his brother’s sardonic grin.

Ariel shook her head. “No,” she said. “I will not wed an accursed Hawkesmoor, even at the queen’s behest. You cannot ask it of me.”

“Oh, I do not ask,” Ranulf said, taking a tankard of mulled wine from the tray that the returning footman presented. “And you will wed an accursed Hawkesmoor, my dear Ariel. For you will be the instrument of Ravenspeare vengeance.”

He drank deeply and laughed again.

Chapter Two

“I
DON’T UNDERSTAND
.” Ariel’s hands shook slightly as she drew off her gloves before taking a tankard of the hot spiced wine. She warmed her hands around the tankard, inhaled the scent of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg curling in steam from its contents. She knew she must appear untroubled, no more than mildly curious. Her brothers all shared a streak of cruelty that fed on the fear and vulnerability of those in their power. And Lady Ariel Ravenspeare had never been in any doubt that Ravenspeare men controlled her existence. After her father’s death, control had passed to Ranulf, ably abetted by his two younger brothers.

“It’s simple enough, my dear girl. You will wed Simon Hawkesmoor. But have no fear, you will be wife only in name.”

Ariel sipped her wine, hoping that it would still the tremors deep in her belly that were making her feel weak and shaky. “How could that be? I still don’t understand.”

“What don’t you understand, bud?” The voice was heavy with cynicism. She whirled toward the door that had opened so silently. Oliver Becket, Ranulf’s oldest and closest friend, lounged against the door frame, his eyes hooded, his thin, sensual lips curved in a smile that was strangely unsettling.

“I thought you were in Cambridge,” Ariel said, unable to help her own responding smile despite her dismay.

“I heard that the Ravenspeare brothers were returned betimes from London, so came posthaste to hear the news.” Oliver chuckled lazily and pushed himself away from the door. He crossed to Ariel, caught her chin on a cupped palm, and kissed her mouth. “Not to mention my need to
see you, my bud. I find two days to be an insufferably long time without sight of you.”

Ariel knew that the words meant nothing. She had no illusions about her lover’s sincerity—he was cut from the same cloth as her brothers—but it made no difference to the way her body responded to his presence. Oliver was a rake, untrustworthy and emotionally shallower than a birdbath, but his touch enflamed her, his lazy voice and sensual smile sent currents of lust jolting through her belly. He was charming and beautiful, and their liaison, so long as she didn’t allow herself to wish for or to expect more than he was capable of giving, was utterly delightful. It was also a relationship that pleased Ranulf.

“Your arrival is timely, Oliver.” Ranulf flung a comradely arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Ariel is to be wed and we must prepare a proper reception for her bridegroom. Your inventive mind will surely come up with something suitably ingenious.”

“Wed?” Oliver’s thin, arched eyebrows lifted as he glanced at Ariel. “My bud is to be wed?”

“Aye,” Roland declared from the fire where he was sprawling in a carved wooden armchair, his booted feet on the andirons. “She’s to become the countess of Hawkesmoor, my dear Oliver.”

Oliver whistled through his teeth. “Ariel, bring me a glass of that excellent cognac while I absorb this.”

Ariel set down her tankard and went to the sideboard, where glasses and decanters were arrayed. Without saying anything, she filled a glass and brought it over to him. He took it with a nod, sipped, then said, “So, explain how it should be that you would give a Ravenspeare woman to a Hawkesmoor.”

“What’s that you say?” A slurred voice accompanied the entrance of the youngest Ravenspeare brother, Lord Ralph. His wig was slightly askew, his eyes unfocused, his linen spotted, his cuffs grimy.

Ranulf wrinkled his nose fastidiously. “You reek of the barn, Ralph.”

Ralph’s chuckle was lascivious. “Found a doxy in the dell,” he said. “Had quite a tumble in the hay.” He crossed to the sideboard and, with unsteady hand, filled a glass, catching the edge of the decanter against the crystal, setting it chiming. “So, what’s that you say about Hawkesmoor?”

“Ariel is to wed Simon Hawkesmoor,” Roland informed him succinctly.

Ralph dropped his glass and it rolled sideways on the sideboard. Amber liquid dripped to the Elizabethan tapestry carpet. “Good God! Just because I’m a trifle foxed . . . no reason to make mock of a man.”

“Oh, we don’t,” Ranulf said. “It’s true. Queen Anne has commanded it.”

Ralph was not exactly needle witted even when sober, and this piece of information puzzled him mightily. He pushed up his wig and scratched his shaven scalp, frowning fiercely. “The queen, you say?”

His brothers didn’t bother to reply, and after a minute he swung his bemused, besotted gaze toward his sister, who was standing silent and motionless beside the table. “What’s Ariel got to say to this?”

“Nothing of import,” Ranulf said brusquely. “She’ll do as she’s told.”

Ralph nodded wisely at this, but he still peered at his little sister through narrowed eyes, as if he might find some answer in the still figure.

“What did you mean about being a wife only in name?” Ariel finally spoke and her voice was flat, giving no indication of her inner turmoil.

“Now, that’s an interesting twist,” declared Oliver, his gaze suddenly sharp. “How d’you expect to convince a Hawkesmoor to leave his bride’s bed inviolate?”

“Simple enough. His lady wife will explain that she suffers from some . . . some female malady.” Ranulf shrugged. “She can bar her door if she wishes. So long as she remains
in this house, she’ll be safe from any unwanted attention. And by the time she could reasonably expect to have recovered from this inconvenience, Lord Hawkesmoor will no longer be capable of consummating his marriage.”

Ariel felt a familiar graveyard shiver. “What are you planning, brother?”

It was Roland who answered her. “A mishap, Ariel. An accident. Easy enough to happen.”

“You talk of murder?” she demanded directly.

“Hush, hush!” remonstrated Ranulf. “A mishap, that’s all. And when you’re widowed, then your dowry returns to the Ravenspeare family, without any possibility of dispute. Together with the settlements made upon you by your husband. Most generous settlements, I believe you’ll find.” He chuckled and exchanged a wink with Roland. His brother, ever the family financier, had drawn up the marriage contract with consummate skill, and the Hawkesmoor had had little choice in the face of the queen’s outspoken approval but to accept the conditions. The earl of Hawkesmoor, however, had not given any indication that he was in the least reluctant to accede to the Ravenspeare stipulations. Something that still nagged at Ranulf. The Hawkesmoor was behaving throughout with what could only be called a degree of enthusiasm for an alliance that must be as poisonous to him as it was to the Ravenspeare brothers.

“What’s this about a dowry?” Ralph gulped at his refilled glass.

His eldest brother sighed and explained, although well aware that in his befuddled state Ralph would take in very little.

“How d’you intend keeping him here after the wedding? Surely he’ll want to take his bride back to his own house?” Oliver pointed out. “It’s not as if it’s a week’s ride away. A mere forty miles across the fen.”