Trapped at the Altar (12 page)

Ariadne folded the sheet again and tucked it into her shirt to nestle in the cleft of her breast.
Look for me in London.

He was going to follow her to the capital. Her heart lifted, but only for a moment. By leaving here, Gabriel would escape one danger, but in London, there would
be many others. How could she possibly make sense of this marriage to Ivor when she was constantly afraid for Gabriel and constantly looking out for him to appear around every corner? What would Ivor do if he came face-to-face with the man he felt had cuckolded him? The man his wife still loved? It didn't bear thinking of. Ivor was a warrior, Gabriel a misty-eyed poet. He would not stand a chance against Ivor's strengths and skills. And
she
would be ultimately responsible.

She turned away, leaving the stone upturned in the grass. There was no need for a hiding place now. She hesitated, reluctant to return to the valley but knowing that she must. There was nothing for her up here and a world of trouble below if her absence became too obvious. She set foot on the path and made her way slowly down towards the gleaming strip of river, the afternoon sun hanging low in the sky.

Ivor inadvertently closed his eyes against the afternoon sun, enjoying the gentle warmth on his eyelids, the soft red glow beneath. He was tired; the previous night had taken its toll, even though he had not drunk as deeply as his fellows. But it had been a dance of wit and wisdom to bring both him and Ari out of it without suspicion, and he was aware of a deep fatigue, the rock at his back smooth and warm.

A shower of stones brought him to his senses as gravel, dislodged by Ari's descent, slipped down the dry path to clatter against the rocks. He pushed himself upright and
turned to look up at the path. Ari was a few feet away, slipping and sliding down the last few feet of the path.

He had been concealed by the rock, but when he stood up, she saw him at once and stopped, planting her feet firmly on the slippery path. “Ivor?”

“Ari?” He surveyed her calmly. “You have been above?”

She nodded. “Yes, but what's it to you?”

“Rather a lot, as it happens.” He stepped around the rock and reached up to take her hand, giving her a gentle pull, which obliged her to jump the last few steps to the flat.

She landed squarely and removed her hand from his, brushing down her skirt in a gesture more nervous than purposeful. “Why are you waiting for me?”

Ivor weighed his words and then decided that the brutal truth was the only pointful route. “The rules have changed, my dear. You may not leave the valley without my permission. Lord Daunt gave order that you should spend the day on your travel wardrobe, and you chose to disobey him. That leaves me, as your husband, in an awkward position . . . one I prefer not to be in.”

This was not the Ivor Ariadne was accustomed to. That Ivor didn't give her orders or issue veiled threats. In an instinctive effort to restore the balance between them, Ariadne shrugged. “For heaven's sake, Ivor. Pomposity doesn't suit you. I'll go to the women now.” She made to push past him, but he took her arm. There was nothing painful about the hold, but Ari knew she could not shake it off.

“What were you doing?”

She turned her head away from him, although her arm remained held fast. “Nothing that should alarm you, Ivor. I promise you that. I was doing nothing that would cause you harm.”

“I don't know whether you understand what could cause me harm, Ari, how many things could cause me harm. Not just me but you, too.” His fingers tightened around her wrist. “Now, what were you doing above? Did you see your poet?”

She turned her head aside with a mute headshake.

Ivor looked at her closely, and his gaze caught the small piece of white poking up from the neck of her gown. “What is that? A love letter?” His fingers twitched the paper out of its nest before she could stop him. “A love poem from your poet, Ari?” The sarcastic derision in his tone masked a hurt he would not acknowledge.

“Don't.” She made to take it from him, but he held it away from her.

“Let us see what flights of eloquence your lover can reach in extremis.” He unfolded the sheet one-handed, while she watched, helpless. Ivor mustn't know of Gabriel's plans to follow them to London.

But then, without reading it, he folded the paper again and gave it back to her. “Put it away, Ari, and if you've any sense, you'll burn it before anyone else sees it.” His voice was his own again.

Ariadne crumpled the paper in her fist, relief flooding her. She should have known Ivor would never read someone else's personal correspondence. But then, in the last day, she had been seeing a side of him she had not come
across before, and she couldn't be sure how that Ivor would react. She said stiffly, “If you would be so good as to release me, sir, I have my business to attend to.”

Ivor did not immediately release his hold on her wrist. He took her chin with his free hand and forced her to look at him, his gaze grave and intense. “There are watchers everywhere, Ari. While you were under your grandfather's direct protection, you were safe enough from prying eyes, but no longer.” He shook his head in frustration. “You have to understand that you are no longer a free spirit in this valley, indulged and protected. You are a tool now, a means to an end.”

His hands moved to take her shoulders, bringing her body around to face him. “If you will survive here, Ariadne, you will accept the position you are in now. I am in the same position, and together we must weave a path through this quagmire. Do you understand what I'm saying?” He gave her a little shake in emphasis and felt the tension slide from her shoulders beneath his fingers as she accepted his words.

Ari moved out of his hold. She turned to look at the valley and said quietly, “Yes, of course I understand, Ivor. Sometimes acceptance is hard.”

“I know that.”

“Perhaps when we are out of here . . .” She waved an encompassing hand around the village. “Perhaps then we can make a path for ourselves. We do understand each other, after all.” She wasn't looking at him as she spoke, her eyes on the slow-flowing river.

“We understand each other to some extent,” Ivor corrected.
“How we conduct a marriage in these circumstances is a different matter. Do we have purely a business arrangement, Ari? Or can we hope for anything more?”

He hadn't intended to bring this up so directly, but it was so close to the surface he didn't know how to keep it in check. He knew what he wanted, a full, loving partnership with Ariadne, as his lover and his friend. But could she give him that?

“My friendship, my loving support, those I can give you,” she said slowly and with difficulty. “But true love must have passion. I feel no passion for you, Ivor. I cannot love you with passion, only with friendship.”

“I see.” He let his hands fall from her. “I thank you for your honesty, Ari.”

“It does not mean we cannot have a contented life together,” she said, hearing how hollow it sounded even as she spoke the words.

“Contentment?” He gave a short laugh. “Well, I suppose for some people that would be sufficient. Unfortunately, Ariadne, it is not sufficient for me.”

She turned to him. “But we did not make this betrothal, Ivor, this wedding. You have never felt passion for me any more than I have felt it for you. It's not just of you to make me feel at fault because I cannot feel that kind of love for you. You cannot feel it for me, either.”

“Ah, but there's a difference, my dear Ari. I can imagine feeling it for you.” His mouth curved in the travesty of a smile, and then he turned away and walked off into the village.

Ariadne watched him go. What did he mean? That
somehow he believed he could find love and passion for her in this enforced marriage? But how, unless he felt some of that already . . . No, that was impossible. She would have felt it, guessed at it, before now.

But she felt helpless and unhappy as she walked to her own cottage, flinging open the door to a chorus of female consternation at her absence. She said nothing but walked to the range and dropped the balled-up paper containing Gabriel's message into the flames. Then she turned back to the room. Bolts of material, velvets, damasks, silks, taffetas, lay spread out on trestle tables with filmy piles of lace and sheets of supple leather.

“So, ladies, what do we have here?”

“Come to the fire, Miss Ari, you need to strip to your chemise.” Tilly took charge. Whatever Miss Ari had been up to, she was here now, and they could brush through anything as long as the end result satisfied the new Lord Daunt.

The materials were all of the finest, French silks and damasks, Brussels lace, luxuriant furs of ermine and sable, and the softest dyed cordovan leathers. All, Ariadne assumed, acquired during the various raids and smuggling excursions by the Daunt bloods and their elders. They never brought anything inferior into the valley, although no one in the valley wore any of these luxuries. They were stored for trade in the storehouse in the midst of the village. But carefully stored. Those who were responsible knew how to care for such fine goods.

“So what am I supposed to need, Tilly?”

Tilly beamed. “Oh, his lordship has decreed a complete
wardrobe, Miss Ari, everything from petticoats and nightgowns to full court dress.”

“And how are we, in this backwater, supposed to know what's fashionable at court?” Ari inquired, unbuttoning her jerkin.

“We have pattern books, miss,” one of the girls piped up. “See . . .” Eagerly, she opened a bound sheaf of illustrations on one of the tables. “The petticoats are very stiff, and the stomachers are so tight.”

Ariadne examined the picture and grimaced. “How could anyone breathe in that? Well, I, for one, will not wear anything like it.”

“Fortunately, Miss Ari, the gown will sit well enough on you without such tight lacing,” Tilly declared, divesting her mistress of her jerkin and busily unfastening the waistband of her skirt. “Now, stand still while we take measurements. We have little enough time.”

“What do you mean, Tilly, little enough time?” Ariadne held still with difficulty as women wielding tape measures moved over her.

“Lord Daunt has given us but three weeks to complete your wardrobe, Miss Ari. You must start for London before the bad weather sets in, otherwise the roads will be impassable and you'll have to wait until the spring. His lordship does not want that delay.”

“Oh, really.” Ariadne wondered why her uncle was in such a hurry. Her grandfather had never indicated any urgency about his plan to rehabilitate the family. Was there something significant happening at court that meant Lord Daunt had to have his players in place by a certain time?

The question occupied her throughout the tedious business of measurements and consultations. Did she like this design . . . or this one? Did she prefer an ermine lining to her cloak, or sable, or even a rich red fox? Her muffs must match her cloaks, and her gloves and muffs must be dyed to match the outer garments.

It was hot in the cottage, and the smell of wool and velvet and fur was suddenly overpowering. She felt stifled again, trapped in the valley, trapped in a hollow marriage. Three whole weeks before they were to leave for London. It was too long; she couldn't bear it. If she and Ivor could be alone, without the pressure of incessant eyes upon them, maybe they could come to some truth about their future, some plan to make it work despite everything.

She had a sudden idea. Maybe there was a way to get them out of the valley sooner. “How on earth do we know what is necessary in fashionable dress in London?” she demanded, pushing aside a bolt of watered silk. “We live here, in this valley. We don't even know what goes on above, what's fashionable at the balls in Taunton or Exeter. I could arrive in London with a wardrobe that was fashionable ten years ago.”

A stricken silence fell among her attendants, and then Tilly said, “Lord Daunt said these were the latest designs, Miss Ari.”

“And I wonder how he knows that,” Ari said grimly. “Let me look at those patterns again.” She examined the illustrations more closely, then exclaimed, “Lord help us! These are almost twenty years old. Look at the date.” She jabbed at the faint scribble at the top of one sheet, but
the scratchings made no sense to her wide-eyed audience, none of whom could read.

“How long has he had these, and where did he get them from?” She could guess the answer easily enough. The men of the valley were always robbing travelers on the road to the city. Presumably, these illustrations had been in some unfortunate lady's portmanteau together with the rest of her possessions and kept for years in the great storehouse in the village.

“Let me dress, Tilly. I am going to see Lord Daunt before we waste much more time on this exercise.” She scrambled into her own clothes, pulled on her boots, and left the cottage, walking briskly to the Council house, planning her speech.